《Bitstream》 history rewrites itself鈥攁gain? - 1.1 Bitstream By Rowdha Al Sol
1.1 Cardiac system restored. A voice: feminine, digitised. Vitals low. Activating emergency protocols. But what is it? Who is it? Maybe Id know if I could open my eyes, but all I feel is the vacant emptiness where they once resided. Two craters sinking in towards whatevers left of my brain, and something elsea bolt of electricity coursing, jumpstarting me like a rusty, worn-out machine. Optics online, the voice says. It doesnt change much. Everything is still dark, but the optic wiring in my brain mustnt have been fully destroyed, because I can see things, although not clearly. The world is shaped by a series of red ones and zeroes. Im covered in scrap metal, silver springs, titanium bones, and garbage. I cant smell any of it. My synaptic resurgence module hasnt recovered that much, thank goodness, but my vitals have, albeit in critical condition. When I raise my arm, my finger meets something cold and solid. The numbers cascade outward, like raindrops on a wintry pond. Together, they sketch the contours of an enclosed space stretching several feet across. A dumpster. Why, of course. What else could it have been? Slowly, I push against the lid. It doesnt budge. There must be something holding it down. If only my other arm was working, I might have enough strength to push through. I sit up as best as I can, leveraging myself on my cybernetic arm and pillowing against copper jags as I raise into a bent-kneed stance. The electricity coursing through my veins is withering away with each second and if Im not quick I might flatline, this time for good. I turn around, having my back face the lid. With my shoulders and nape I shove... shove... shove! The lid opens and little bits fall inside, covering my face and torso. Cybernetic components, no doubt. I pull myself out of the dumpster and roll down the junkpile until I can hardly move or breathe. As I lie there gasping, memories flicker through my mind, weakly at first, gradually gaining strength and clarity. I recall a name. Rhea Steele. Is it mine? I''m not sure. Its engraved in my neural chip, or perhaps my brain. Maybe even both. But thats about as much as I can remember. Everything elsehow I got here, how I ended up with no eyes and only one functioning armI havent the slightest idea. I pull myself to my feet and realise that my ability to walk is suboptimal. Its enough, but only just. I stagger over to a pile of cyborg corpsesof which there are hundredsand begin running my hand through their ports and sockets, all while monitoring my failing vital systems. The readings are no longer visible on my optic display; theyve melted into digital smear. The ones and zeroes guide my hand until eventually a dollop turns green. Ive found something, surely. I dig through the rubble and, sure enough, pull out a pair of functional optics attached to a decapitated head. I pry the optics free and ease them into my sockets. It takes a moment for everything to adjust. Eventually the red numbers dissipate and the world around me begins to expand with texture, colour, and life. Or perhaps more accurately: death. I was right in believing this was a cyborg graveyard, but I didnt know that it was next to a river, beneath an enormous bridge which joins two sides of a well-lit, prosperous city. I recognise this place, only Im not sure where from. Its a distant, free-floating memory. Something that lingers but doesnt show itself. A ghost of thought. I look down at my naked body, at the cyberware markings on my boobs, shoulders and stomach, spotting blood. Some of the holes are from bullets, others from blades. The wounds are old and dry. How is it exactly that Im alive? What happened to me? I jab my fingers into the side of the decapitated head and detach the neural chip from within. I remove my own, which is beat up pretty badly, and replace it. Soon my hearing comes back, although the sound is muffled and staticky. Seagulls mew against the continuous din of city traffic, interrupted only by a siren that whirs across the bridge. I dont notice it until my hearing strengthens some moments later, but its raining. Strangely, only then do I feel the droplets patter my skin. These sounds, these sensations, are not unfamiliar to me either. Some of the corpses might have been here decades. Others might be fresh. The question is, how long have I been here, and more importantly, how long do I have left? According to my vitals, not long. I need a new operating system, but finding one in this place isnt possible; its sheer luck that mine is still running at all. Some voices from behind. Laughter. In the distance. Not sure how far exactly. I turn to see two men and a woman climb down one of the corpse heaps; it rises to an opening that I can only presume leads to a ladder or stairway of some sort. Something that would bring them to the city. Theyre wearing brightly coloured kuttes marred together with different symbols: skulls, lion heads, spiders, and crass phrases like, The one and only! and I fucked your whore and didnt pay child support. Ironically, they also wear crosses around their necks, which makes me think they must have gotten out of a pretty intense church session. The men in particular are packing some moderately sized cyberware. Decked out with titanium-annexed, Kevlar optic shields, which are long, shaded visors animated with blue cubelike waves rolling from one side to the other; necks engraved with sharp inclines which, typically, mean their skulls are coated with a layer of steel, if not all the bones in their bodies; and limbs adorned with sleek, chrome-plated exoskeletons, each joint pulsating with a faint electric hum as they move. I dont know what their intentions are, but I ought to keep out of sight. Maybe its in the way they swagger, the way they talk with those slightly nasally countrified accents, but they dont look inclined to help a young lady who only minutes ago managed to pull herself out of a dumpster. To help someone who by all accounts should not be alive at all. But Ive done too much thinking, because within moments of them stepping off the falling corpse pile, the woman points a thickly gloved finger at me and yells, Theres a live one. Over there, look. My heart pounds, the electricity in my body spikes, and my vitals dip further. I try to take a step back and perhaps even run away, but my legs give in and soon I find myself trapped in a shake before collapsing onto the beach. The people laugh, partly with excitement and partly with cruelty. Help me, I try to say, but the words dont come out. I vibrate as my internal clock ticks towards an inevitable death. First the woman comes over, then the two men. She bends down and pulls my head towards her. Ah.... Its old. Look, an XV-2054 Model. About fifty years past your prime, dustbucket, says the taller of the two men. He pulls a cigarette from a menthol package, pops it in his mouth, and lights it with a flame embedded in his index finger. Might be worth somethin still, if its still runnin, says the shorter man, flicking a switchblade up and down. The woman presses the side of her neural port, which sits above her left ear, and suddenly her visor turns green. Some seconds later, she says, Part-human, part-borg. Id imagine back in her time she was a fan of biotech. Probably spent more time on the chair than your average cyberjunkie, thats for sure. The taller man gets down on one knee and blows a puff of smoke in my face. Anything valuable? Whats that pretty eye of yours see? Hard to tell, she says. Its beat up pretty bad and some parts of the body are unscannable. Cheap fuckin optics, thats why, says the shorter man. I suppose we could dump it in the back of the truck and look at it later, the woman says. Itd be much easier than trying to rip it apart here with all these bodies everywhere. The taller man reaches into his back pocket and pulls something stout and bulky out. It takes me a second to realise that its a pistol, one embedded with a carbon skin, a ring-shaped trigger, and an orange bore. It glows when he thumbs the safety off. Want me to ice it here? The woman pulls away. Just be sure to hit it between the eyes. Anywhere lower and you might fry all the circuits and well get nothin out it. This cant happen. I cant die, not like this, not after Ive been given a second chance. But I guess if this man doesnt put me out of my misery, my operating system will. He kneels closer to my face and presses the barrel of the pistol against my skull. Adios, dustbucket. The air grows heavy and its as if a million hot needles are piercing my skin. Within seconds, the bullet will pass through my cranium and knock my lights out for good; brains will splatter and for the first time Ill get to witness what its like having my existence ripped from my being, what its like to die in cold blood. Then what? Is it just an empty meaningless void? Is there a hell? A heaven? Im too young to find out. Now is not my time. No, a voice saysweak and strained. The fuck? the man snarls. Not now, the same voice says, only I realise something that I hadnt before: the voice, soft, feminine, belongs to me. You can talk, even after all these years? the woman says, laughing. Well, isnt that something? Fifty years old, probably dumped here at least a decade ago, and she speaks. Theres some human left in you after all. Poor bitch, the shorter man says. Ought to put her out of her misery. Its a win for both sides, I reckon. The electricity coursing through my body begins to accelerate as my heart pounds harshly against my chest, giving vigour to my being once more. No, I sayshout, actually. I cant die! The fuck you cant. The tall man rams his thick palm into my forehead with the hope of slamming me back into the ground, but to his shockand to my ownmy neck doesnt give. Before he has time to prop the barrel against my skull, I grab his wrist with my dodgy cybernetic arm and squeeze as hard as I can. His ulna and radius crunch beneath my grasp. He screams. The gun goes off and a flash of bright light illuminates the blood staining my body. Im a survivor, not a corpse. Kill her! the man squeaks. The woman, who by now has backed up a couple feet, reaches for her pistol. My arm, with strength even I dont expect, jolts forward and becomes a ball-bearing as the body of the tall man goes helplessly sprawling across it. The woman backs up and aims. Before she can fire, something springs from my forearm: a long, raptorial blade. It pierces through the mans chest and slices through the womans neck. She stands there shaking, just as I had done moments ago, while the life drains from her face. The shorter man stands back, slackjawed. He doesnt say a word, only watches. The womans body hits the floor and the man on my raptorial blade drops his gun. Theyre dead. That much is for certain. I move the mans body to the side and watch as he slides off my blade. His guts droop and pull along the jagged splits. The remaining man gasps, drops his switchblade, and makes a beeline for the climbing corpse pile, nearly tripping along the way. I dont bother chasing after him. Hes not on my list of priorities right now. Instead, I crawl over the dead woman and slice her chest open with my blade. I make a fist and the blade retracts back into my forearm, secured by a pair of plates in hard muscle. Inside the womans chest, I see the rectangular operating chip attached to her internal life system, beneath the heart. I detach it carefully, making sure not to damage it. I know this procedure is going to be difficult. If I dont replace my operating system quick enough after taking it out, my heart will stop and Ill flatline. Terrifying, but I have no choice. I take a deep breath, staving off as much fear as possible, before pressing my neural port and opening the life system on my chest. The steel plates securing my racing heart remain intact, but the operating system looks fried, pulsing dimly with a blue glow. Despite this, I grimace, mostly with angst. I grab the switchblade left over from the short man and, using the tip, pry the chip free. It isnt long before my vision blurs and my vitals fade to black. All the air empties from my lungs, and for a second I feel as though Ive been launched into outer space. I quickly but carefully secure the womans operating system beneath my heart. To my shock, Im still unable to breathe, I still cant see my vitals, and slowly the world around me begins to blur before going dark. The darkness, which lasts about thirty seconds, is different. I dont see any red ones and zeroes. It''s nothing. When I come around again, I can see and breathe and feel. Im lying flat on the ground, but something''s different: Im able to move smoothly. No shakes, no pounding heart. My vitals pop up on my neural display and everything is green. I look down at my naked torso and see nanobots sewing my wounds shut. Vitals stabilised, the robotic voice in my head says. Have a nice day, Rhea Steele. So thats my name. Rhea Steele. I pick myself up, slowly, and stretch my limbs. The mantisblade embedded in my forearm is a surprise. In my previous life I must have been something of a mercenary, or perhaps a deviant who used her technological prowess to secure easy creds, or maybe I just liked the idea of defending myself in a city that was potentially crawling with threats, like these people. These... scavengers. I look at their dead bodies, focusing on the woman, even more so on her clothes. Her cut-off leather jacket coats a white button-up shirt; the sleeves are rolled up to her elbows, revealing ugly tattoos: werewolves, snakes, and what looks like a clown of some sort. I really hate clowns. Im not scared of them or anything; theres just something about the idea that these wildly coloured, over-the-top faces are meant to entertain children. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. I unbutton the womans leather kutte, then remove her white shirt, and then her cargo jeans and combat boots. I let her keep her panties, because its plain disgusting to wear another persons undies. I throw on her shirt, jeans, kutte, and boots, which proves more awkward than difficult due to my inactive left arm. It must have been fried pretty bad to be completely dead. If I want to get it replaced or removed, I need to visit a tech surgeon of some sort, but itll come at a cost. Im sure. I run my hand through the mans corpse, seeing if he has anything valuable. Other than his pistol there isnt much, but I take it anyway. I take the womans pistol, too. Maybe I can sell it and make a bit of cash on the side, if its worth anything. I pop the mans pistol into my back holster and keep the other in my inside jacket pocket, then spot the switchblade that coward of a man left behind. I grab that, too, keeping it safe in my pocket. After that, I walk over to the climbing corpse pile from which these scavengers came, expecting to see a ladder or walkway. To my surprise theres neither. From the bottom of the wall to the top theres a mesh of rusty pipes, worn and leaking from the chambers. Part of it is held together only by carbon-fibre tape. Thats funny to me. Nevertheless, I clamber up the corpse pile, knocking bits aside. It''s taxing but not impossible. It doesnt take long before I reach the top. This is where the real challenge begins. Getting up this damn pipe system. I can try hook my arm around some of the looser areas but from the looks of it theyre farther up. Ill have to use my legs to do most of the work, and I dowell, trybut inevitably fail as I find no way to hoist myself up onto the next available grip. I slip, but dont fall off the pile. I manage to anchor myself by sticking my mantisblade into one of the bodies, which gives me an idea. I try the same thing, but instead of grabbing onto the first available pipe, I spring my blade as high as the rig will allow and wedge it between a suitable gap. I pull. Theres a strong hold. This should work. I take a deep breath and, after a moment, retract my blade, just as I had done before, only this time Im launched upward towards the point of contact. I stop when I hit my head off the wall. Not hard, but with enough force to send a shockwave through my body. Before the blade fully retracts, I wrap my legs around a thick pipe and grab onto another. I repeat the process until I reach the top and pull myself over the ledge. It really takes the air out of me. My optic display tells me my oxygen levels are falling. I really ought to take it easy until I can see a tech surgeon. Maybe they can figure out what happened to me. Once I catch my breath, I look up and see the sprawling city in all its glory. I expected as much. All around the place, people bustle from sidewalk to sidewalk, across flashing yellow crosswalks and below quickly changing traffic lights. The cars arent anything special; there hasnt been much development since the early 2050s, and it seems everything still runs on hydrocells. The people wear all sorts of punkish clothes, everything from leather jackets to brightly coloured cardigans, sleeveless denim shirts, and haircuts of blue, red, green, and even some neon fibres. The block spans just as much in height as it does in distance. Above, where a large highway curves around buildings, people lean over balconies from shabby apartments, dumping cigarettes and wrappers. They dont reach the bottom; theyre quickly carried away by a gust tunnelling through the intersection preceding the bridge. Its cool, icy even. But thats okay. I prefer the cold. But how do I navigate this place? How do I find out where the nearest tech surgeon is? Its not like theres a map flashing on every available corner of this place. I start walking, seeing if theres any signs indicating a repair unit or medical centre or whatever field tech surgeries would fall under in this era. Its hard to tell, and I cant exactly remember what such buildings look like. Even if I could they may very well look entirely different now. From what I do know, theyre typically housed in dark places, out of sight, because generally these operations are clandestine. That and tech surgeons dont want random civilians walking in for a look-around; they want business. Real customers. This isnt a barbershop. Its a place for those looking to bring themselves to the next level. People hurry past me in sweeping riptides. I find it difficult to keep a steady foot. One man tells me to watch my step, and another calls me a walking corpse. I decide to cross the street in search of a billboard, an advert, something to indicate the location of a tech surgeon, but despite the hundreds of LED screens promising penis-enlargement pills, powerful weapons, and careers working for a company called Techstrum, theres nothing. Nada. Zilch. So I walk on. After ten minutes of struggling and nearly tripping over the boundless pedestrians, I step into a seemingly quiet alleyway leaking at the pipes and comprised of overfull trashcans, rats that scurry from one hole to the other, and... a man, sitting on a doorstep built into a red-brick building. Hes enclosed in shadow, to the right of the alley, smoking a cigarette. He glances up at me. Its too dark to make out his face. Lost? he says, his voice raspy and orotund. I blink a couple times before responding. I guess you could say that. He puffs out a ring of smoke. You shouldnt be here. I furrow my brow. I.... Well, Im not entirely sure where Im supposed to be, or where Im No. The man shakes his head. Youre not supposed to be here. Here. He gestures to the ground with open hands. In this alleyway. Its private, for clients and staff only. Did you not read the sign? He points over my shoulder, at a poorly lit sign that reads, in large red characters, STAFF AND CLIENTS ONLY. Shrugging, I say, You really expect me to see that? He chuckles. Outdated optics, eh? In 2100? 2100? As in, the year 2100? He takes another puff from his cigarette, blows the smoke out, tosses it to the ground, and crushes it with his boot. He stands, and I can see his face more clearly. He has a grey beard surrounded by tens of little wrinkles, so little that he may have gotten some sort of anti-aging surgery done to his skin, along with a well-trimmed fauxhawk. His large head sits on a bullish neck between a pair of roofbeam shoulders. Clearing his throat, he says, Whats your name, lady? Rhea Steele, I say. He presses the side of his neural link. His eyes glow silver and twist. Born 2035. Deceased 2056. Whats it like in the afterlife? I... Im sorry? He chuckles again. So, what is this? You install someone elses neural chip? I just cant figure out why someone would do that, unless of course, theyre looking to commit identity fraud, but you have different motives, dont you? Hard to commit fraud when any actuary can see youre supposed to be dead. Im not trying to commit fraud, I say. Then why does it say youre dead? he asks, his shrewd eyes flickering from my damaged arm to my bloody jacket. I look him in the eye. I dont know. All I know is that I woke up on the beach. The circuitery? he says sharply. He takes a step towards me and scratches his beard. With all those dead bots? Thats a hell of a name for what actually goes on down there, you know that? The man looks at me for a moment, as if trying to read my mind, then reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a package of cigarettes, slides one out, and says, You smoke? I shake my head. Im just looking for a tech surgeon. Someone to tell me what happened. Someone who can figure out why I came back to life, and for Gods sake fix this broken arm. Your non-functional arm is entirely mechanical, the man says, sliding his cigarette package into his chest pouch. Your right arm though.... Thats cybernetic. Nice implant, by the way. Though its an older model. I make a fist and watch as my mantisblade slowly creeps out of my forearm, like a turtle peeping from its shell. I let it slide back into hibernation. Listen, I say, do you know where I can find a tech surgeon? This city isnt exactly clear with directions, and all the adverts.... Are people really that concerned with getting it up? The man laughs this timea nice sound straight from the belly. Well, I can take a look at you, even though I am technically on my fifteen. Youre a tech surgeon? He nods. Didnt see that sign either, I take it? He points behind his shoulder with his thumb, at a sign placed above the stepped doorway. It reads, on a silver plaque and in gold letters, DR. MAELSTROMS NEUROTECH SURGERY. Yeah, because thats so obvious, I want to say. Customers must have to book an appointment, and after that a set of directions must get emailed to them, because theres no chance in hell anyone is finding this place just by looking at any website or brochure. Oh, I say. Well, how much is a consultation? I dont have much.... Dont have any creds, actually.... He waves a dismissive hand and opens the alleyway door. Because Im so curious as to why a living corpse showed up at my doorstep, Ill do this one for free, but I cant guarantee I can fix that arm. It looks like it needs to be replaced entirely, or, you know He makes a buzzsaw sound and motion. cut off. I guess that wouldnt be so bad. Its not like this arm is doing me any favours. Before I follow him in through the door, I pause and ask, So youre Dr. Maelstrom? Just to clarify? Im Vance. But yeah, thats me. Technically youre older than I am. Ill have to get used to that one. Thanks for your help, I say. I havent helped you yet, Vance says. I follow him in the door, brushing beads aside. The interior isnt so bad. I was expecting something a little more white and intrusive, like a dentists, but instead this place has delicate lightstrips cruising through different shades: pinks, blues, greens. Its a foyer, and theres a lady dressed in a sleeveless, red qipao behind a reception desk. She smiles at me with her hands crossed behind her back. Someone ought to give her a chair. Hi there, she says sweetly. Set the building to closed, Jin, says Vance. Thisll take a minute. But what about your two-o-clock? Delay it by another half hour, he says. They can wait. Always do. Her fingers warp at lightning-quick speed as she begins typing at her computer. Soon the door behind me locks and a timer for thirty minutes pops up on a large LED screen which moments ago had been blank, ready to tick off at two in the afternoon. Wasting no time, I walk on, beyond the reception desk and through another doorway decorated with low-hanging purple beads. Brushing them aside and turning the first and only right corner, I see Vance descending a couple steps, into a dark open room, illuminated by a red, cross-shaped fluorescent bulb. All around the place are medical carts packed with gleaming cybernetic implants, biohacking tools, and holograms touting the latest upgrades, everything from operating systems to circulatory, ocular, and nervous systems. Theyre indicated by a holographic body, and the position of each implant is labelled accordingly. Thick power cables run along the floor dangerously, plugging into the side compartments of a makeshift surgical bed. All around it are monitors, biometric sensors, and an overhanging screen on which a neural interface remains dormant. The entire place is like a meth lab, but nicer, cleaner, although still quite a bit messy. Vance pulls out a swivel chair and takes a seat at his corner desk. The desk is littered with alcohol bottles, blood vials, motherboards, and various surgical tools I cant even begin to name. There are two monitors: one for his computer and one showing security footage of the foyer. Seems hes had some problems in the past. Unsurprising. He starts typing. Relax. You dont need to stand. Not yet. I take a seat on the surgical bed. You must have done some fighting to have that much fresh blood on you, Vance says. Reckon so? I say. How many scavengers? he asks. Three, I say. Thats when I Used the mantisblade. He wheels away from the desk and approaches me slowly. He looks at my face long and hard, then reaches out and takes my chin in his hand. You changed your optics recently, too. Did you wake upor well, did you come back blind? Optics picked out of your sockets? I nod dumbly. Vance reaches up and grabs the overhanging neural interface. He starts tapping the screen. Then he tells me to unlink my neural wire from the side of my head. I comply, and he plugs it into the bed computer. How much of your life do you remember? he asks. It takes me a second to respond. Not much. I mean, I remember some things, kind of. The name Rhea Steele was in my head, but I didnt know it was mine until that voice He nods. The neural AI. spoke to me. I also remember this city. It looks familiar. Feels familiar. Although I cant remember the name.... Neo Arcadia. He rubs a hand slowly over his face, then looks at me sternly. The name of the city is Neo Arcadia. That ring a bell to you? I shake my head. Not at all, I say in a low voice. Some memories came back to me after a while. Details about this city. Like tech surgeries, but thats probably because the scavengers brought them up first. I also remember these streets, the cars, hell even the people. Its an awful feeling. Time doesnt feel right. I dont feel right. Old. Outdated. Is that what you feel? he asks. Yes, I say. Outdated, definitely. Like Im in the wrong era. And if you dont mind me asking, how do I look? Do I look... old? He chuckles, then presses a few buttons on the monitor before turning it around. You tell me. Instead of displaying a neural interface, the monitor shows a mirror. In it I see the face of a young, green-haired woman with freckles and slightly tan skin. The hair is cut short, falling no further than the ears. The jaw is soft, and the nose is long. This is a face I most certainly remember. I bare my teeth, expecting to see rotten brown pearls left over from a decade of neglect. To my surprise theyre only slightly yellow, well-shaped, though my gums are certainly more red than they should be. I look as though Im still in my early twenties, with a full life ahead of me. Seems your bodys been kept perfectly preserved all these years, Vance says with a glint of amusement in his eye. Nanobots, Id say. Looks like theyre the reason you havent died. You must have been in some sort of comalike state. There is a problem, though. Problem? I say. Which one? The fact I cant remember a thing or the fact Im hanging on by a thread? Well, he says, youre not hanging on by a thread. Actually, youre doing quite well for yourself for someone who supposedly died forty-odd years ago. But your internal processors are damaged, particularly around your mid to lower abdomen. Youve been shot quite a few times, and stabbed, you know? But the nanobots.... Do they not repair the damages? I mean, I dont feel any pain. Thats the problem. Vance turns the monitor towards himself and starts tapping it again. You dont feel any pain because your sensory nerve processor is damaged. Your dorsal posterior insulas disconnected from your primary operating system. I cock an eyebrow. You gotta remember not everyones a doctor. He pushes the monitor up and sits closer to me, clasping his hands together. Look, he says, the part of your brain responsible for indicating the intensity of pain has been disconnected from your central nerve operating system. He taps his chest. Meaning if you get shot, or if theres some internal damage done to you, you wont know, but youll see the effects pop up on your neural display. Faster heart rate, high blood pressure, low saturation. Suddenly you might flatline. But how am I now? I ask, dreading the answer. Is there anything to worry about? If there was, I would have told you already, Vance says. His voice is stern, but I can see a twinkle in his eye that betrays it. I stare at him. So, Im okay? Ill live? I didnt say that. He disconnects my neural cord from the bed computer and lets it zip back into my temple port. You know, he begins, wheeling back over to his desk computer, its not every day you meet someone with a mantisblade. Especially not one from your era, but thats beside the point. They tend to be very expensive, and in the 2040s they were relatively new implants. A lot of the NACP deployed units with those upgrades. NACP? I scratch my head. Neo Arcadia City Patrol, he says. Other words: the blues. Police. Whatever you wanna call em. Your point being? Vance hesitates. My point being that you must have either been a high-tier NACP unit, a criminal, or one rich son of a bitch. To afford implants like that? Possibly in your other arm, too? I wouldnt be surprised if someone shot you and stole the blade off you. So, youre saying I was.... Any one of those things, he says, typing at the computer. Im running your name through the city database here.... Cant find a single thing on you, so Im willing to bet you were neither a rich bitch nor a unit. Logic dictates you worked for a gang of some sort. I get up from the surgical bed, look at my fist, and clench, watching the blade peep out again. A gang? What sort of gang? With those blades? he says. Could be any damn one in the city. Maybe even a bit beyond in the scrubland. Your guess is as good as mine. I step towards him and let my blade retract into my forearm. Thats not what I mean, I begin. A gang. The sort who kills, steals, wreaks havoc? He glares at me, then turns, facing away from the computer. He steeples his fingers and dips his head while maintaining eye contact. I have absolutely no idea, he says flatly. All I know is there are a lot of gangs, with a lot of different motives, with a lot of different ideas of havoc. Some only seek to survive. Some have much darker plans. Im afraid thats where my knowledge stops. I sigh. The information has been more than helpful regardless. The rest Ill have to figure out on my own, and thats okay. Thanks. At least now I know. Any ideas where I go from here? I''m sort of lost. Your first step is getting your senses in order, he says. Not being able to feel pain isnt everything its chalked up to be. Trust me. Im a doctor. Id know. One day youre cruisin the streets of Neo Arcadia, lookin for an easy target, or whatever the hell youll decide to do, and then the next day you drop dead. Might have been a pulmonary embolism. Might have been a really bad infection. Somethin your neural display wont pick up on, because one as old as yours is likely to screw up and read data incorrectly. So how do I fix it? I stare. Can you help me? This, Vance says, placing a comforting hand on my arm, is where my altruism ends. End of the day, I got a business to run. Cant help anyone out with expensive procedures like this without expecting something in return. But Im willin to cut you some slack, give you a percentage discount just because I like you so much, but Ill be damned if I do it for free. I stare at him some more. He has a point. Most doctors in this city would have turned me away before even getting to learn my story, but Dr. Maelstrom at least listened. The questions remain: how much is the procedure, and how on Earth do I secure enough creds to pay for it? I ask him, rubbing my neck. You know, he begins, as a tech surgeon you meet a lot of people, all getting implants for different reasons. Howd you think I knew exactly what mantisblades are used for? He grabs a piece of paper and what looks like an electronic map from one of his desk drawers. Then he grabs a pen and starts writing. Im gonna give you the name of a relatively new gang in the city not far from here, just on the other side of the bridge. Maybe a few blocks farther down. Theyre always lookin for new talent, specially if you already have relatively strong upgrades under your belt. Or sleeve, I should say. I walk over to him, and he hands me the paper with the map folded underneath. I look at the piece of paper. It has a single name written at the centre, along with an address scrawled overhead. Fingers? I read aloud. That supposed to be code for something? He gets up from his seat, pulls a cigarette from the package in his chest pouch, and lights it up. Blowing smoke in my face, he says, Thats the boss'' name. Press the buzzer at the door. Say Maelstrom sent you. And you expect this person to just help me out like that? Give me a job? A member of a gang? Vance grins broadly. He flicks his lighter shut and tosses it on the desk. Youll have to prove yourself, of course, he says. But at the end of the day, Fingers owes me one. Ill let the gang know youre comin. Then, as if suddenly remembering, he adds, Oh, and the procedures gonna cost you five bags. Normally Id charge eight, but like I said, I got a good feelin about you. He pats my shoulder and points to the exit, back the way I came. Watch your step on the way out. Follow the map. Its embedded with a tracking device so its easier to figure out where you are, and more importantly, where youre goin. history rewrites itself鈥攁gain? - 1.2 1.2 Theres another person waiting in the alleyway when I go outside. A young, timid woman who doesnt make much eye contact or respond to my greeting. She hurries into the building, arms folded. This must be the two-o-clock Vance was talking about. Nevertheless, I pull out the electronic map to take a look. Its only a portion of the city, and sure enough the tracking device shows up as a small blinking blue dot, right in the alleyway on Carters Street. Across the bridge theres a series of buildings, one of which is circled in orange marker; its a good distance away yet. That must be it. Once I get this sensory issue fixed, Ill have to start saving up for a place to stay, and a ride, because walking everywhere in a city this large is just asking for problems. Especially if Im supposed to have been a part of a gang. What if I committed some unspeakable act and someone Ive wronged spots me on the street, ices me there and then? A person who thinks Im dead. Worrisome, for sure. I do my best to ignore the thought. I make my way through the city, over the bridge, and towards the buildings as indicated by the directions on the map. The rain isnt as heavy on this side of the city, though the wind certainly doesn''t hold up. I look at the time displayed on the top right-hand side of my neural interface and see it reads 14:47. Working hours, but the roads and sidewalks are chock-a-block. People dont seem to relax in Neo Arcadia. Maybe they have upgrades that render their need for unproductivity obsolete, or maybe this is just one of those cities that never really rests. I wish I could remember. Having twenty-one years, every last spot of recollection, wiped from your system may as well be death, a very peculiar sort to the name. You almost might call it rebirth. The pedestrians thin out greatly when I follow the map through a series of twisting alleyways and low-hanging metal sheets, on top of which metal bars hold grated balconies against apartment windows. I kick blowing litter from my path and look out for a sign that reads, Old Mill. Thats what it says on the address, but it reads nothing about it on the map. The buildings are all blank save for the apartment complexes. I walk on, beneath the orange sodium-vapour lamps, across neon signs showcasing Japanese words on steel shutters, and up ahead, where a knot of wires pulls off to the side, over a blank, cyan LED screen barred out from a closed building, I see a wooden post nailed to a wall. Its hard to make out the letters from a distance, but when I approach it, I can see the words OLD MILL scribbled in black paint. Only the building its attached to looks nothing like a mill, and neither does it look old. Its comprised of metal with some red bricks wedged between cracked cement. The front door looks like the sort of airlock youd expect to see on a shuttle or spacecraft. To the right is a buzzer with an intercom neatly squared above it. Is this an apartment? It doesnt look very gangy. Is this really the right place? I double-check the address written on the piece of paper, and then the circled area on the map. This is it alright. No doubt about it. Still, Im a bit nervous. Has Dr. Maelstrom spoken to that man.... Whats his name? Fingers. Has he spoken to Fingers yet to let him know Im coming? Because if not.... Static rasps from the intercom, and a voice plays out of it no more than a second later: State your business. My heart skips a beat. The sound caught me off guard. Hi. I, well, Dr. Maelstrom sent me. He.... Well.... He said.... The voice in the intercom chuckles. This is what he sends? Seriously? Goosebumps pimple my arm and legs. Listen, I have experience. Im technically not lying. Besides, Im not unequipped. I have Yeah, we know, the voice says. Aint a very special strap to have, but its better than nothing. Names Rhea, yeah? I nod. Yeah. Rhea Steele. I was told to ask for Fingers. Theres a grumble and a cough. A few seconds later, the door buzzes open, and the voice says, Take the elevator to Dash Two. Fingers is waiting for you. And no touching anything. I''m quiet for a moment before I start moving. Nerves are still catching me. The inside is well-lit by fluorescent bulbs drilled above dirty aluminium doors. Theres an old washing machine next to some oxygen canisters up ahead, outside someones door, and leaning over it is a gaunt-looking man dressed in raggy clothes. He opens the top of the washing machine and retches inside it. Disgusting. Must have had one too many bottles. Or maybe one too many needles. Its hard to say. I keep walking, avoiding eye contact as he glances up at me. He starts to slur but drops hard on the floor before he can get another word out. I step around him and continue towards the elevator at the end of the corridor; the wall surrounding it is cracked and falling to pieces at one side. Graffiti that says THE BLUES FUCK US RAW!!! stretches across the elevator doors in bright-white paint. Seems someone has a bone to pick with authority, which makes sense if I understand the concept of a gang: people who get together because they deny societal expectations, people whod rather take the government down than work a simple nine-to-five. Was I like that at one point? I certainly dont feel any of that energy now. I press the elevator-call button and wait as it screeches up to my level. The sound is so horrendous that Im having second thoughts about stepping into it. The thing might collapse under any sort of pressure, even from a thin five-five woman like me. This theory is disproven when it arrives and the doors open, because a tall, stocky man wearing all black strides out, his hand carrying a gymbag of some sort, only I can tell hes not looking for a workout. He says, Watch it, then brushes me aside and heads for the exit. I didnt even realise I was standing in his way. Stupid me. Thats my fault. I step into the elevator, which houses a large mirror in desperate need of a polish, and select - 2 on the floor panel. It rumbles to a start and screeches downward at a snails pace. I turn and look into the mirror, observing my bloody scavenger clothes and my non-functioning arm which has been turned into the side pocket of my leather kutte. Its stiff and doesnt dangle, thank God, but I really should look into getting it chopped off, just for conveniencys sake. Theres so much on my bucket list right now thats its nearly overwhelming. For the time being, I should focus on getting enough creds to make sure Im healthy. I can figure the rest out as I go along. The elevator comes to a screeching halt and the doors jerk open slowly. Theres another corridor, only this time there arent any apartment doors, and its not so bright; theres only a single bulb hanging from a string. Thats it. Theres a leak in one of the low-ceiling pipes. Thick metal sheets secure grated steel walls, and through them reside other rooms: ones with lots of space, furniture, and technology. Theyre hard to make out exactly from this perspective but I can tell they have a lot going on. There are voices up ahead to the left. So, I walk. And walk. And eventually I turn the corner into a dark, windowless room full of smoke and red light. Its sort of like a living room, sort of like an office, with a leather sofa and cotton chairs, all circling a large wooden table at which three people are sitting, legs sprawled. Three men, each with heavy cyberwear embedded across their bodies. Cybernetic arms, glowing optics, necks laced with titanium and Kevlar.... And their clothes: strikingly simple and of no similarity. They wear light jackets, the sort youd expect to see in slightly cold climates, with cargo jeans to match. One of them, however, stands out as having long metal fingers. Like really long. That must be him. The only other person is off in the far-left corner is a woman sitting and flicking a jackknife in and out. She has bright blue hair shaved at one temple, thick fingerless gloves, and a set of dark clothing. Shes the only one who looks out of place in here. Aside from myself, of course. Seriously? the man sitting on the right says. His arms are relaxed on the sofa chair, legs kicked up on the table. He has tightly cut blonde hair and a deep, smokers voice. Sure enough, he also has a cigar in his mouth. He takes it out, drops his feet, and dips his head. Youve got to be fuckin kiddin me. Youd be surprised what Neo Arcadia has out there, the man with the long fingers says, tapping them methodically on the table. He looks at me with a stupid dog grin. Always nice to see new talent. Talent? the blonde-haired man says, looking at him sternly. He gestures to me with a dismissive hand. You call that talent? I dunno, the other man to the left says. I thought you said someone experienced was gonna show up, Fingers. His hair is pulled back into a brown ponytail. He wears a thin silver band around his eyes which are bolted to either side of his temple. When he presses his neural port, it lights up and turns blue. For someone experienced, you do manage to er, well, avoid all sorts of wanted lists. Would at least like to see ya on a list by now. Or are you that good? He smirks, showing teeth that are only half there. I.... Excuse me? I crease my brow. The blonde-haired man stands up and approaches me. He takes a puff of his cigar, gets real close, bends over slightly, and blows a thick plume of smoke in my face. I cant help but cough and turn away. Tell me, the man says, have you ever been shot before? Ever killed someone? Ever... He chuckles. ... done anything? Anything of value? Something small and spinney whips past my shoulder, causing me to jump and turn. A knife. It landed right in the bulls-eye of a dartboard. Knock it off, a feminine voice says. I turn and see the woman in the corner stand up and approach us. Telling you Fingers, the blonde-haired man says, dont get what you see in this girl. But its your loss if she ends up fuckin us. I say we throw her out. I think he can think for himself, I say bravely. A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. He? The man chuckles, stands up straight, and then sits back down on the sofa chair. I look at the man in the middle with the long fingers. Hes shaking his head. Hes not Fingers, the woman says, pulling the knife out from the dartboard. I am. Oh, I say. I wont lie to you: I thought because of his hands.... I know exactly what you were thinking, she says coolly. Dont worry about. She pats my shoulder. Nice to see another woman, so I wont be too harsh on you. Wont be too nice either. You wanna work with us then Ill have so see some credentials. Credentials? I say, confused. This isnt what Dr. Maelstrom talked about. She nods. Not a CV or flashy piece of paper. I mean, real credentials. How you hold up in real situations. You following me? I stare at her blankly. I think so, I begin. You want to see what Im like in action? Is that it? Another nod. Bingo. Right on, Rhea. That is your name, right? Im talkin to the right girl? Yeah, I say, not even bothering to mention my surname. Its frankly not important. Hm, she says. Well, some introductions then. The guy with the long fingers behind me is Cormac. To his left is Vander, our explosives enthusiast, and the grumpy guy to his right is Raze. Youll figure out whos who with time. Got it, I say. Cormac, Vander, Raze, and youre Fingers. I contemplate asking her why they call her such a name if her hands look pretty normal, at least from what I can see, but decide to leave it for the time being. She looks me in the eye, smiles, and pats me on the shoulder. Then she steps out of the dark room and beckons for me to follow her. The others get up from their seats, but she immediately tells them their presence wont be needed. Dont care. Raze quenches the cigar bud on his jacket and tosses it into the ashtray on the table. Im gettin sick of sittin around. Have to stretch my legs. Sides, I wanna see what this kid is all about. Sure all of us do. Not often a lady shows up at our door lookin for a job. Im more for the air. Cormac coughs, stretching his rotator cup. Raze and his bastard cigar stinkin up the place really does a number on me. Pretty sure you just havent had a shower in a while, Corn, Raze replies quickly. Wheres Dance anyway? Vander picks up a water bottle from under his chair and takes a sip. Probably off fuckin some BD slut, says Raze, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Fingers beckons me forward again, and this time I follow her. Dance isnt feelin well. Said hes gonna rest up for the day. That lazy prick? Only work he does around here is chemistry, and how often does chemistry help us? More than you think, Fingers says. He gives a single sarcastic nod. Yeah right. Like Ive ever needed a pick-me-up from that guy. Fingers guides me through another section of the underground headquarters, to another door on the other side; the entire area is full of loose cables and metal parts, so I have to tread carefully. She presses her palm on a hand-recognition square and the door opens, revealing an area too dark to observe. Once she steps in, she claps her hands and it lights up, unveiling a large range divided into two sides: one in which a long table holds various pistols and rifles along the undersection, and up ahead: a shooting range of some sort, with bullet holes in black humanlike targets. This isnt what I expected when she mentioned credentials, but to be honest, Im not entirely sure what she meant by that. Smell the gunpowder? Raze says, scratching his fuzzy crewcut. I dont, obviously, but responding to that asshole isnt worth my time. So, you want me to shoot the targets? Im guessing. Not just that. Fingers pats my back and points to a large holographic screen behind. Theres a list of scores on it; at the bottom lies Cormac, Dance, and Vander, and the top two are Raze and Fingers, with Fingers taking first place. She has a score of 2184. How long have you people been around exactly? I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me. To have a set up like this? Too long, Raze says. I look at him, pursing my lips. Dr. Maelstrom says youre new. He chuckles. That fuckin guy, he says quietly. Fingers juts in: Weve been at this for the better part of seven years, she says. Lost some people, gained some people. Grand scheme of things, were not all that old, not all that new either. Compared to other corporations out there. Corporations? I say. The biggest gangs of all, sweetheart, Raze says, loudly. Fuckin hate that word: gang. Well, what do you suggest? Cormac says. Got a better way of puttin it? How about organised lawbreakers? Rolls off the tongue, dunnit? He laughs in a weird, squawky way. Anything wrong with the word team? Raze asks, folding his bulky arms. Theres some silence, and Fingers continues from where she left off. Back to what I was saying: I dont just want you to hit the targets and call it a day. I want you to beat that asshole Razes score. Two women in the lead sounds far better than one, dont you think? You.... Im supposed to.... What? I start, unable to string together a sentence that accurately conveys my frustration. I look up at the screen again and see that Razes score is 1748. Theres no chance Im going to be able to beat that, not with one arm, and not after being inactive for so long. I dont even remember how to shoot a pistol, if I ever used one at all. If youre as good as you say you are then this shouldnt be an issue, right? Fingers says. Raze steps up behind me and pats my head. Ms. Experience, ay? Lets find out how experienced you really are. His voice is cold with an undercurrent of sarcasm. He grins widely. Oh, and whats the other rule, Fingers? No outside weapons? She nods. Just to make sure you dont have some smart-lock software installed. You have to use one of our pistols. Understood? Like itll change anything. I hand her my pistols and she tucks them away in her pockets, but not before making sure the safeties are on. Cant be too careful. I approach the target range and grab one of the pistols from the shelf underneath. Its a basic A-22B Pulse, not much different than your standard Glock, only theres a bronze finish along the slide and the grip feels rubbery. If you wanna maximise your chances, says Fingers, Id recommend aiming for the head. Ill let you know when to start. I aim the pistol at the target range, feeling a strange sense of dj vu, like Ive done it many times before. The sensation is stuck in the back of my brain like a trapped thought readying to burst free. But it never does. The humanoid targets start reorganising themselves on the stage. Some pull up towards the ceiling via a long retractable bar, while others duck into cover behind the various obstacles: brick walls, road signs, washing machines, car tyres, and so on. There isnt really a theme to this place. It looks mostly makeshift, as if someone threw a bunch of stuff together off the street and installed an AI to operate the target bodies. My hands a little shaky at first, but it eases. Fingers starts counting down from three. Once she hits zero, a target flips down from the centre of the ceiling, playing the sound of a woman that yells, You moron. Almost instantly, my hand flicks to the direction of the targets head and pulls the trigger. I felt disconnected from the movement, like my body executed it on impulse. Im shocked to see that the bullet lands clean between the targets eyes. Well, Ill fuckin be... says Raze in a low voice, even lower than his usual baritone. Such reflexes even caught me off guard. I expected to take a good bit of time to line up the shot, never mind find it instantly and not only the take the shot but also land it perfectly on the targets head for maximum points. The target flicks up and another two pop out from behind the obstacles: one from the washing machine and another from the brick wall. Just like before, my hand finds the targets instantly and POP! POP! I like this girl, says Cormac, laughing. The bullets land perfectly again, with so much speed and precision that the AI jerks a little before drawing the targets away and revealing another four. This time its different. The targets are moving from one side to the other. My hand moves again, and I marvel as the targets fall, one head at a time, all within the space of two seconds. Maybe even less. Whats going on? You sure she aint cheatin? says Vander. Fingers shushes him. This goes on for another minute or so. Each round of targets is more complicated and compact than the last. Soon, not only the targets move but also the obstacles, as if being wheeled along on trails, and theyre not smooth movements either; theyre more like jerks. At times the road signs raise off the ground to shield the targets from the bullets, but I sense this happening beforehand, and I prioritise different targets until the shield falls and POP! Another headshot, but when I try to fire again the gun clicks. Out of bullets. Changing the mag with only one hand will take up too much time. Instead, I grab another pistol, thumb off the safety and start firing again. But not even two seconds later the gun clicks off, but for a different reason. There are still twenty bullets in the magazineI can tell because the exact number shows up on a miniature holographic screen below the sightbut the timers gone off, and a strident beeping plays across the range. An AI voice calls out: Session complete. User, Rhea, has acquired: Two thousand. And. Fifty-five. Points. Thanks for playing. Gobsmacked, I drop the pistol and turn to look at the screen. Sure enough, the leaderboard updates with my name in second, below Fingers but above Raze. Its oddly quiet. Raze reaches into his pocket and pulls out another cigar. He lights it up and takes a hit. I expect him to say something, but he doesnt. Doesnt even look at me. Cormac and Vander do, however, albeit grim-faced. Fingers approaches me. Shes not smiling anymore. When Maelstrom said he had experienced talent looking for a job, I didnt imagine he was talking about a shooter. Tell me: What gang did you work for? I stare at her, unable to come up with a satisfying reply, at least one that satisfies both of us. Eventually, I just say, Well, I cant remember. Thats sort of the problem. I lost my memory. She snorts. You really expect me to believe that? Scan me. It says Im supposed to be dead, right? She smirks. I dont have doc-ocs. If everyone could see each others identity, then wed be in a pretty messed-up society. That aside, you lost your memory... but you remember how to shoot? I know how it sounds, but its true. Raze uncrosses his arms and walks over to the range, inspecting the two pistols I was using. You really pulled in a crazy one, ay, Fingers? Crazy or not, starts Cormac, that was one damn good show. Id pay to watch that again. Were talkin professional-hitman level here, Fingers. Itd be stupid to turn her down. Fingers pinches her lips with her thumb and forefinger, eyeing me thoughtfully. She looks at the scoreboard again, and then at Raze, who still hasnt let up on checking the weapons for any signs of cheating software. Shes clean, Raze. I would have seen it if she put a chip in. Even if she did have a chip, says Vander, only experience can er make you shoot with that much confidence. Sides itd want to be some pretty expensive software to hit right between the eyes, and you gotta ask why shed want a job with us if she can afford that sort of crap. Know? For the first time he sounds convinced. He pulls a chapstick from his sleeve pocket and starts rubbing it across his lips like a woman getting ready for a night out on the town. He even pouts. Cute. Raze places the pistols back on the shooting-range table. Her other arm is broken. Interesting. Only now you noticed? Fingers snarls. Shes been walkin around like a bodyguard ready to draw at any second. Maelstrom already told me. She maintains eye contact with me, gives me a once-over, and says, Alright. Well, I cant lie to you, at first, I didnt expect you to match up with the rest of us. I was fully intending on turning you away, because more often than not the people who show up are all talk. Loudmouths. You know the sort, Im sure. I do. She pulls out my pistols and stares at them. You have two guns here, but you can only use one arm. Why is that? To quickly whip between the two so you can avoid reloading for forty bullets straight? Not gonna lie, thats clever. Definitely helped you break the two-thousand mark on the leaderboard. Fingers voice is soft and intense. She hands me the pistols. I didnt notice this before because it was so dark in the office room, but theres a silver ring on the third digit of her left hand and a fancy pink-glowing ring on the pinkie of her right. She notices me looking at them and knocks them together, making a horrid little click that sets my teeth on edge. The impact results in a spark. Beautiful, aint they? My sister gave them to me. One on the right cost two thousand creds while the one on the left cost two and a half. Good birthday gift, wouldnt you say? I swallow. For some reason I feel nervous all over again. Yeah, they are. I tuck the pistols back in their holsters. So... I hate to be a bother, but am I in? I really need the creds. Just to fix the stuff wrong with me, thats all. She doesnt take long responding. Oh, youre in, she says. Like Cormac said, Id be stupid to let you go. Guess you can join us for a job tonight. See what youre really made of. I smile with childlike glee. Thank you, I say breathlessly. And yes. Thatd be perfect. What sort of job is it? Youll find out soon enough, she says. Thats about as much information that she or anyone else will give me, and thats okay. history rewrites itself鈥攁gain? - 1.3 1.3 I have to say, the fact that I got accepted into this team is relieving. I thought for sure that I wouldnt have been able to beat any of the members scores, much less Razes. My reflexes and precision felt so alien, as if I was being controlled by a separate intelligence. How is it that part of my past self still exists if I cant remember learning any of these skills? Shooting? Using the mantisblade? Understanding details about the city that anyone with a wiped brain would surely forget? Its like my memorys been split in two, and the primary aspects of what make me resemble my former self have been filtered out with little remnants dripping through the crevices. Thats the only way I can explain it. Everything is painfully confusing. The first few hours following my acceptance into Fingers team are spent introducing me to the layout of the headquarters. Its not large by any meansin fact its about the size of a call-centre floor, only without the chairs and corporate ringtones. Its divided into several rooms, each designed for a specific purpose. The main foyer, the one I saw as I came in, is poorly lit with red sofa chairs, flags of visor-wearing skulls, which I presume must be a clan symbol of some sort, low-hanging ceilings, and thick crates surrounded by copper bits scattered across the floor. One room houses comfortable massage chairs facing up towards a ceiling of monitors tuned to white noise. Fingers tells me its a security outpost, and when you jack your neural wire into the terminal, provided you have the right opticwear, youll be able to sift through all the cameras in the building. The other facilities are mostly for technology: testing areas for bots, specialised suits, weapons, and so on, but one room a little farther down is for chemical reactions. Apparently, its also known as Dances spot, because hes the teams only chemical expert, modifying existing compounds to enhance mental focus, strength, recovery, stamina, so on. Hes supposedly one smart cookie. Interesting how he wound up in a place like this. I can see how this place was at one point a mill, only Im not quite sure what they used to manufacture here, and frankly, I dont care enough to ask. I do, however, care enough to ask about the job tonight. After all, I probably wont be of much use if I dont know anything about what were supposed to do before we get there. I probably wont be of much use even with prior knowledge, but it certainly reduces the risk of messing up. When I do, she tells me to wait in the red room. She heads off into the foyer and comes back a couple minutes later with a small external chip. She hands it to me, telling me to insert it into my neural port. Curious, I comply, and soon a video file pops up on my neural display, in my internal storage. I select it, and a new window in which a video play button sits at the centre pops up, taking up my entire view. I select that, as well, and the video starts playing. Its drone footage of a tall, black-and-orange building into which an elevated viaduct leads. Flashy billboards promoting various products surround the neighbouring industrial complexes, which are intricate networks of elevators, aerial walkways, and cargo lifts, each embedded with a heavy-duty conveyor system. Near the top of the black-and-orange building is a giant 07 glowing in neon white. Im unsure as to what Im looking at, but Fingers promptly explains. Its a Tech Facility operated by the company Techstrum. I remember that name. I saw it on the billboard not too long ago. Theyre one of the leading software, AI, and cybersecurity development corporations in not only Neo Arcadia but the entire state. This is just one of their outlets, and it contains valuable proprietary algorithms, source code, and research data. At least, according to Quillon Bennett, a fixer whos been making the rounds for the better half of a decade now. Hes known for requiring highly specific schematics, blueprints, and sometimes tech samples that he can use to develop high-tier weaponry to sell on the black market. Sometimes to the same crews who got the material for him. For this job, all hes looking for is a data chip containing information about Techstrums upcoming advancements so he can develop them first and perhaps even improve or change aspects of their design, all in the name of profit, great profit. I ponder, wondering why she would bring me along on such a big job for my first time, but it turns out thats not what she wants us to do tonight. Hell, it might be a while yet before they get around to that sort of business. This is their end-goal, their big money-maker, so to speak. There are a lot of small jobs they must get done before they even think about taking on something like this, starting with securing enough assets. Assets? I say. Fingers notices my expression, one of utmost confusion, and chuckles. Its the sort of chuckle youd expect to hear after saying something very foolish. Did I? You cant have been out of the game for that long, can you? she says, slightly hunched. Everything on you is an asset. Your guns. Your optics. Those bloody clothes that you for some reason thought were appropriated for an application. So, in other words, youre talking cyberware? I say. Shed clearly been expecting that response. I know by the smirk. Not just cyberware, she starts. Know, cyberware can only get you so far when it comes to pulling off successful jobs. Sure, might help in a street fight or shoot-off but eventually the scale tips the iceberg, and you end up fighting against big dragons, the real decked-out dudes, the ones that work for corporate powerhouses. Not even the NACP can match what the government has. Best asset is intelligence. The more intelligence we have, the more successful the job will go. If gatherin intelligence means gatherin pieces like netcrawlers, spoofers, the lot, then thats what we gotta do. I nod, although not fully understanding the explanation. Surely, at some point, strong enough cyberware would overwrite the use of intelligence.... Right? The video shuts off and the data chip pops out of my neural port like a burnt piece of toast. Fingers takes it and lays it on a nearby desk, among clutter. Seems she doesnt care much about losing potentially vital items, or maybe she already has all the information downloaded onto that big blue head of hers. She tells me that tonights job is simple, something to really test my ability to perform. Your shooting is good, downright impressive, I give you that, but Im more interested in seeing how you deal with people. Not everything is gung-ho. Fact it aint much to what we do at all. Were gonna negotiate a deal with a netrunner. He has some spoofers. Member what I said about assets? That the only true asset is intelligence? I say, almost sarcastically. She nods curtly. You catch on quick, dont you, Mono? Now Im really confused. Mono? Because of the arm. She points. One-armed killer. Maybe if I had one arm, but I still have both, so it doesnt really work. Wish I could just chop it off. Her facial muscles sag into something like curiosity, and in an almost (but not quite) grandmotherly way, wrinkles crease at the sides of her eyes, bearing the weight of years she has yet to live. If I had to guess, Id put her age somewhere in the thirty-to-forty bracket. Its nearly impossible to tell with all the anti-aging treatments readily available at any counter. There are countless ads throughout the city advertising the same. But Id like to think that shes wiser than she looks. How else would she have gotten here, running a team of criminals? Point is, Fingers says, the person were going to meet is one of the only private dealers in the city that has access to military-grade hardware. For affordable prices, too, sometimes trades. So, you want me to help negotiate a price? I say, fiddling with the sleeve covering my broken arm. I dont think Im much for talking. The whole show I managed to pull off in the shooting range was a fluke, something even I didnt expect. There was no control. It was instinctual. Talking, negotiating.... Thats different. She shakes her head, stuffing her hands in her pockets and leaning on the desk. The red fluorescent bulb overhead casts shifting shadows across her face, obscuring the upper portion and making her feelings difficult to discern. Since this is your first day and I still gotta warm up to you a little, Ill let you come along, watch, see how we do things. Its important you learn for yourself how to negotiate deals because nine times out of ten we wont be with you. We all gotta do our part and, unless its big money were talking, youll be doing it alone. Thats relieving. That said, she adds, almost as if theres a caveat to the whole thing, youre not gonna be a stray dog either. Things get hectic, you and that sister-assassin arm will have to draw blood. Its rare, but some sellers dont intend to give you anything once the creds are transferred. Business for you. Although the prospect of things getting violent isnt something I or any person in the right mind would want, emphasis on the right mind, Im sure I can handle myself, provided the last encounter wasnt just luck. Later, Fingers asks all sorts of questions about what I can and cant remember. Dr. Maelstrom mentioned nothing about it to her, possibly because she would have denied me right away. She even grabs me a glass of water. Nice of her. I explain as much as I can, which is very little. She asks me what it was like, being dead. I tell her I dont know that either. One moment I was alive and the next I wasnt. As far as Im aware, my life started there, in that circuitery, as Vance calls it, because everything before that point isnt just a blurits a black spot. Something cut straight from my brain, leaving only the ring-shaped edge. My theory is that Id been shot in the head, but if thats the case then Vance should have been able to see it, to tell me. The only signs of damage are in my mid to lower abdomen. It sucks not knowing, really sucks. I bet it does, she says, taking a sip of her Chromanticore energy drink. Its an abnormally large can for what it contains. She flicks her jackknife in and out, glaring, peering into my soul. Her legs are crossed on the coffee table in the office, showing off her thick, waterproof leather boots. They could use a wash, especially the soles, which are smothered in mud, wet grass, and possibly animal faeces. She waddles them from side to side; the gunk is so old and hard that it holds strong. Aside from all... well... this, what do you guys do to kill time? I ask. Not much, Fingers says, removing her feet from the table and leaning forward. She places the energy drink and jackknife on the table, then pulls out her mobile phone and starts swiping through it. Its not often that all of us are here, in this dump. Most of us have apartments in the city. This is just for meetings or prepping for moderate jobs. Im the one that secures leads with fixers. Though Im always willing to hear out what my team has to say. She hesitates for a second but continues. Only reason we got together today was.... Well, two reasons. Numero uno: We already have job, as you know. So, we were gonna run through the deats. Thats when I got the call from Maelstrom, chewin me out about how I owe him a favour. So, I let the boys know, and they couldnt wait to show up and see what the new chromie was all about. Theyre used to seeing failures, so you were a sweet surprise, Id say. That makes sense, I say, taking a sip from the glass of water. So, it really is more like a team here than a gang? She takes a deep breath and smiles ruefully. What we do is illegal. By modern societal standards, were not good people. We kill when we have to. We steal. We hack into private businesses. Its not a life any of us particularly opted for, but its what we do. Raze doesnt like to think of as a gang because he sees something good about all of this. But were criminals. Theres no changing that. I look guiltily at my glass of water and shuffle my feet. I cant imagine myself being involved in that line of work, but everyone has to survive. With forced gaiety, I say, Im sure youre not bad people. If theres anything I remember from my past, its that this city is overcooked with inequality. Its not really something I remember, but in lieu of remaining silent, I find its a nice topic to add. She blows a laugh from her nose, then nods, eyes downcast. She grabs her energy drink, takes another swig, holds the liquid in her mouth, swirls it about, and swallows. She throws the can across the room. It lands gracefully in a lidless trashcan. She stands up, takes her jackknife, and offers me a hand with a slightly deprecatory smile. I take it and stand with her. We should get movin, its going on six oclock. Then, as if suddenly remembering, she adds, You have a phone? Shouldve asked this earlier but you really need a phone, and a new set of clothes. I can lend you some. Its no problem. I was hoping she would offer something like that. Frankly, these clothes arent my style anyway, less the possibility of every known disease in Neo Arcadia being prevalent in this ladys blood. I secretly hope shell offer a phone, too, but that seems unlikely as things stand. No phone, but I can see about getting one. Should have robbed one off whoever you got those clothes from, she says, chuckling. I look down at the blood, embarrassed. There werent any. I think they had everything embedded in their cyberware. Smart, she says, until you click on a dodgy link and a virus wipes you out, less you can afford to get it removed, which I doubt they would have if they had to scrounge pennies from corpses, as you say. She goes over to the desk on the far-right side of the room, gets down on one knee, and pulls out a small hard case. She pops it open, revealing plastic coverings encasing clothing sets. Size are you? Small, I think. I check the collar of the leather jacket to see if there are any dimensions on the tag. Negative. Whatever tag had been attached to the collar is now torn off, replaced by the stencil of a white wolf. Must be an affiliation symbol of some sort. Might keep an eye out for it in future, because something tells me Ill be seeing that shorter man who took off again, although probably not for another long while yet. Fingers tosses me the plastic package. I look inside and see its a sleek black jacket with puffy, shiny sleeves made of a high-gloss synthetic material. The buttons glow softly with a yellow hue. I like it. Looks snug. Then she tosses me a second package: a pair of crimson jeans, textured with a spiderweb fibre. Then, after a moment, she tosses another, and inside of it is a simple white T-shirt. Youll have to keep the shoes, she says, but you can dump the rest in the trash chute outside, just as you leave the building. Where do I change? Fingers shuts the hard case and slides it under the desk again. She cocks an eyebrow at me, as if Im an unexpected visitor. Something wrong with here? Im not sure what to say. Im not entirely comfortable getting naked in front of someone I just met. Maybe Im overthinking. Maybe thats the least of my worries. Its not that. I just thought you wouldnt want me to You really think Ive never seen a woman naked before? Get dressed. Theres that breathy laugh through the nose again, only this time its more amused. Im sure shes seen plenty of naked bodies in her time. If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. A couple minutes later, Im out of the scavengers get-up and into the jacket, shirt, and jeans. Theyre a little tighter than I thought they would be, but for now theyll do. I grab the bloody clothes off the floor, taking my time to collect them with my single arm, and when I stand upright again, Fingers is waiting in front of me with a dark-blue, oval-shaped bottle in hand. Shes pointing it straight at me and after a moment it shoots, blasting me with water. I ask her what it is, and she tells me its an ocean perfume, to make people think of the Atlantic, but when I tell her I had lost my sense of smell it seems to lose its appeal. Despite that, she explains its not for me, but for the private seller. Statistically, theres more haggle-room if you have a nice scent to youso she says. We head through the foyer, catch the elevator up to the ground floor, and head for the exit. The body of the sick man is no longer lying by the washing machine, but his vomit is all along the side; its an awful orange colour. Must have undercooked his spaghetti. I make vague reference to this as I dump my clothes into that trash chute near the front, and she tells me hes just one of the drug addicts from the second floor. Sometimes he wanders the complex. Sometimes he gets into fights. At one point, a group of tenants kicked his ass out the door and dumped him in the alleyway dumpster. She only found out about it because the next morning she went to unload her garbage bag and was surprised to hear the trash ask her for a smoke. The story makes me laugh. What can I say? Stuff like that hits me right in the funny bone. Hard to feel bad for him, of course. You make your bed, you lie in it, after all. That simple. I just hope the bed Im about to make for myself will be rather comfortable. The night is chilly and starless. I shiver a little as I follow Fingers around the building to the parking lot, where the vehicle waits in desolate silence. Its a Fragment Roamer: a large, grey jeep with a wheel punched to the rear, over twenty years old but kept in immaculate condition, with more than enough wax and polish to please the eye. Theres still water left over from the early evening rain; the droplets shimmer with the pink-blue iridescence of the city lights. I make my way around to the passenger side, but Fingers stops me. Where do you think youre goin? she says, waving a questioning hand. This is your ride, right? I point, thinking Ive made a fool of myself. It is, she says, but Im not driving. You are. She opens the drivers-side door. Cmon. Inside, now. Its auto, so dont worry that aimless little arm about shifting, know? I dont understand, I say. She pulls something small out from her front pocket. A key. Thisshe tosses it straight into my handgoes on the centre console. You dont even have to put it in the ignition. Shell start right up as soon as youre in the driver seat. I stare. She cant honestly expect me to drive with one hand. Never mind that; Im not even sure I remember how to drive. Youre sure about this? She walks around to me, opens the passenger-side door, and sits in. Hurry up. She shuts the door. The rains starting to drizzle down now. I get a move on and make my way around to the drivers side. Once inside and I feel the seat warm up, I immediately get that familiar sensation again, as if Ive been behind the wheel far too many times to count. I dont even have to adjust the seat or mirrors because as soon as I press the start button the AI embedded in the vehicles software automatically finds the most comfortable seating for my frame. The mirrors change to accommodate this. Fingers plugs her neural wire into the navigation port on the centre console and half a minute later a destination shows up on screen, along with directions. Its an alleyway outside a nightclub called Catalyst. Thirty minutes from here. Fair distance. Ill be your driving examiner today, Ms. Monorail Moester. Lets see how much of your past life you really remember, ay? Fingers speaks in a squeaky, nagging voice. Lets see how much I remember indeed. I put the jeep into drive and let my foot up off the brake. Off I go, steadily out of the parking lot, avoiding the other cars with ease. I remember this. Once I leave the parking lot and join the busy traffic on the main street, Im flooded with flashing lights: signals, halogen billboards, holograms, kiosks. I remember this, too. Pedestrians hop out onto the street, between the cars in the queuemen in kits ranging from fur hats to long coats to neon-coloured kuttes with punkish boots, women with tightly cut hair and form-fitting girls-night-out dressesnot a care in the world. Its all so restless for a night drive, like theres some special event were all lining up for, but Fingers tells me there hasnt been a single quiet moment in Neo Arcadia since Techstrum started rolling out those new hydrocell engines. Now everyones on the road, and the people on the streets.... Well, they never sleep. No need to. Too much work to be done. I remember that, too. Its all a little overwhelming but I can handle it without too much of a problem. I actually find it a little exciting that Im able to hold my own. Fingers, on the other hand, doesnt seem all that impressed, which is likely because driving isnt as difficult as, say, aiming well, having your wits about you, teamwork, all that jazz. Those are the areas I need to impress her in, and Ive already achieved one. That stands for me, at least. Although the navigation system details a thirty-minute journey from the Old Mill, it takes forty-five, fifty with the traffic. And with my slow, one-handed driving. Eventually, among the blazing storefront lights, traffic signals, and flashing road-mark holograms, I see a long line barriered by velvet stanchions, leading up to wide steel door guarded by two, freakishly muscled bouncers. A sign, crisp and sharp and dazzling, reads, in graffitied characters, CATALYST. Fingers directs me to the parking lot around the corner. I turn in, finding it to be much quieter. Most of the parking bays are full but thankfully there are a couple spaces down the path, next to some amber-blinking bollards. I pull in smoothly, then shift the jeep into park before switching the ignition off with a push of the start/stop button. Fingers is grinning broadly. She opens the door, letting the rain pass in, then steps out, shutting it behind her. I soon follow, nearly forgetting to grab the key on the way out, and lock. The jeep doesnt beep as I had expected to; instead, the sidemirrors fold inwards, like the ears of a dog who realises through its limited understanding of human emotion that it shouldnt have defecated over the kitchen floor. I stuff the key in my front jean pocket, making sure to zip it tight, just in case it manages to slip, and approach Fingers. She still has that broad smile on her face. She pulls out a mobile phone, swipes through a list of contacts, and starts texting. Youre full of surprises, arent you, kid? she says, not taking her eyes off the screen. I shrug, stuffing my hand in my pocket. It''s getting real cold out. They supposed to meet us here? Whos they? This person, this seller. She puts the phone back in her pocket and stares at me dumbly. In this rain? No, its around the corner. She points over my shoulder, and when I turn, I expect to see an alley veering off to the side, next to the nightclub, similar to Dr. Maelstroms medical unit, but Im surprised, not scared, to see a large shadow of man standing over me. Its RazeI can make out that resting bitchface even through his upturned hood. He has another cigar in his mouth. Hes hunched so the rain doesnt quench it. Boo, he says, his voice deep and imposing. I back away, wondering how hed managed to creep up on me without making a single sound. Someone that big and heavy, and with the sort of boots that make resounding thumps with each step, would surely be hard to miss. Fingers grin finally cracks open into wheezy laughter. Shed been holding it all along. Like a tiger, isnt he? I nod. Yeah. I mean, I wasnt expecting that. Shes shittin herself, Fingers. Raze chuffs out smoke and stubs the tip on his jacket before flicking it on the ground. He tries to blow the smoke into my face, but a breeze passes it off. We havent even started, girly. For the first time I realise he has a slightly foreign undertone to his speech, possibly Mexican. The way he pronounces his es as ehs makes me think so, and the way he rolls his tongue at the end of his sentences sometimes. Its odd. Another voice comes from behind him. Its Cormac, calling with an overly loud Hello!, and Vander, who comes strapped with a small fanny pack. So hes that sort of guy. His lips are done up with robins-egg-blue lipstick, and hes dressed smart casual, save for the raincoat. His slacks wont hold up, not in this weather. Wasnt expectin you to actually er go through with bringin der new chromie. His voice is side-cheeked, coming from one side of his mouth only. I wasnt either, says Fingers. Suppose shes shern herself then? Shes shown nothing yet, says Raze, in an even lower tone. Right, says Vander. Cormac steeples his lengthy steel fingers and makes subtle tapping sounds with the tips. He turns towards me, and with a butleresque salaam, offers me a handshake. His fingers splay out like the legs of a spider. Im glad to have you on board, he says politely, and with a most genuine smile. I accept the handshake, feeling his icy grip. Part of me thinks hes playing a joke, and in a moment Ill feel a bolt of electricity shoot through my body, but to my relief he lets go and stands up straight again. Theres an uneasiness about his presence that I cant quite explain. Im sure its my brain playing tricks on me. It had been in hibernation for the last forty-odd years, after all. I have some adjusting to do. Wheres this prick want to meet anyway? asks Raze, focusing his attention on Fingers. According to his texts, right around the corner, she says, back the way you came. Just up there. See it? Shes pointing again, in the same direction as before. This time when I look back, I see, beyond the flashing bollards, sure enough, an alleyway to the side of the nightclub. The wall on the other side looks to be a series of side-shops, kiosks, and milk-market joints. There are quite a few people heading in and out, some drunk and others gushing with sweeping heaps of moronic laughter. Just a typical night out, nothing more, nothing less. Fingers leads us towards the alleyway; its protected by a long tarpaulin stretching the whole way down to the other end, and some way off to the side, where I imagine the series continues. The kiosks offer food, clothing, drinks, freshly cut meat, the likes of which hang from rusty hooks, skinned to fleshy white. A busker plays gentle guitar music a little farther down, and passersby toss coins into his case. As we pass, I see its fairly sparce. Its not hard to understand why. He cant singhe sounds like a dying horse, to be perfectly honestbut his mechanical fingers do the guitar justice, possibly a musical augment he installed manually, possibly developed skill. Maybe both. Surprisingly, Raze tosses him a coin, but adds: Install a better voice box next time. The busker ignores him and continues singing in his dying-horse falsetto. We turn left at the side alleyway, and it leads to a quieter area which splits off into two directions. Fingers leads us to the right, where the tarpaulin cuts off, and the alleyway spaces out into a secluded area full of chairs, parasols, and cityfolk drinking lager. I can tell by the foam-crested tops of each of their pint glasses. Its a restaurant, because farther ahead is a sign which reads Quick Bites. The neon sign flickers intermittently, casting an eerie, pinkish glow over the courtyard. The thrum of its electrical circuits mingles with the voices of the patrons, which are gravelly and joyful. The walls surrounding this open-air nook are plastered with layers of old posters, their edges curling and colours faded. Pictures advertising concerts from five years ago; staff mustnt have been bothered taking them down. We follow Fingers into the front entrance of the interior, hands stuffed in our pockets like teenage hoodlums, catching glances from everyone, glances of suspicion and curiosity. Its a busy spot. Looks like something you might see from early eighties 20th century. Chequered floors, mahogany walls, a long marble counter with round red stools. Sure makes you feel like youre back in time, save for the flashy cyberware scattered across the patrons bodies. That and the fact that things are far more colourful than they once were. The sallow lady behind the counter, whose hair is shaved all the way to the scalp, sees us coming and lifts the swing gate at the end of the counter, beckoning us through. A patron laughs at this, saying we look nothing like cooks. Nothing like crooks either. The sallow bald lady leads us through the back, past the kitchen and stock room, and along a corridor that leads to a door with a pass code dial to the side. Its already open, light creeps from underneath, and voices come from inside. She tips it open, causing the hinges to squeak. We all follow. Sir, says the lady. Send them in, a male voice says. She walks away, hurries actually, low-heel dress shoes tapping and clocking back to the front of house. We follow Fingers inside and Raze shuts the door. Its a relatively small room, with bookshelves to the side and a row of lightstrips coasting across the ceiling, with that popular rainbow-colour changing effect. At the centre end, a man with wrinkly skin and grey hair sits on a desk, legs sprawled. His tight-lidded eyes give me the impression that hes of Japanese descent, although its quite possible his roots could stem from anywhere in the Asian region. He wears a white button-up shirt, slacks, and suspenders, though hes got the sort of skinny-fat where only a belt would suffice. Around him are four bodyguards who all look identical. Theyre wearing black suits with red shirts, hands entirely cybernetic, eyes and mouths hidden by three-piece visors that start from their chins. Theyre sort of like masks in a way, with the bottom part securing the chin to the ears while the eye-cover bulges out across their skulls in elongated rectangles. No guns, no blades. Just their presence alone tells me theyre not to be messed with. Well, the old man says curtly, what have you for me? You no do any chaffering here. Listed price only. Four and a half thousand. His accent shoots closer to China than anywhere else. Then, as if suddenly realising, he adds, You bring whole gang? Why? Same reason you have four punks who look like they just came out of a failed audition for the Men in Black remake, says Raze coldly. I thought the man would scowl at this, but he doesnt. A smile creeps at the corner of his lips. You funny man, he says, pointing. I like you. But we are here for serious discussion. You have credits for these items or are you wasting time? Fingers looks at him blankly, then as if theres a bad taste in her mouth. Have the creds, she says, pulling out a chip from the side of her neural port. Can I see it first? The man hums for a moment, then taps the table twice. One of the bodyguards heads over to the rightmost bookshelf and pulls a book back. It locks in place, but the bottom of the shelf slides out. A hidden drawer. Inside of it is a thick metal hard case with leather handles. He hoists it up easily, though I can tell by the way he sways his arm that its got some weight to it. He sets it on the desk as the old man moves out of the way. The old man places his palm on a hand-recognition scanner at the centre of the case and watches as two buckles pop up. Quickly, he stands to the side so that we can all see and pulls the case open. Inside the case, sandwiched in foam cutouts, are sleek, handheld devices that look like a cross between a high-end smartphone and a piece of advanced military tech. The screens glow faintly, cycling through lines of code and encryption patterns. Each is equipped with a compact antenna, reminiscent of an old-school radio. The metal casings are matte black, adorned with small, precise engravingsserial numbers or perhaps calibration marks. Alongside them, there are tiny, flexible circuits and microchips. The man rubs at his right cheek, as if testing for beard-stubble. The white of his left eye suddenly turns black while the iris turns red. He must be scanning us, checking our identities. Looks about right, says Fingers. She cocks an eyebrow at him. How do we know they work? The man chuckles, then picks up one of the devices, holding it like a phone. He pulls the neural wire out of his neck and plugs it into the side of the device. Now his irises turn blue. Seconds later, my neural display begins acting up, shaking and darting across my vision. My vitals shake into a digital blur and my ability to coast through my storage is gone. Hits you right in the eyes, says Vander. Dare a good distance on it? He unplugs his wire from the device and places it back in the case. It take out whole building. Five hundred metres. No problem. Signal can punch through most materials: concrete, steel, carbon padding. Disruption field scrambles any RFID chip, block signals and overwrites, takes out bad data. He utters something in Mandarin, perhaps to himself. Best for high-security infiltration. You want in? You take these. Military-grade scramblers imported and crafted by the best hands in China. So, its a spoofing device of some sort, if Im understanding that clipped accent correctly. Sounds interesting, although Im not entirely sure I understand the function behind it or how it applies to Fingers goal of snatching data from Techstrum. I take it youre Chinese yourself? says Cormac, smiling. The man draws back, shuts the case, startled. My names Li Wei. What you think? You trying to be funny? Youre not so funny. Now you pay or get out. How much you askin again? asks Raze, pointing at the case. Four and half thousand, says Li Wei. Theres no question about it. This man doesnt seem willing to negotiate in the slightest. Raze chuckles. No leeway, Li Wei? Again, theres that cold voice, but I suspect the older gentleman isnt fazed. He probably deals with people like us all the time. His face flushes brightlythe colour goes all the way down to his bullish neck. He isnt nervous. I know that much. Hand me the credits or get out, he says, louder than before. No credits, no business. Fingers steps forward. Now listen, she starts, Imwe arevery interested in purchasing your product, Mr. Wei. And we understand youre a very busy busy man, so I want to make this quick. So. She whips the cred chip out like a magicians hidden ace. I nearly expect her to ask him if its his card. Four and a half thousand, just as agreed, all in this chip. Li Weis iris turns red again, scanning the chip. He doesnt reach for it yet. After a moment, he says, Very good. He turns to grab the case, then hands it over to her. Fingers slides him the chip, locking the transaction with a firm handshake. Thank you for business. The code to the door is 0-9-0-9. Goodbye. Raze reaches for the dial pad and starts inputting the code. After three dings, Li Wei raises his arm and shouts, You stop! I look back, confused. You try to cheat me? His red eyes segue into that same shade of blue from earlier. What is it? I say, realising this isnt really my place to speak. My heart pounds with adrenaline. I get the feeling things arent going to go so smoothly. This is two thousand. Li Wei tosses the credit chip and snatches a pistol from his desk. As if connected in an air-bound hivemind, each of the bodyguards raise their pistols, too, and so do Raze, Cormac, and Fingers. Im the only one standing out in the draw; I didnt expect any of this. You try to scam me? You fuckers. You make big mistake! Hes screaming now. Fingers scoffs. What are you talking about? You saw the chip. Its good. I re-scanned it, you bastard, Li Wei says, pointing the gun at her now. You swapped chips when I wasnt looking. You fast, I give you that, but you fucked with the wrong merchant. Suddenly another voice joins the scene; its the distant call of the lady from behind the counter. I can hear those heels clocking and thumping down the hallway again. Sir, sir! she calls. Li Wei glances over my shoulder upon her approach. When she comes through the door, she says, in a panic, Company out front. Theyre looking for the green-haired girl. Li Wei shoots her a perplexed glare. What? both he and I say at the same time. The sallow lady points at me. You, she says coldly. Theyre looking for you. And they don''t sound too happy. history rewrites itself鈥攁gain? - 1.4 1.4 I stare at the sallow lady, lips pressed together, wondering who in the world could possibly be searching for me. Then I look at the team, then at Li Wei and his goons, not expecting him to let me off so easy. He hooks a thumb around his leather suspender buckle, puckering, moulding his face into that of a man who cant believe what he is hearing. The sallow lady starts to say something else, but before she can, Li Wei points the pistol at Fingers, beckoning her. You give me case. Now. I no ask again. You got your money, says Raze, stepping away from the door, gun still drawn. He no longer has that cold look but instead a lour that tells me hes dealt with situations like this before. You have a lovely business here, friendo. I bet you make a lot off putzes trading blood for the bottle. I bet you make a lot smuggling goods across the border and selling it back to worthless chumps for slightly less than the market value, knowin damn well you got that crap for a Chinese dollar. All that can be kept... He takes a step. ... if you let the walk happen. Take the cred chip, and you wont have to spend your last seconds realisin youll be goin to hell empty-handed. Li Wei smirks and looks Raze in the eye, easing the barrel towards his chin. You have ten seconds to put the case back and leave my restaurant before I blow your American brain all over the floor. For the first time, he spoke with all the clarity of a businessman, and not someone learning the language. It gives me the chills. Was hopin youd say that, Raze says, sounding as though hes about to fire. POP! My heart jumps. There it was, the gunshot, but Raze and Li Wei are still standing. It takes a moment for me to register that the sound didnt come from inside; it was from farther down the hallway, in the front of house. A voice, nasally and masculine, soon follows: Bring me that bitch or well start killin every last one of you cunts! Almost all of us look towards the corridor, everyone except for two: me and the leftmost bodyguard. He takes a soundless step forward, raises his gun to Razes temple, and My arm jolts forward with breakneck speed, and before I know it the bodyguards forearm falls to the floor in what feels like slow motion, a chunk of severed flesh. Despite this, he remains steady and cool. My mantisblade freezes in the air, my arm raised and fist clenched. Blood drips from the edge. I pull back, and at the drop of the severed limb, Raze shoves Li Weis pistol up towards the ceiling. A flash of white light, and the gun fires, destroying the bolt of the fluorescent bulb; it swings down violently but doesnt hit anything. I retract the mantisblade and reach for my gun but before I manage to pull it out a long steel appendage whips through the air. It snaps with a metallic crack, catching the barrel of one bodyguard, and knocking anothers from his grasp. In a fluid, almost serpentine motion, the steel limb retracts. My eyes follow it as it sinks into Cormacs arm, seamlessly morphing into place. He now wields two pistols instead of one. He fires both; one bullet pierces the rightmost bodyguards skull, blasting grey matter on the wall; the other bullet finishes off the bodyguard who previously had his gun knocked from his hand. Vander blows another''s brains out, and Fingers finishes the last henchman, whose arm Id sliced, putting him out of his misery, if hed felt any misery to begin with. Bastards, Li Wei yells. All of you. You fuck with wrong man! He struggles in Razes grapple but is unable to break the hold. Take it. Fingers hands the hard case over to Vander, who turns to input the code into the door. The sallow bald lady is long gone; she must have taken off down the hallway, back to the source of the initial gunshot. I still ponder who that could possibly be, and why theyre so angry at me. Maybe my theory was correct, that Id been spotted on the street and someone from my past life who Ive wronged is hellbent on tracking me down, making sure Im dead for good. Raze grabs Li Weis weapon and throws him on the ground. He points the bore at his head but before he can finish him off Fingers yanks his arm away. Dont be stupid, she says. Not like you to spare businessfolk, he says. She pulls Raze towards the doorway, with more strength than Id expect from a woman a whole foot shorter than him, and says, Move it. I follow Vander and Cormac out the door, and Raze and Fingers follow me. We head down the hallway at fast-walking pace, making sure not to run into whoever this lunatic on the other side is. Head around the back, Fingers says. On the right. I follow their direction, into another corridor, either side of which houses staff breakrooms, toilets, lockers. I know by the labels. But at the end of the corridor is a much larger label, buzzing in bright green: EMERGENCY EXIT. Vander presses down on the bar of the exit door, pushes it open, and A large fist thumps him off his feet; the hard case hits the ground hard and skids, stopping at an empty steel pallet cage, covered in torn bubble wrap. Outside, which is a small gravel yard squared in by a wiry gate, there are several men and women dressed in leather kuttes, the same ones Id seen those scavengers wear, with the stencil of the white wolf emblazoned on the right breast pocket. Their heads, much like the scavengers, are heavily modified with cyberware, complete with those same visors, and their hair glows brightly in punkish neon cuts. The large black man who knocked Vander off his feet has two arms made of gleaming metal, their surfaces a sleek, polished chrome that catches the dim yard light. Each arm is an intricate assembly of hydraulic pistons, articulated joints, and segmented plates. The servomotors within whir softly with every movement, and the digits, tipped with reinforced alloy claws, flex with unnerving precision. Immediately, we draw our pistols and open fire at the bulky man. He covers his head and the bullets bounce off him in small, winking sparks. I focus my fire on the other gang members but find that theyre covering their faces too, and just like him, the bullets spark right off their bodies. Cormac hurls his lengthy steel arm forward and grabs one of the mans steel arms, yanking with as much force as he can muster, perhaps hoping to open him up into the line of fire, but lets out a screech of exertion when the arm doesnt budge. The man steps ahead, pulling the arm towards him, as if tugging on a rope to mount a steep slope. I holster my pistol and draw my blood-stained mantisblade. I dash forward, under Cormacs steel arm, yank myself upwards, and slash at the mans neck, but he brings his steel forearm back with incredible pace, blocking the blow. I follow up with a cut to his leg and he lets out a groan. The bullets stop spraying. Guns start clicking. The man pulls Cormac forward completely, biffs him in the face twice, causing his nose to burst open, and tosses him on the gravel, near Vander, who still hasnt recovered. Then Fingers and Raze are pushed out of the emergency exit by two goons who seem to have rushed up behind them, their guns snatched from their hands. I stand back near Vander and the hard case, not saying a word. I notice one of the people behind Raze and Fingers. Its the shorter guy from the circuitery. Shit. The pistons in the muscular mans arms steam and pull, extend and retract, like those of an old train engine. He glares at me with murderous intent, then smiles. His hair is coiled into tight-knit locks, some interwoven with metal strands and neon highlights that pulse with a sapphire glow. The black leather duster he wears is adorned with various mechanical gadgets and glinting chrome accents. The digital cubes in his visor bump up and down, as if to the beat of music, but there isnt any music. Only eerie silence, and the sound of my hot breath as cold air presses against my stomach. Blood oozes from the mans bulging quad, where my blade broke his skin, but theres something off about the colour. Its a strange yellowish green. Is this person human, or am I dealing with a bot running on hydrocells? Thats the bitch, the short man says. Sliced their bodies in two with that fuckin blade. Still has their blood on it. The bitch. Shutcha mouth, Red, says the muscular black man. A Jamaican accent from what I can tell. A deep one at that. Hes not like the others. If just anyone say a word I dun take their eyes off da body. I want youya bastard. He points at me, and just like that the smile is gone. Me? I say, keeping my mantisblade secure across my chest, cradling it, caring for it. After seeing what he just did to Cormac and Vander, Im not sure theres much I can do, especially with all this armed backup. Ya silly girl. You up the corpse yard and kill off I brudda and sista, you end up dead. So thats what this is about. Revenge. How on Earth did this man find me? Did he spot me coming into the parking lot, in the restaurant, the alley, or maybe on the way here? Raze laughs. Bit of a pussy bringing your posse, aint you? Big guy like you. The muscular black man looks at him, still hunched in that boxers pose. The digital cubes in his visor stop pumping. A steady wavelike stream fizzes instead. I gottah teach ya somethin then, ya ful. Once I kill this bitch bare hand, Ill kill ya, too. All you. Ya bastards dont fuck with my humans. Cormac, rubbing his nose, sits up with a groan. He lifts one leg and, with his free hand, picks himself upright as much as he can. He coughs. Nice fists, he says, clearing his throat. Black market installation, I presume, hmm? He drags out the hum almost sarcastically. Made quick worka you, he says. Nough chitchat. Cmere ya green demon. Show me dah special arm, wont ya? Ya special girl. Before I have time to respond, the man lunges forward and, with a well-charged thrust, throws a punch. I dash to the side with the same breakneck speed as before, but to my shock the muscular man grabs me by my non-functional mechanical arm, lines me up, and unleashes a heavy whop. His knuckles collide with my ribcage, sending a shockwave through my body. Painless. Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. Vitals low, my neural AI saysthat same feminine voice Id almost forgotten. Activating emergency protocols. Electricity courses through my body; my mantisblade begins to spark. He goes for another swing, charging it up with a primal roar, but this time I slide out of the way and slice my mantisblade up at his face. A web of electricity sparks up, but the impact has no effect. He grins and punches me again, this time in the head. My vision blurs and I fall, thudding something solid and flat. For a moment I feel the same as I had when waking up in the circuiteryalone, cold, on the brink of death. My vision blurs and the sounds around me, laughter and voices, dwindle to suppressed muffles. I notice something from the corner of my eyea blue glow. I ignore it for a moment and look up at the muscular black man. Hes gazing down on me. He steps forward, and I see the shadow of Cormacs steel arm stretch out and wrap around his throat. Cormac launches himself and wraps the man in a rear-naked chokehold. I do my best to pick myself up, pressing on the flat surface for support, only to realise that Im lying on the hard case containing the RFID spoofers. The muscular man breaks free from Cormacs hold, removing his arms as though theyre just pieces of silly string, and shoves him onto the ground, turning to finish him off with a singular stomp of his enormous combat boot. Raze moves to stop him but one of the crooks bangs him on the head with the butt of a pistol and pulls him back, keeping the barrel pointed to his temple. He screams something, too. The cold face is gone now; its replaced with ragepure, unbridled rage. Seeing no other option, I remove the neural wire from my temple, grab an RFID spoofer, and plug it into the manual-override port. Suspicious data identified, the AI voice says. Are you sure you wish to allow this access to your primary neural system? Options for either Yes or No show up on my neural display. I waste no time selecting Yes. Suddenly, the muscular black mans body is outlined in yellow. A data cube appears on the right of my neural display. Punched to the top, in bold letters, is the name Nyah Boba-Strider. Affiliation: Steel Moon. Wanted For: Murder of a Corporate Entity; Trespassing in a Corporate Zone; Black Market Processing. Weakness(es): Suboptimal Leg Protection (30%); Unprotected Head/Cranium (85%) Resistant To: 9mm (96%); Electricity (74%) On the far left of my neural display is a list of processes, most of which are greyed out, but the one at the top reads, in bright blue, SHORT CIRCUIT. Panicking, not knowing if any of this could helpif I do or do not have a suitable degree of cyberware capable of processing any integrated requestsI select the only available option and watch as an upload bar shoots from 0%... 25%... 50%...75%...99%.... This is it. Please, oh Lord. But right as it''s about to upload, a bullet flies in, and the spoofer is destroyed. Data error, the AI says. Delinking. My heart drops as my neural cord zips back into place. I look over and see that one of the crooks had spotted me. He stands there, shaking his head, gun drawn, smoke billowing from the breach, a sinister smile smacked to his face; its a smile that says he wants me to watch Cormac die. To watch him suffer. Cormac whips his steel arm up once again, blocking Nyahs boot and holding him in place, but he promptly kicks it away and traps it under his other foot. He lifts his free leg, preparing to stomp. This is it. Impending death. My hand drops to my side in defeat. All hope is lost. But I feel somethingnot an emotion, but something physical, stout, in my pocket. I think for a moment that it is the key to Fingers jeep. I pull it out. Its not. Its the switchblade, the one I picked up back in the circuitery, the one that coward, Red, left behind. I flick it open. Nyah stomps and Cormac moves his head, letting his shoulder take the hit. I only have one shot. Don''t fuck this up. I take a deep breath, steady now, line up the shot, and one... two... three... throw! The blade spins neatly, just as Fingers knife had spun into the bulls-eye, and it lands, with sanguinary grace, in the back of Nyahs fat head. He freezes. The joints and pistons in his metal arms spark and lock; its as if hes been tazed and more than a thousand volts are coursing through his body. He says something, but once again my hearing is too suppressed to make out a word. However, I spot, out of the corner of my eye, one of the crooks shouting at me. He takes aim, but once again Cormacs arm comes flying forward, snatching the pistol from his grasp and retracting. Cormac seizes Nyah''s forearms, turns a flat hip into the swell of his duster-guarded flank, and suddenly Nyah is airborne, flipping over in midair, his hem flagging up to reveal bulging quad muscles coursing with countless steroids and genetic coding. When he hits the ground, Cormac yanks him towards his torso and uses him as cover. His movements are so slithery, like hes made of jelly. At the same time, Vander pulls the leg of the short man, Red, who holds Fingers at gunpoint, tripping him. Fingers snatches his pistol midfall, aims it to her left, and pops a bullet in the skull of the man holding Raze. Together, they grab the gangmembers bodies and use them as cover against the bullets from those firing in on them. It was all so fast, impressively so; they had everything calculated in the space of a split-second and executed it only with a couple more. Vander glances at me when picking himself up off the ground, pounces, and pulls me around the steel pallet. Meanwhile all I hear is that steady muffled drum of bullets, becoming clearer as time goes on. A bullet hits him in the shoulder; the blood pours out and he grimaces, saying something to me. The words take a bit of repeating, but eventually the sound clears up and I hear him yell: Ster with us now. He sits against the pallet for cover with me, unzips his fanny pack, and reaches inside. He pulls out something small, pointy, and bulbous. He presses a button at the top, and it starts blinking orange. A grenade, Im sure. Vander turns over, shouts, Tossed!, and lobs the blinking grenade over at the gang. I can see it travel through the translucent bubble wrap around the pallet cage. It doesnt even manage to strike the gravel when it ticks off and BOOM! Fire. Smoke. Crackling. The guns stop shooting. It takes a while for the smoke to clear but when it does, I can see the bodies of Steel Moon picking themselves up from the flames. Raze and Fingers drop the human bodyshields, hurry ahead, and finish each of them off. The gate around the yard is now completely busted open and bits of cyberware and guts are mixed between the rails and pickets. Some splashes of blood are a dark red while others are that strange yellowish green. Its frankly sickening; I feel it right in my stomach, a burst of nausea, the sort you might feel on a long drive in a dirty car. Vander grabs my chin, raising it. With his other hand, he brings something to my mouth. My vision blurs too much to make out what it is. I feel dizzy and my head is buzzing. He forces my mouth open and sprays a gust of humid air inside, filling it with a sour, lemony taste. I take a deep breath, feeling it wash down my throat and turn into liquid. Soon my vitals stabilise. My vision clears up, and I can see the small object in his hand: its a red-and-green inhaler, with the stamp MX-3 marked across the canister. Vander gives my face a few light slaps. Yer fine. Good on you. He puckers those blue lips, licks them, and stands, making his way over to the rest of the team. I take my time getting to my feet. Im still not sure Ive completely recovered. Although it certainly feels like it, this might just be a temporary effect of whatever drug I ingested from the MX-3. Still, Im glad Im alive, and that this team is far more competent and skilled than I could have possibly imagined. The spoofers are scattered over the ground; the force of the explosion must have knocked the case away. Theyre in good condition, save for the one that got blasted from my hand. I start packing them into the hard case one by one. When I look up, I see Fingers approaching me. I shut the case, pick it up, feeling that it is indeed quite heavy, and hand it to her. Before she can say anything, a voice perks up. Mudda.... A cough. ...fucka... I shud kill ya all, ya... A groan. ...bastards.... Fingers looks back at Nyah, whos stunlocked on the ground, raises her pistol, and shoots him in the head. Lights out. Iced. No need for final words or goodbyes. Blues will be here any minute, she says, making a move towards the busted gate. Then, more assertively, she adds, Grab your guns and delta. Now. All of you. I dont know which of these weapons in particular is mine, but I go for the first one I can see, near Reds body. I go to pick it up but find that hes still moving, groaning. Wasting no time, I bring my arm up to his brow and eject the mantisblade, splitting his skull in half. Adios, dustbucket, I murmur, and grab the pistol, stashing it in my holster. I follow Fingers and the team out the back. I can see flashing blue-and-red lights in the distance, and I can hear the faraway whir of the emergency sirens. Li Wei must have called the cops on us. If we dont move quickly, well be done for, locked behind bars in those gritty cages. Fingers leads us around the block, towards the Catalyst parking lot; the line is still as big as ever, but there are a lot more free bays. I can see the Fragment Roamer behind the blinking amber bollards. I grab the key from my pocket and unlock it. The sidemirrors unfold, and the headlights flash yellow. Raze and Cormac step into a black saloon carits too dark to make out the exact make or model, but its clean and mafiaesquewhile Vander hops on a red sportbike, a Suzuki Hayabusa by the look of it. They take off before Fingers and I even step into the jeep. Fingers decides to get into the driver seat this time. She switches on the ignition and the seat and mirrors adjust to suit her frame. She leaves the hard case of spoofers under the seat and takes off. By the time were on the main road, the cops are just pulling into the back of the alleyway block, a big black van full of them. We got out of there just in the nick of time. But what now? Will they follow us? Will they check the cameras and track us down? Its something I ought not to think about right now, but either way I can see myself showing up on a wanted list soon, just like that psychopath with the crazy metal arms. Rhea Steele: Wanted for Murder and Theft by Gunpoint. Hopefully thats the last I see of Steel Moon. I really shouldn''t have let that short man go. Stupid. Ill have to think more clearly next time. The ride is painfully quiet for five minutes, but once things begin to settle down and were a fair distance from the blues, Fingers turns to me, offering a smile. So, youre something of a netrunner then? My heart skips a beat. Im not sure why but it does. The sudden question must have caught me off guard. The... spoofer? Thats what youre referring to? I, well, I took a chance, based off what Li Wei showed us. Too bad it got destroyed. Fingers shrugs, keeping her attention on the road. I''m surprised the wire didn''t spit right out. That means you have some netrunning software embedded in your operating system, she says. Like I said, full of surprises, arent you? I stole it off the dead girl at the circuitery, I admit, staring at my hand, fiddling with my fingers. The nails are dirty and could use a polish. I hope bristles and soap get blood out. Mine was failing. Had no other option. Thats why they were after me. Because I... killed them. You let the fat guy live, she says. I never thought of him as fatstockier than anythingbut I suppose he was on the larger size. I see the concern in Fingers'' face upon making this statement. Its a careful, thoughtful expression, and its not for focusing on the road. She doesnt even indicate when taking turns. Im expecting her to ask if Im stupid. Straight answer, yessimple yet full of complex judgements, somewhat ominous. But she doesnt. She lets out a deep breath, one that shed been holding for some time. You almost got my team killed, Rhea, she says. The statement hits me like a truck. Im not sure what to say except: I know. Im sorry. I didnt expect But, she saystheres always a but in the grand scheme of thingsyou also saved us, saved that asshole Raze, too, goddamn you. She chuckles. That throw.... I''m impressed. Your only problem is that youre out of date. A bit confused. So let me tell you: every decision you make has a consequence in this city, even small ones. Know? Cant take a chance, have to play it safe unless you know you can win over and over again. I smirk. Is that why you risked swapping those cred chips? She grins, giving me a thumbs up. Why do you think they call me Fingers? She opens her hand and the tip of her index finger pulls in. A microscopic replacement skin ascends and pops out. Sticked to it is the cred chip worth four and a half grand. You are fast, I say. I grew up on these streets, she says. Thirty-five yearsyou pick up a thing or two. You look much younger, I say. Everyone does. She shrugs. After the next turn, were facing the industrial estate. At the end of it is the bridge leading to the other side of the city. The buildings shoot high and extend far, with highways overhead and viaducts sifting through the enormous expanse. A tram rumbles across on an elevated rail; I can see countless people staring out at the streets below, smoking, leaning, thinking, Im sure. Trying to keep the conversation goingsilence frankly disturbs me to no endI ask, Now that you have the spoofers, whats next? She pouts her lips thoughtfully. Have something in mind, a way of securing more assets, and youre going to help me. Me? Just me? Course not, she says, tapping her foot on the case poking out under her seat. Youll have these to help you. I dont know where shes going with this, but one things for certain: I like the sound of it. code of consciousness - 2.1 2.1 Its still dark when we make it back to the parking lot outside the Old Mill apartment complex. Razes car is parked outside, too, and this time I can make it out at as a Lexus of some sort. Smooth but sharp, with squinting headlights that share semblance to the eyes of Li Wei moments before we blew his bodyguards brains all over the walls. Its pretty much certain that my face is out there now. For someone like Fingers, it isnt a problem; shes accustomed to being wanted. But me.... Well, I cant say I''ll get used to it. Eyes always on the lookout for you, even in a city swarming with crime. Not only a gang but cops, blues, too. Ill probably have to clean myself up, get a new look, or, well, stay out of trouble, but that seems unlikely, especially after what Fingers said. She parks up next to the black Lexus, and I catch glimpse of a shiny red glint through the tinted windows. Its Vanders motorcycle. He must be waiting inside, too. They all must be. Fingers switches off the ignition and pulls the hardcase out from under her boots. We step out and she locks the jeep. I follow her around the corner, into the alleyway where kiosks seem to be closing up for the night. There are still people out and about, homeless folk by the looks of it, tapping for spare change or possibly an invitation to keep out of this rain. I ignore them, as does Fingers, and once were back to the front entrance with the old wooden post reading OLD MILL, she presses the body of her car key against the underpart of the intercom. The door buzzes open and we step in from the cold, dragging slides of mudand perhaps bloodalong with us. The vomit on the washing machines seems to have been cleaned up a fair deal, though there are still splotches of it scattered along the side, and heaps of dirty clothes, some marked with the gaunt mans sick, are bundled up in a laundry basket overhead. A moment later a woman dressed in a black cotton shirt comes around the corner to pick it up. Then she heads back. She doesnt even look at us. And we dont say a word. Come to think it, most of the trip back had been completely silent. Awkward. Unnerving. Theres not much I can think of to break it as of now. We catch the elevator down to Dash Two and step inside as usual, only theres something different about the ambience. Down along the righthand side of the foyer, towards Dances Spot, as it were, the door just before you enter the shooting range, dull but upbeat music plays. EDM, by the sound of it. Fingers places her car key on the centre table surrounded by red sofa chairs and paces over to the door. Its old and comprised of splintered wood. She opens it, and I follow. The music loudens. Inside is a long but dark room through which a meeting table resides, though its clear its heard no talk of stocks or corporate lingo. Its covered with vials, flasks, and beakers of various sizes, each filled with colourful, bubbling liquids. Some of the containers are connected by a complex network of tubes and wires, giving the impression of an improvised, yet highly functional, chemistry lab. Bunsen burners, pipettes, tongs, and microscopes, all strewn about. Among the apparatus, there are scraps of paper with scribbled notes. Ahead, I see familiar faces: Raze, Vander, both leaning off to the sideRaze smoking a cigar while Vander balms his lipsCormac, whos sitting in a swivel chair with his jacket stripped off, revealing a pulled-up vest clinging to muscle and steel, arms hanging, head nudged up at the ceiling, an unfamiliar hand holding it upright. A man is kneeling on one leg, gripping a syringe. The canister glows with green liquid. He tips it up to just below Cormacs neck, inserts it into his upper chest, and thumbs the plunger. Cormac groans. The man shushes him. Easy, big fella. Just a pinch. Thats all. His voice is soft with a slightly Australian twang to it. So much for being a sick bastard, says Fingers, stepping forward. She pulls a swivel chair away from the table and takes a seat, setting the hard case aside. She starts taking her gloves off. Nearly got killed without you, yknow that? He rises suddenly, taking the syringe out. Alive, arentcha? Barely, she says, stashing the gloves in her jacket pockets. She grabs the hard case again and puts it on her lap, popping it open. I lean by the doorway and tuck my arm into my inanimate one. Seems they don''t like each other very much. The man steps up. That should do you. Id stay off alcohol for the meantime, less you want your blood to thin out too much. On you, mate. I dont care. He turns and I can see him more clearly now. He has a large head with wild hair spiked up to reveal a natural widows peak, the sort that doesnt come from male-pattern baldness but instead a distinct, almost ominous genetic trait that gives him a sharp, ratty look. His eyebrows are bushy and furrowed. He raises one. Youre still here? It takes me a second to realise hes looking at me. Then I recognise the voice. Its the same nasally tone that came from the intercom. Part of her, says Raze, likely referring to my arm. Was about to say, he adds, then hums curiously. A cripple, still walking after a job? Youre the one with the blade, right mate? I shrug. Like you said, not very special. I know what I said, he adds. Then he clears his throat, coughs even, and says, Im Dance. Cool worms, Rhea. Cool worms? Dancespeak, says Raze. Words that sound satisfying but ultimately have no meaning... at least in his eyes. Cool worms then, I say. He focuses his attention on Fingers. I hope all those chips didnt blow up with you. Vander says he had to lob one. Waste of a grenade, if you ask me. Yerd have to be there to understand, says Vander. Too much going on, quite too fast, says Cormac, still rubbing his neck. He stands, then stretches his arm over towards me, grabbing his jacket off a coatrack that had been perched up against the door. At the same time, he tips the door closed. Suppose so. Dance clears his throat again, only this time he hawks up a wad of phlegm and spits it into a nearby sink. He runs the water, then squeaks it off. So, wanna fill me in? You got the chips, so whats next? We move on to the suits like I said? I twist my head. Suits? Hearings not your weakness, I take it, he says, staring at my arm again. Raze and Vander chuckle. Change of plan, says Fingers, inspecting the spoofers, wiping dust from their exteriors. Gonna take a spin into town, bring the new girl with me. We might not have to plant the spoofers after all. Whys that? says Raze. Rhea here has netrunning software embedded in her operating system, she says. Fuckin course she does, Raze says, chuffing smoke. What sort of netrunning software? Dance asks. Theres no response from Fingers, so I suspect hes asking me. Well, Im not sure. You dont know what netrunning software you have running? he says, as if this is something as commonplace as being able to drive, or being able to tie shoelaces, or being able to swim. Theres a bit of shamefulness to his tone. How dare I not know such commonly known information? She stole it off a scav, Fingers says. Shes like the Frankenstein of chromies. Great shot, too. He hums again, turning to the table and taking a knee. Arent we all? He grabs some bits from the jungle of vials: those MX inhalers. One by one he starts popping them into a small cardboard box underneath the table. Ill have to do up a new batch of meds. I sold some off to junkies. Had you guys told me youd intended on having a shootout I might have kept more around. For now, the old-fashioned stuff will have to dooooooo. Cant you cook up a new batch? asks Cormac. Id much rather not have to carry syringes around instead. Well, hey, Im so sorry mate. This takes time. Chemistry is a precise artform, one that only the craftiest dookies can master. Make sense? Just cook up a new batch when you can, says Fingers, bossy. In the meantime, Rhea. I look at her, wide-eyed. Yes? She spins around on her swivel chair. That arm. Its got to go. I look at it briefly, agreeing, then say, I know, but I dont have the creds to Ill pay for it, she says, waving a dismissive hand. Ill also pay you for tonight. Did good out there. That goes for all of you. Cept you, Dance. I dont do sickpay. Yeah, yeah, he says, sliding the cardboard box back under. Vander chews his lip and puts his balm stick away. Best part of the day. Aside from gettin to use these er bombs. So, you dont need us? Raze says, stubbing the burnt-up cigar head. Givin the newbie all the leads? The fuck is that, Fingers? Playin favourites? Unless you can magically access advanced military netrunning software, then you wouldnt be of much use on these jobs, anyway, she says. Like I said, its a change of plan, but were still gonna hit the big leaguetogether. Thats where the money is. He scoffs. Why dont you get the rest of us to get the suits? Kill two birds at the same time. She shakes her head. No, its not safe. Because youre not with us? he says. Hate to say it, Fingers, but we held up just fine back there with little intervention from you. Fact, the only part of the plan you came up withcheatin that guy?failed. Thought youd have been smoother than that. He re-scanned it, she says, louder. The hell was I supposed to see that coming? How many people re-scan chips after already havin checked em for a solid minute? Who does that? The Chinese, Raze says, raising a frustrated hand. Those people invented your tech, remember that. After a moment, she nods reluctantly. Youre right. But Im tryin to cut costs here. The more we cut, the more you get paid. Cant blame me for trying. He narrows his eyes. Right. Not tryin to give you a hard time. Youre smart, youre quick, youre skilled. But thiswell, fuck, its a good thing New Girl had her eyes open. Cormac groans disapprovingly. Wouldnt be so quick to judge, Raze. Your attempt at intimidating failed enormously. He saw right through you... through his thin, Chinese eyes. Enough bickering, says Dance. God, you cunts are annoying? Know that? He coughs again, then sniffles. What shes saying makes sense, in theory. The more of us there are to work on larger jobs together, the more of us there are to fix the others fuck-ups. You would have all ended up dead if even one of you decided to stay home like me. Maybe except New Girl, says Raze. The gang that was after her was the real problem. Thats what nearly got us killed. I knew there was somethin off about her. Aim that good? Someones after you, kid. I know it. Someone wants you dead. Jesus Christ, can we just shut the fuck up for a second? Fingers says. Theres an instant of silence, finally. She takes a relieved breath, then pops the spoofers back into the hard case. She closes it and stands. Im gonna transfer the creds to your account in the next ten minutes. Im sorry I cant get jobs for you guys all the time, but Im trying my best. Keep busy in the city like youre doing, doing your sidebits. Ill always fix something in the end. Jobs are runnin low, Fingers, Raze says, shaking his head, his voice calmer now. You used to have much more, now were lucky to get a call once a month. I got a sister to take care of. Sidejobs only pay so much. Fingers pauses and runs a hand over her face, thinking. A moment later, she says, Its getting late. Rhea, come with me. The rest of you.... Yeah, leave it with me. Ill figure something out. You two okay for damage? Dance points at Fingers and me, splaying his index and middle digits. I think so, I respond. Come talk to me if things dont feel right, he says. I might just do that if it comes to it. Ill keep an eye out for any fluctuations in my vitals. For now, things look okay. Only time will tell how long thatll last. This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. I follow Fingers out the door, back into the foyer, over towards the red room. Soon, Raze, Vander, and Cormac step out and make their way over to the elevator, catching it to the ground floor. I catch glimpse of them leaving the building on the other side of the foyer, in the surveillance room; one of the buzzing monitors switches on, perhaps detecting movement, showing them exit the building, heading for the parking lot. I sit on the same seat as earlier. Fingers stands there, thinking, not making eye contact, then drops the case on the table, next to Razes ashtray. You... okay? I ask. She shrugs, running a finger through her drifting eyes. Theres a glimmer in there that looks like the beginning of a tear, but its probably just water caused by the intense fluorescent bulb. Tomorrow were gonna get your arm removed at Maelstroms, then were gonna head to a club in the city. Not the Catalyst. Someplace a little more discreet than that. She pulls out her phone and starts thumbing through it. The good thing about netrunning software is that theres a high demand for it in the black market. So why dont you get it installed? Upgrade the operating system? Not that simple. She zips off her black coat, revealing a tight tank top with a fiery skull stencilled along the breasts. Her arms are lithe with cords of thin yet dense muscle. She hangs it on a coatrack. Operating systems are typically intended for a singular purpose, at least the less expensive ones. Netrunning, speed, strength, endurance, reaction speed, aim.... Multi-purpose operating systems exist, but theyre heavy on your neural link, and require a lot of juice to keep running. Juice? I say. Blood, she says. Electricity and blood. Those with thicker blood can often handle stronger operating systems. Stronger hearts help, too. Trying to carry an operating system too heavy can, well, fuck you up. Drive you insane. Turn you into a real cyberjunkie. I stare at her so long that for a moment I feel uncomfortable. I reach into my pocket and pull out the small gun Id nicked off Reds dead body. It still has his blood on it, as does my entire arm. A cyberjunkie. Like that muscular man, Nyah. His blood was different. Maybe theres a link. A genetic modification that allowed him to handle more operating systems than would normally be deemed safe. Maybe all of them did. Im really grateful, for everything, Fingers. Truly. I also hope Im not, well, taking jobs from the others. You have a really talented team. If youre grateful, you can put that gun away and grab a shower upstairs, on the ground floor, she says. Take my key off the counter, scan the unit. Itll let you in. You can sleep on the sofa outside, till you get a place of your own, that is. She sits down and starts removing her gunky combat boots, then she nudges over towards the desk from which shed grabbed the spare clothes earlier. You can use my towel, the big blue one. Less you care about germs? I promise you Im all clean. She chuckles briefly. No, its fine, I lie. I certainly would prefer my own, but Ill have to make do with whats offered, for now. I head over to the desk and see the towel hanging on a rack. I grab it and make my way outside, towards the elevator. Im so tired and my head is spinning a little. The effects of the MX-3 are certainly wearing off. Still, I push onward, catching the elevator to the ground floor. When I step outside, I see the same lady from before, only shes with another member of staff. They''re speaking a language I cant quite discern, Portuguese perhaps, and theyre disconnecting the washing machine, possibly to give it a thorough clean elsewhere. I take the first left and follow the corridor down to the shower room. Its large and there are already some people inside. Both men and women share it, and they walk about butt-naked, as if this is some gym locker room, giving me strange eyes, ones that are neither threatening nor inviting but instead hold a peculiar level of ambiguity. Any one of them could make a move on me. Those sorts of eyes. The waters refreshing when I make it into the stall, shut the curtains, and hang my clothes up over the top. Theres already a soap dispenser and I lather it along my body thickly. The blood washes off easily, thank goodness, and I make sure to rinse the grime out from my hair. When I finish, I dry myself off, and start putting my clothes back on, save for the jacket. Its a little too warm for that, so I carry it under my arm with the towel instead. I step out and observe my reflection in the mirror. All the blood is gone, as expected, and my eyes are stained with dark circles of sleeplessness. A gangmember of some sort. This face? Seriously? I take Fingers up on her offer and sleep dreamlessly on the red sofa in the foyer of the gang headquarters. The next morning, I wake up with a painless albeit stiff neck to the sound of the elevator screeching. Fingers enters, dressed up in a deep-black hoodie and low-waist cargo wide jeans with tens of miniature pockets. She tosses something small and rectangular into my hand. Once my eyes adjust fully, I can see that its a mobile phone. Code is 0-0-0-0, she says. I added our numbers to the contacts. I also wired 2500 to your account. Keep it safe. Thank you. Its not enough to afford sensory procedure, but its a start, a good start at that. Its not long before were outside, cruising through the streets of Neo Arcadia in her large Fragment Roamer. The city broods under a bruised skin of sky. It''s not as busy as it had been last night, but the traffic is still heavy all the same. I keep my eyes out, now out of habit, for any wolf symbols, for any blues, but theyre nowhere to be seen. I also look at the billboards and holographic announcements, expecting to see our faces up there somewhere, perhaps on a news article about an attack on a desolate restaurant by Catalyst, but Im relieved to see the same re-runs of penis-enlargement pills and job opportunities at Techstrum. Believe in the future, the Techstrum article reads, showcasing the face of an android wearing a visor embedded with several wires. Contact details lie at the bottom for the role of a Tech Ambassador. To think that these are the people were after.... Wow.... Its going to be a while yet before this team gathers enough intelligence to even remotely attempt to access their building. Theyre probably loaded up with the most advanced tech and security in the entire city, but if what Fingers says is true, that intelligence outwits tech, then one day we might able to secure the data from their building, smoothly, and without us ending up behind bars. Its a worrisome thought, but I do my best to ignore it. We cross the bridge, over the circuitery, and soon were rolling through the street where Dr. Maelstroms staff-and-clients-only alleyway veers off to the side. We park up somewhere desolate and Fingers pays a small fee at the tollbooth. And we walk. And walk. Back to the alley. Dr. Maelstrom isnt sitting on the doorstep like yesterday; the alleyway is empty save for some large rats gnawing on garbage bits. Fingers presses the buzzer below the intercom, and a sweet feminine voice plays through: Im sorry, the clinic is only open to bookings. You can visit our website to Tell Maelstrom Fingers is outside, Fingers says, resting her arm on the red-brick wall. Theres some silence. A good minute passes before the door slides open. We step in, brushing those purple beads aside, and sure enough, Jin is still standing behind the reception desk, though shes wearing a black high-neck, sleeved dress. She tells us to wait a moment, and that Dr. Maelstrom will be with us shortly, so we sit in the foyer area. My eyes wander freely. A hologram of a herring dances above a low, glass-topped table, its iridescent scales flickering. The walls are adorned with neon graffiti, their vibrant colours pulsating to the low hum of ambient synth music. Its nice. I never took the time to truly appreciate it before. Then again, I was disoriented, scared, confused. We wait for a good fifteen minutes, not saying much. When the door to the back facility finally opens, a woman, the same that Id seen waiting in the alley yesterday, steps out, a Hollywood-white grin smacked rightly on her face. Then a broader, much taller figure steps out. Dr. Maelstrom. Id let your arm rest for a couple days before you start playing around with the implant. Let it get used to your central nerve system. That way it doesnt end up getting too stiff on ya, and you wont have to see me again. A quick understood, and then she leaves the building. Ive been waiting to see you, Dr. Maelstrom says. I paid up already, says Fingers, almost angrily. Not you. He points at me. Her. Me? Well, I suppose he might be referring to my treatment, but did he really expect me so soon? He turns back, beckoning us to follow. But he quickly stops halfway through the door and, without looking, says, Give us half an hour, Jin. If they ask, Im tweakin the transmitter. She nods quickly, like a soldier. Yes sir. Tweakin the transmitter? Fingers says humorously, hands stuffed in her pockets, following him inside. Why not just say youre on your fiftieth smoke break? Cant let people think Im delayin them for somethin small, he says. Not that youd understand anything about runnin a business, kid. She scoffs and starts running her thumb and forefinger along her chin, massaging it as if straightening an unkempt beard, but her skin is smooth, soft. Shes thinking. The surgery is the same as it had been yesterday, though theres a fair deal of bloody tissues on the trolley next to the makeshift surgical bed. He rolls it over to the corner and out of view, then takes a seat on the swivel chair at the desk upon which several vials lie untouched, and the security cameras glitch and jerk from angle to angle, covering the entire layout of the complex. Before I say anythinghe pushes himself away from the desk and slides back on the swivelRhea, you may sit. Fingers, I dont really care what you do. I take a seat on the makeshift surgical bed, just like before. I move the overhanging monitor out of the way so I can get a better view. Now, before I mention what I got, what do you two want? He furls his brow. Because you both know Im all out of favours. Her arm, Fingers says serenely, and grabs a water bottle from her inside jacket pocket. She twists the cork off. Get rid of it. Ill pay. Thatll be two-fifty, he says. She takes a sip of water. Done, she says, the water still in her mouth. She swallows then pulls out her phone. Ill wire you the money now. Thats not too bad, actually. That include a friends discount? She smirks. If you want to consider racking up serious cyberdebt and paying it off nearly a year later a mark of friendship, then sure, he says as he wheels back to his desk. He jacks his neural wire into the computer and starts typing at the monitor. As for you, Rhea, think I might have caught a lead for you. My eyes shoot open a bit, and my heart, previously settled, bumps. Is he referring to what I think he is? My past self? What did he find out? You... I say. ... know something? About who I was? Is that what youre saying? He nods. Its not for certain, he says, continuing to type briskly at the computer, but your case.... It intrigued me. Specially since I consider myself one of those guys whos good at findin stuff out. I will say, though, it wasnt easy, and there isnt much, but take a look. He unlinks his neural wire from the computer, wheels back to me, and grabs one of the overhanging monitors. He turns it towards me, and I see my reflection, but the screen digitises into a snapshot on a desktop computer background. The picture is blurry at first, but once it clears, I see people. Not just any regular folk you might expect to see on the streets, but rustic folk, sitting on a pair of steps, both of which lead into a truck thats more home than vehicle. The roof of the freight container is packed with satellite dishes, and the interior holds a bar of some sort. Theyre drinking beers, lined up as if for a school photo, but theyre relaxed, smiling. Farthest to the left, theres a woman with a short crimson quiff, a sleek black visor covering the eyes, and a form-fitting cotton jumpsuit strung with beltwear and a leather overtop. The gentleman next to her wears a baseball cap facing down, hiding his eyes, casting a shadow over the lower part of his beardless face. He wears all blue, a medical uniform of sorts. Then, to his right again, theres a green-haired lady, who I recognise as having strikingly similar facial features to my own. The hair is upswept into a wild mullet, though the sides are shaved down to a one at most. Her eyes are masked by a digitsed red visor, similar to the ones worn by Steel Moon, and she wears a bullet-proof military vest, both arms on display, with a pair of bluejeans to offset the summer heat. Big wild grin on her face, the teeth... similarly shaped to mine. Then the picture zooms in on her upper body. Somethings stamped on her left shoulder: XV-2054. I look at my left shoulder and see the same stamp. What does it mean? Dr. Maelstrom wheels forward and taps my right shoulder. Look familiar? The picture zooms out again, but not so far as to cover the entirety of the truckinstead, just enough to fill the frame with the green-haired lady. The more I look at her, the more semblance I begin to see. Those hands, those ears, the little freckles, the long nose. Its all there. I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Where did you find this? He looks straight at me, with cold, calculative eyes. Had some free time last night, he says. I ran with the theory that you used to be involved with a gang, so I ran through NACP files, checked the database for different gangs in the city. You have access to NACP files? Fingers voice is slightly hoarse from having not spoken. It strengthens quickly. Seems like you have the whole city at your fingertips. He smiles benignly. I wish. All the data I get is from an extension of the dark net. Figured, she says, but isnt that dangerous? I heard you can get traced. Have the blues bust through your door? Have you done for infiltration? I keep things discreet with a proxy, he says. Trust me, you dont become a private neurotech surgeon by making dumb decisions. That seems odd. How is it that such sensitive data ended up on the dark net to begin with? Perhaps this is what Quillon Bennet meant when he spoke of retrieving sensitive corporate data to Fingers. There are people out there with connections, or perhaps high levels of corporate intelligence. Its all very useful, very precise information. So, who are they? I ask, dreading the answer. Before answering, he tells me to insert my neural wire into the bed computer. I comply, and he uploads the data to my internal storage. I navigate to my drive and see the file sitting at the top under the name Y1p3r-TX101_G12-8eK5.mz7. I wonder what the file name could mean, if it has any meaning at all or if its just a jumble of letters, and open it. It pops up on my neural display, but theres something different about the image; its wider, and there are hundreds of windmills spread across a desert. In the distance, the skyline of a city lies in shadow beneath a large, imposing sun. The date, watermarked on the top-right corner, reads: 07/17/2048 15:31:38. This is all fascinating, downright shocking, but it doesnt answer my question. I ask him again, Who are they? He shakes his head. Aside from this picture, there isnt much on them. All I know is that back in the late 2040s, the city decided to renovate the scrublands to set up windmill towers for the nomads, people who decided to live away from society in their own little villages, but back then it wasnt that bad. It was livable. Steady water supply, decent vegetation, and the soil could still grow crops. But then the droughts hit hard, and the water started drying up. The reservoirs were depleted faster than anyone anticipated, and the citys infrastructure couldnt adapt quickly enough. Within a few years, the steady streams turned into trickles, and the wells ran dry. By the early 2050s, most had either moved back to the city or vanished altogether. The villages became ghost towns, and the scrublands turned into a wasteland. Its all a bunch of abandoned infrastructure now. Fingers shakes her head, taking another sip of her water. When she swallows, she says, Its not all empty. People still live there. He chuckles. If you can consider those cyberjunkies people. They''re cyberjunkies? I say. Yup, he says, slapping his knees and standing up. The sort who drug up, sleep around, and scrounge whatever pennies they can to fund people like me. Why dont you reject them? I ask, curious. Trust me, if I could kick them out and save them the pain, I would, he says. But theyre the ones keeping private black-market neurotech surgeons in the black. Sure, you get people like you and Fingers, and that lady you saw out front, and they help, most certainly, but the real money comes from those who just cant have enough. Theyll trade blood for scratch and wind up at my doorstep for the next fix. Its sickening, but as a businessman, you have to leave your opinions aside. You have to work. That simple. I nod. His explanation strikes a chord with me in an emotional, thoughtful way. Its a sad world indeed that people destroy themselves under the illusion of improvement. I look at my inanimate arm again, and then at the stamp. I close the picture on my neural display, staring Dr. Maelstrom in the eye. How do I get there? To this... scrubland? He breathes out a hint of laughter. I shoulda known youd want to head out there. Now hold on, says Fingers, slightly panicked, though its more assertiveness than anything. She dumps her empty water bottle in Dr. Maelstroms trashcan but its so full that the bottle bounces right off and rolls. I get you want to discover more about who you were, Rhea, but I still need you here, and Im willing to keep paying you just like any other member. Doesnt matter that youre new, know? I nod again. I understand. Im not leaving, not for a long while yet. But Im curious about what sort of family I had... that I have. Fingers picks up the bottle again, this time stashing it deeply in the can. Well, that can wait. For now, we have a job to do. Jobs to do. Shes right. There are still creds to be made. Only when Im financially stable and fully recovered can I even attempt to head out there, and even then, Im not sure how safe it will be. Dr. Maelstrom heads back to his computer and starts typing. As for your arm, Rhea, hows tomorrow at three? My eyes flicker. Id almost forgotten about that. Yeah, sure, I say softly. If thats alright with you, Fingers. I aint your mom, kid, she says, laughing. Just like that, Im booked in for an operation, and Fingers wires the money to him directly. Only takes upfront payments. Interesting. After that, we head out, finding a queue waiting in the alleyway. To confirm what Dr. Maelstrom said, they looked gaunt, jittery, and just overall unhappy. I ignore it and walk on. We have a job to do. code of consciousness - 2.2 2.2 We head back to the jeep and Fingers, still deciding that she should be the driver, perhaps because I didnt do such a good job the last time, or perhaps because we could get pulled over for me attempting to drive with one arm, whichever, inputs the destination for this day-running nightclub on the satnav and follows it along the busy streets, listening to that awful AI voice guide her every turn. Im hoping this job wont be anything too physical, or too violent. Weve already drawn enough attention to ourselves and to be perfectly straight the effects of last nights run are starting to dwell on me. Fingers notices my discomfortis it that obvious?and reassures me that well be getting something to eat at this joint, emphasising that if what I say is true, more than a couple decades under the sun would surely work up an appetite, but strangely it did not. Perhaps my sensory problem extends to sensations too, such as extreme hunger. If not, my prediction is that the nanobots preserving my body managed to not only preserve nutrients but also feed them into my system for the last forty-plus years. Its beyond my comprehension, and theres probably a scientific explanation for itof course there isand once I get my priorities right, I might dig a little further. Im interested in figuring out who the people in that photograph are, sure, but Im even more intrigued to find out what exactly led to me ending up with all those cyborgs. Those bots. Those corpses. Its only natural to ponder all sorts of theories, such as a deal going wrong where unlike the case of Li Wei we did not get the upper hand. Its certainly possible, plausible even. I open the picture on my neural display again, focusing in on it as we drive. I almost forget where I am. I imagine that if I think hard enough something might pop, a bubble of memory, releasing my previous life and putting an end to this painful mystery. It doesnt happen. Youre looking at the picture, arent you? Fingers says. I raise an eyebrow, closing the photo. Cant stop thinking about it. Dont mind a damn thing, huh? She flicks the indicator to turn right at the junction; the tick fills in the awkward silence. When she completes the turn, it switches off and she turns on the radio, News 74. Its a man with a deep, English accent talking about war, layoffs, and crime rate. The usual stuff. Nothing ever changes there. But he mentions something about an attack on Quick Bites; that a gang had raided the restaurant demanding a person with green hair. Witnesses say the gang pointed weapons at them, demanding to speak to a green-haired girl who earlier had entered the back of the kitchen along with a group of darkly clothed individuals. Darkly clothed. Fingers scoffs. We spoke with the restaurant manager, Li Wei, who had this to say. Li Weis accent buzzes through on the radio; it''s strangely mellow over the line. They killed my staff, all of them, threatening me with violence unless I handed over company eurodollar. I try. But they too powerful. Cyberpyschos. The lot of them. For all the business owners out there, be on the lookout. Lying bastard, says Fingers, a wheezed-out chuckle escaping her lips. She switches the channel to one that plays tough rock music. She lowers the volume. I can bet you he wired the money he would have paid those goons straight to his dealer to get in a new batch of military spoofers from China, telling the press that was the amount we stole from his safe. I nod. Hed want to buy more than just a batch to make that believable. Youd think so, but almost everyone in Neo Arcadia knows the Chinese dont keep most of their earnings in a safe. They only accept e-pay, and all the money gets wired directly to an off-grid server. Where? I ask. She pulls up her hoodher head must have been getting cold. If I knew, it wouldnt be very off-grid. Wherever it is, Im sure its guarded and encrypted with enough netrunning software to protect an armada. Yeah, I say. Anyway, it looks like were wanted. Our faces are out there. Maybe briefly, she says, but I guarantee you the feds arent believing every word that guy says either. I know for a fact the camera in his office would have conveniently been turned off by one of those punks mid-transaction. They show up, and theres dead bodies everywhere, goons dressed in suits, gangmembers outside? Theyll be asking a lot more questions. Reeks more of a blackmarket deal gone wrong than a visit from thieves. But surely theyll be looking for us anyway, I say. Of course, it probably wouldnt be too difficult to find us either. A call here, a call there.... Could come banging on Fingers door by tomorrow night. If they were, Fingers says, brooding, theyd have found us already. Thankfully, the NACP have more things to worry about than the overwhelming number of calls they get from murders. Like protecting their corporate folk, protecting the people who actually matter. Unless its a serious threat to national security or hundreds of lives, that would no doubt fuck up our economy and their position of power, then they wont do diddly squat. Welcome to the real world, Mono. Its kill or be killed, as the old saying goes. Know? I nod, thinking of the picture stored in my neural storage, connecting it with my experience on the beach. My first encounter was all kill-or-be-killed. Even now, its all I have to risk to get what I want, to figure out who I am. The walls of the club pulse with shifting holographic advertisements, beckoning the citys nocturnal elite with promises of ecstasy and oblivion. A massive, flickering sign reads FLUX in glitching, electric blue letters. The bass-heavy music spills out onto the street, a rhythmic throb that syncs with my heartbeat. Drones, round and buglike, buzz overhead, their centre consoles showcasing pristine cameras. Unlike Catalyst, this place isnt as busy out front, though it does have two bouncers instead of one. They dont look the friendliest either, with heavily modified eyes that resemble those of a spider, and mouthpieces that are bolted tight to their jaws and connected to the wiring in their chests. No wonder there isnt a queue. Fingers parks up alongside them, in the bay between two crew cabs, and both of us step out, marching over to the entrance with the sort of allure you only get from meaning business. Of course, it was all for show; truly, I had yet to know what exactly this business entailed. Name? the big, black bouncer says, his voice resonant and coming deep from the chest. He has a natural scowl and at certain angles he looks like a cross-over between man and wolf. Hes glaring right at me, into my soul, eyes twitching, scanning. Fingers, she says. I fuckin know you, the man says, I mean the broad with the green hair. Whats your fuckin name? Rhea, I say. It says youre fuckin dead. You a goddamn ghost? For a brief moment, none of us say anything, then Fingers pipes up. Were here to see Rico Prostov. She folds her arms. I fuckin know that, too, but that doesnt explain why your friend is showin up as dead on the optic cloud. Fake ID, no entry. Dont give a shit who you are. My attention wanders a little, over to the equally modified man next to him, who up until this point hasnt said a word. His arms are crossed into each other, two meaty limbs cut with vascular striations and punchmarks for what I can only presume are titanium bones. He notices this, undoes his arms, and balls his fists tight. The whites of his eyes turn black and bear demonic red irises. He steps forward, but once again, doesnt say anything. You got a fuckin starin problem? the big, black man says. Your friends the one eyeing me down, I say. He laughs, and he raises his hand; the man to the right of him raises the same hand in perfect synchronisation. They wave their hands from side to side, then each give me the middle finger. Once again, perfect synchronisation. Its a little eerie. That aint no friend; thats me. You? I say. Fingers sighs. He installed a dual-chip in another cyborgs body, because apparently there wasnt another bouncer good enough to handle the sort of shit that shows up at this doorstep. I personally think he likes sucking himself off, and figured this would be the most effective method. Youre the same person? I say, speaking in hushed confusion. Hethey, whatevershrugs me off. You want in, I better see some eddies. Youre a real pain in my ass, you know that, Tatum? says Fingers. They smile, revealing those wolfish grins. They lean back against the door, legs propped up for support. Money now, or Ill have to remove you both myself. Ten seconds. A scoff. Fine, says Fingers. How much? One bag. Her eyes turn blue, and then the eyes of both Tatum and his cyborg turn blue. Done, she says. They step aside. Rico, Tatum says, speaking into his wire. Fingers and some dyke here to see you. A five-second pause. Second floor. VIP room. Hes waiting. The doors to the dayclub open, and a wave of pulsating colours and music floods out. Its a stout foyer, only the size of a house bathroom, but on the other side of it I see, as we walk through, sleek, dark surfaces reflecting shifting patterns of animated art, stencils of women and liquor and smoky cigars, each smattering the walls. The ceiling intrigues me. It isnt your typical decor. It looks as though there is no ceiling at all, but instead a roofless top giving way to a cloudless azure sky. Its so smooth, so blended, that if you were to look at it for long enough you might think youre standing in an outdoor concert. The animation shows a vapourcraft flying overhead, along with birds, drones, moving steadily off into the city skyline. Its been a long time since Ive seen a sky that clear. I bet its been a while since anyone has. Figures theyd have to artificially cough one up for the sake of atmosphere. Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. The bar stretches along one side of the room, a shiny, translucent counter that reflects the artificial sky. Behind it, a team of androids dressed in neat three-piece suits serve drinks to people who didnt quite get the dress code. Punks, by the look of it, more than likely gang members at that. I know by the mohawks and drab leather clothing, not to mention the tattoos. How disgusting. It''s a large complex, two floors but they sure pack a lot of heat. At the centre of it all is a thick cube cataloging all colours of the rainbow, plugged into the ground and squared in by a sofa on each side, none of which are occupied at this time. Its probably a bit early, because theres only a handful around, though Im sure more than enough to keep the day-running business preoccupied. Fingers leads me across the floor. We get whistled at. We ignore them initially, and press onward, but not before Fingers flashes them a middle digit, as if to say, This is too much ass for you to chomp, choomba. Only with teeth as sharp and augmented as theirs Im sure they could bite through a layer of carbon steel if it came down to it. We brush past a couple people in our way and head upstairs. This level is much busier. Theres another bar. This time its centrefold, and each side is jampacked with drinkers; they look a little friendlier than those downstairs, but only just. Not as many modifications, and smartly dressed. Im thinking this is the rich floor. Corporate powerhouses, data regulators, business architects out to celebrate another successful net profit over the second-to-last quarter. Fingers skips across it and I follow. Ahead is a row of booths, individually private and closed off by a wall to either side. A bodyguard blocks each one, arms behind their backs as if called upon to recite a poem in front of an elementary class. Cold, expressionless faces. Theres an argument ongoing in one of the booths. Its the one Fingers approaches. I look over the bodyguards shoulder and see a black man dressed in a bright silver jacket, his hair puffed up in an Afro, one leg on the glass table, a data chip in hand, pointing it at the person a couple seats over. The bodyguard stops Fingers in place. He doesnt say anything, unlike Tatum. That Rico? I ask. Fingers says nothing. She listens in on the argument. This is not bad, you know, the black man says thoughtfully, then taps the chip on the table. Were talking a couple million least. All we needs is a bit of polish, and were golden. The gentleman across from him, who no doubt is a corporate suit, too, leans in. Hes chewing on something, a piece of gum, I think. Polish? With what? Steel wool? If you think anyones getting on board that ship, youre out of your damn mind, and its not just your head, its mine. Dont try to fuck me. He stands, fixes his suit, then finishes off his whiskey by downing it in one last, big gulp. He puts the glass down, and makes his way over to the exit of the booth. He stops, turns, and says, One more misstep and youre iced, Rico. My men will come for you. Fuck with my money, fuck with my life. Youre a dead man. Rico shakes his head, smiling to himself. The bodyguard steps out of the way. The man looks at us as he passes, but doesnt say anything. Doesnt seem like the nicest guy, but thats a suit for you. Rico places his arm back on the head of the sofa. Fingers, my old friend, he says smoothly. He looks at the bodyguard. Sall right, Jog. Let em through. The bodyguard nods, giving us room. Fingers steps inside, as do I. What was that all about? she says, taking a seat across from him. Im hopin Ill get the chance to tell you, he says, then looks at me for a moment. That is... if you have what Im lookin for. He reaches out his hand, prompting me to shake it. Oddly, he knew which hand to offer. Rico Prostov. I shake it. Rhea. And I sit. I touch my tongue nervously to my upper lip. I feel so out of place here. So unused to these sorts of discussions. I know who you are, he says, eyes turning blue. The Girl with Nine Lives. Killed, and brought back to life... by what exactly? He takes a sip from his whiskey glass, although the cyan liquid tells me its something other than whiskey. He rolls the liquid around in his mouth before swallowing. I see it travel down his throat like an alien crawling under his skin. Theorising nanobots, as of now, I say. Dr. Maelstrom isnt sure, though. Could just be luck. Rico smirks, placing his glass back on the coaster. He claps his hands together and leans forward, his eyes resuming their normal state. He tilts his head up, keeping his gaze on me. Luck? Lucky enough to rise from the dead like the Holy Messiah? Lucky enough to off Nyah Boba-Strider? You know he had quite a hefty prize on his head. Had you not committed murder beforehand you might have had some denser pockets now. Yeah, well Im not exactly headhunting as is. I need moneyI dont care what it takes to get it as long as I can do it and get out alive. And not become critically injured. I was reluctant to mention that part. Cant let him think Im afraid, that Im the wrong person for the job. As to why Im here, I dont know how, but Im still damaged. I need some fixes. Some tweaking to make sure Im all good again. Thats all. He grabs the bottle of whiskey on the table, takes the glass left over from the corporate suit, and pours a drink. He sets the bottle aside and tips the glass over to me. I dont drink, I say. What me to juice it up for you? No thanks. No alcohol whatsoever. Fingers takes the glass. Suit yourself, Mono, she says, her voice a little croaky. Mono. Rico laughs. Took down Nyah with one arm, no less. And now Fingers tells me you have netrunning software imbedded in that pretty chrome dome up there. He taps his temple. That true? It takes me a bit to respond. The nervousness is passing, albeit quite slowly. I know I shouldnt feel this way, but I want to make sure things go right, smoothly. When I woke up, I killed off some scavengers. Needed to replace my operating system because it was failing. Stole one from this dead girls body. Barely made it. Ouch, he says, gritting his teeth. And it was embedded with enough netrunning software to give you access to military-grade quick-hacks manufactured all the way in China. That true also? I shrug. I guess it must be. You have the spoofer on you, Fingers? She reaches into her inside hoodie pocket and pulls out the spoofing device. She hands it to him and he scans it for a moment. He reaches out his hand. Wire. I unlink my neural wire from my temple and hand it over to him. He zips it back and plugs it into the spoofer. Just as before, I get a pop-up notification for the insert of the third-party technology, only this time it doesnt ask if I wish to allow it access; it does it automatically. I dont, however, see that same screen as before, the one that showed the information about Nyah Boba-Strider. Squint your eyes, he says. I focus on him. My vision darkens to a navy-blue. His body is outlined in yellow, and a data cube appears on the right side of my display. NAME: Rico Marcelli Prostov. Wanted For: //NA// Weakness(es): Suboptimal Full-Body Protection (96%) Resistant To: Software Manipulation (70%) On the opposite side, a list of quick-hacks appears, with all but one greyed-out: Short-circuit. On the top of your neural display, what do you see? What does it say? I close my eyes so that the words are clearer against the dark. Arotoshi PLX.... Mark 2. Whatever that means. Mediocre, he responds quickly. But good enough. Im going to transfer some data to you in a moment. Open your eyes. He grabs the small chip from earlier and slides it into the jack of the spoofer. Seconds later, a large Uploading Data bar appears, and it quickly fills up. At the same time, the previously greyed-out quick-hacks begin to light up. The first to show is Manual Override, the second is Server Locator, the third is Data Blocker. Have they shown up? The other hacks? Rico asks. Yes, I say, they have. Good, he says. Then, looking me straight in the eye, he adds, Short-circuit me. Are you insane? says Fingers. He chuckles. Just do it. I need to see if youre the real deal or not. If your spoofer is fully functional. Can never be too careful. Here. He leans forward so that he takes up the centre of my view. Select it. Not sure what its intended to do, though I can only guess it fries his circuitries, I select Short-circuit and watch as the upload bar fills up to 100%. Once it does, Ricos eyes turn yellow, and he grins. I feel it, he says. Its strong, too. You pulled the right sort of netrunning software. Packs a punch. Fingers looks confused, as do I. Thats it? Can hardly be that strong if you didnt so much as flinch. He unzips my neural link and lets it slide back into my neural port. He takes another sip of his drink, tapping the spoofer on the table. I have a strong defence system installed. Cant trust anyone who walks into this booth. I could feel the virus infiltrate my processors. Had I not been equipped, could have knocked me clean out. Mark 2 maybe, but that lady you picked this operating chip off had access to some solid quick-hacks. What about the others? I ask. I didnt have them before. He slides the spoofer back over to me. I go to grab it but Fingers takes it before I have a chance. Scoops it up like its a hundred-eurodollar bill. Some extras I thought Id install for the road, he says, because for this job, youre gonna need em. What is it? I ask. Please, Im tired of not knowing. I just need to know. He nods, still grinning cheekily. He unzips his silver jacket, reaches a hand inside, and pulls out another data chip, though this one is larger, longer, than the previous. Here. He hands it over to me and I insert it into my temple jack. A file for a video pops up in my storage. I navigate to it. Its called SomethingSpecial.mpz. I open it and hit the play button. It shows drone footage of a cargo ship entering a loading dock; its big enough to fit a miniature estate on top. The deck is packed to bursting with freight containers, stacked so high they seem to scrape the metal rafters. Neon-blue logos, stencils of heads in military helmets, pulse faintly along the sides. A series of old, flickering screens line the ships stern, displaying encrypted messages that only the right eyes can decode. And they certainly are not mine. The ships engines emit a low, throbbing sound that reverberates through the metallic bones of the dock. Thick plumes of exhaust, tinted with the sheen of fuel, pour out and dissipate into the stale air. A group of dockworkers, their faces obscured by breathing masks and glowing visors, move with mechanical precision, unloading the containers one by one with the help of skeletal, spider-like drones. As the footage zooms in, the camera focuses on a particular emblem patched onto the side of one container, a jagged, abstract symbol that looks like a cross between a snake and a circuit board. This is no ordinary cargo; its something special, alrightsomething valuable, something dangerous. The kind of cargo that people kill for. Shes a dead drop for high-risk cargostuff that needs to disappear off the grid. Weapons, black-market cyberware, experimental bio-matterif its dangerous and profitable, its on that ship. Everything from Techstrum to Biotechnika to Kev-&-Row. They ship them across the border in bulk and disguise them as construction material, replacing the shipment tags with all sorts of crap: concrete paste, bricks, wood, you name it. You dont need to worry about any of that. You just need to get into that container with the snake symbol. Whats in it? I ask. He finishes his drink and pours himself another. The man you saw me speaking to was Alexei Vladimirovich Sokolov-Zhukovsky. Probably butchered that. Point is, hes an investor. I use his shares to fix profitable jobs, and in return he gets back more money than he initially invested, a lot more. I need to keep my clients happy. That doesnt answer the question, Fingers says. Whats in the crate and how exactly is it profitable? He takes another sip, a big one this time, more like a gulp. That unfortunately is confidential. Between me and Alexei. All you should know is that youll never see whats inside the package. You dont need to. You just need to grab it, and leave. That simple. But dont be fooled by that video. When that was recorded, theyd only landed it on the ship. Its likely to be lower down, in the depths, but Ill sort all that for you. Ill locate it and make the job smooth as a babys face. Questions? Uh, yeah, I have one, says Fingers. I didnt even realise she had already finished my glass of whiskey. You really think something like that wont be crawling with security? You think we can just sneak by? Au contraire, my dear friend, he says. You wont be goin in dressed like that. He snaps his fingers. Jog, the suits please. The bodyguard walks away and a moment later he returns with a long case. He places it on the coffee table, moving the liquor bottle out of the way. He pops it open, revealing a pair of suits, each held in a tight, airlocked plastic bag. V-technica anti-fibre suits... says Fingers, astonished. How did you...? He shushes her playfully. Good money buys good product. Im willin to pay you good money, and throw the suits in for free. How much? I ask. He steeples his fingers, contemplating his answer. You get the job done quickly, efficiently, and without drawing the whole of the NACP or any of those other unwanted names on your ass, and I can give you both twenty-five thousand each. Thirty, says Fingers. He leans back, eyes wide. He cogitates, looks at her sternly, as if insulted, but says, Thirty it is. But only if you bring it back in good condition, and without drawing attention to either yourselves or me. Especially me. I raise my hand, like a schoolgirl waiting for the teacher to stop speaking. Hold on a second. When does this need to be done? They look like theyre about to take off in that video. Shipment isnt due to leave the bay until three days from now, early morning, which means you need to be there the night before. We cant give them too much time to do a stock count. Theyll count it the night before and take off in the morning. So, you need to be there after the count, which should be 11 P.M. sharp. He reaches out his hand. Again, he chose the correct one with which to shake. We got a deal, Mono? I stare into his eyes, into that smug face. The risk doesnt really outweigh the reward, but its not like I have a choice in the matter anyway. I need money, and quick. I accept his handshake. Deal. code of consciousness - 2.3 2.3 I feel like Ive just closed a deal with the devil, and the ink on the contract is still wet, burning through the paper like a brand on my soul. Its a strange, tingly sensationgoosebumps, no doubt. Rico lets go of my hand, takes another sip of his drink, and shuts the suitcase. Grazie. He slides the case over to Fingers and she picks it up, whistling brusquely. Its time to go. Weve had our discussion. Now all thats left is preparation. I cant help but shake the feeling that wed need more people to carry out this fix successfully, but given the inconspicuous nature of Ricos job description, itd make more sense for us to keep things small. The security on a ship carrying such valuable material is likely to be rigid. Any wrong step here and well end up behind bars, or worse yet, dead. I remove the data shard from my temple port and stash it in my inside jacket pocket, for safekeeping, of course. Ill likely study this a bit later, when I have the time. We exit the VIP section and head downstairs. On the way out, I see that the men who previously catcalled us are no longer sitting; instead, they''re being held by the necks of their jackets as Tatum and his dual-chipped counterpart hurl them out onto the street, telling them to, Keep your murky hands off the patrons! I laugh a little. Id suspected something of the sort would happen soon enough. Some men just cannot keep their hands to themselves. Same goes for some women, too. We cross the assholes on the way out, their drunken heads lazily foaming and snorting as they try desperately to pick themselves up off the asphalt. One of them almost does, but Fingers shoots forward and kicks him in the rear, causing him to stumble into a trashcan and knock it over. Garbage flies everywhere; the gentle wind carries it off towards the road. He doesnt get upor moveafter that. We hop into Fingers jeep and she switches on the radio. Rock music, just like before, although this time she turns it up so loud that I feel it vibrate through the footwell. She tells me that today is going to be a good day, that shes starved and we should grab a bite to eat before brainstorming ideas on the job. I wouldnt mind that. I feel like I havent eaten in decades, and I very well may not have. So, we head through the busy streets, watching as sweeping tides of cityfolk surge from crosswalk to sidewalk in their lambent and equally slimy synthetic leather, umbrellas bobbing like luminous jellyfish in the thin but persistent rain. The more I look around, the more I seem to remember pieces of my past. However, everything is still splintered; even that picture of the scrubland doesnt bring anything back. Its a feeling deep in my subconscious, buried, layered with cement and reinforced with alloy steel. I can hear the voices screaming out, but theyre so distant, so minute, that they may as well be silent. We stop at a small, corner-shop restaurant sometime later. I dont bother to take note of the name. All I can think about is food and water. Id built up quite the thirst and my voice was dusting up by the second. We stay here for a bit, and I talk to Fingers a little more interpersonally. I havent known her long at all, but I feel if Im going to do a mission alone with her, then it''s only right that I know who Im working with, even if its not particularly applicable to the job. Besides, I feel Ive been quiet all this time. I dont want to seem, well, timid, even if I most certainly am. The diner itself is dim yet colourful. The floor is chequered black and white, the booths are small yet comfy, with mahogany cladding, and the bar stretches in a long, polished curve under dodgy sodium-vapour lamps. Overhead, shelves stocked with mugs, diner-style coffee pots, and pre-packaged snacks sit below a glowing menu board listing simple, hearty offerings. A row of stools with bolted-down bases line across and around it, occupied by men and women alike, the seats covered in cracked vinyl or faux leather. One of the men spins his stool sadly, head propped in the palm of his hand; the stool squeaks like a rusty door, and the sound is painful, getting right under my skin. Luckily, one of the other patrons yanks him by the shoulder and tells him to plant his ass in a booth. Again, I laugh. I order a sea bass and OJ. It comes plated with a side of kelp chips. A drizzle of tangy, citrus-infused nanogel sauce glistens over the fish. Looks good, but upon taking my first bite, I learn very quickly that colourful things arent always pleasant. Tastes awful, right? says Fingers, chuckling. Not awful per se, but very dry, like one of those home-cooked meals where the heat had been turned up a little too high for your liking. Whats your story? Fingers raises an eyebrow. She herself ordered a simple plate of nachos, dip, and a pint of Coca-Cola. How do you mean, Mono? The last word comes out eerily, as though Id ventured into unchartered waters and this was a warning to spin the helm and head back to shore, but a creeping smirk betrays it, and she adds, Youre a little new to be asking such questions, dontcha think? She folds her arms, and now the smirk metamorphoses into a cold, calculating smile, the kind that promises trouble rather than charm. Her eyes narrow just slightly. It''s impossible to tell if she''s actually bothered about it or if she''s just being funny. Though, Id wager shes just playing around; it seems to be in her nature. I sip my OJ from the glass to help wash down the overly dry fish. It takes a couple tries. When did you start all this? When did you decide one day you were going to take the hard road? Sorry if thats a little personal. Im hoping your explanations can help me, well, remember something about my past. Its a lie, and Im sure she knows that. Still, it feels more natural to put things that way. Crunch. Fingers wipes the pieces of tortilla chip from her mouth with a napkin. She burps with her mouth closed but covers it regardless. I only really care about the money kid. Getting a typical job in this economy is, well, all Ill say is I grew up in one of the poorest complexes in the city. And where theres poverty, theres, you guessed it, crime. Not just any crimes either. Some pretty serious shit. Crunch. Looking slightly ashamed of myself for asking, I put the fork down. You have family? People in the city? Fingers pulls the laces of her hoodie away from each other, tightening the hood. She massages her forearm, as if its in pain, though I can tell theres a level of emotional discomfort. Its complicated. My parents, well, to put things simply, theyre dead. Killed innocently when I was six years old. It was during the riots." "Riots?" I press. She nods. "Riots. People of the slums finally had enough. Enough of the corporate bullshit." "What did they do?" She chuckles. "What didn''t they do. The rich controlled all the resources: food, water, energy, healthcare. Anyone without a job would have to pay more for even basic crap. You ever notice how the two sides of the city are somewhat different? I shake my head. No, I havent. How so? The people on the South arent as, well, prosperous. Sure, theres estates with plenty of money and business capital, but most of the time, deep in the city, its run-down apartment complexes with crime rates through the roof. Just like our HQ. You saw how awful the people look. How sick. I recall the man puking, and the workers cleaning up after him. Fingers goes on, her voice becoming less steady: I grew up in the slums. Thats where we all grew up. Not so sure about you. My parents didnt want any part of it, the riot. They werent activists or radicals. They just wanted to survive. To keep me and my She pauses. To keep me safe. But when the uprising started, corporations didnt care about any of that shit. They sent in their private security, their mercenaries. And they didnt care who got caught in the crossfire. Her voice catches, but doesnt stop. They just started shooting. The people from the slums were so violent. Some of them got access to weapons. There was no ceasefire. Just slaughter. My parents were in the wrong place at the wrong time. We tried to run, tried to escape, but the streets turned into a warzone. My mother shielded me. She didnt make it. My father.... He wasnt killed by corpos.... He was killed by one of our own.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. In the end, the rich faced no consequences. I didnt even cry when I found out they were dead. I was moved to an orphanage until I ran away at seventeen. By then, Id already learned what survival really meantgetting my hands dirty, taking what I needed. Crime wasnt just an escape; it was a weapon. And every heist, every con, every broken rule came with a vow: one day, Id make them pay. All of them. Someone will rip their precious economy out from under their feet, show them what its like to lose everything. Someone whos had enough. Trust me when I say I was angry. But thats the thing about monsters like them. They dont just have powerthey have systems, weapons, armies. The poor fight with empty hands, while they fight with everything they stole from us. I know that truth better than anyone. I know its easiersaferto step aside, stay quiet, and tell yourself life isnt fair, and it never will be. She pauses, her voice tightening like a clenched fist. But if you keep telling yourself that, nothing changes. Not for you, not for anyone. The past doesnt erase itself; it just keeps coming back, worse than before. The only weapon left for people like us is eddies. Money. And if you know how to use it, maybe you can do more than survive. You can take control. You can make them hurt the way we did. Thats.... I can''t really find the words, I say. It isn''t difficult to understand why. Something about the way she conveyed her story resonated with me, as if her pain echoed through a part of my subconscious I didnt even know existed, stirring memories I couldnt place and emotions I couldnt name. It was like she was speaking to a past I couldnt remember, but somehow felt deep in my bones, raw and undeniable. Fingers is still looking at me with those ambiguous eyes. The grin had long since faded. A straight, unobtrusive line is all that remains. Another crunch, and then she says, Did you have a look at that video on the way here? Another sip of Coca-Cola. Im taken aback by the sudden shift in conversation, though I understand, at least now, this is something of a sensitive issue for her, and decide not to press forward. No, I say, unzipping my jacket and taking out the data shard. I twirl it back and forth in my thumb and forefinger. I was thinking we could come up with a plan later tonight, when things settle down. Just not in a place like this. I want you to study it, Fingers says. Look for any access points, danger zones, ventilation systems, unmonitored areas. Anything. In the meantime, Im going to research the area. The area that the drone didnt catch. Just in case theres some security outside of view. Ill copy the video file on the computer back in HQ. Should we ask for help? I ask, already knowing the answer. She shakes her head. Absolutely not. Its safest with just the two of us. Any outside interference, even from our own, well, it could end pretty badly for us. Even if its just Dance externally monitoring the area. They could sniff out suspicious data and put the place on lockdown. I nod. Smart. Makes sense. I take it youve seen this happen before? She sighs. Crunch. Sip. All Ill say is, there used to be more of us. Oh, I say. "Sorry." You dont need to apologise for every damn thing, Rhea. It was more obvious this timeshe was mad. Not completely but partially. Ive told you before, this is what people sign up for, what we all signed up for. Including you. I take a moment before responding. I start picking away at the kelp chips, not bothering to use the fork this time. These dont taste as bad, salty but digestible nonetheless, especially with the peculiar lemony sauce. I grab one of the napkins and dab my mouth. So, what exactly is so special about these suits? The tech-v whatevers. V-technica anti-fibre suits, Fingers says. Theyre special because, for one, theyre expensive and only really accessible to military personnel, unless sourced through the black market, and two, they work off light manipulation tech. Meshed with microfibres with sensors and conductive threads. Uses AI to analyse the environment, the lights and the shadows, and projects a cloaking effect. They also call it Chroma-Skin. You ever see chameleons? So, if Im understanding you correctly, they turn you invisible? She shrugs. Ding ding. Right on the money, Mono. Crunch. How is it powered? And how long does it last? I ask. Fingers runs a hand under her hoodie, through her scalp, as if clearing away stress. She wipes a bead of sweat from her brow with her wrist. Its hot in here, especially given that the air conditioning seems to either be turned off to save costs or busted altogether, if such a place had even opted in to having air conditioning to begin with. It definitely seems shabby: the food, the patrons, the environment. No wonder everything is so cheap. Its powered by a compact energy core, but the core isnt like your typical core. Its sort of spread out. Look, I dont know the ins and out of the things. Dont really care either, but it works, and thats all that matters. Know? It will last long enough for us to complete the job. Fingers finishes the last of her chips but leaves a hefty amount of Coca-Cola in the glass. You want this? She points to the glass. Im okay, I say. She walks away and dumps it in one of those drink disposal cylinders, next to a trashcan. She dumps the used napkins and nacho paper in there, too, then heads back. She lights a smoke. Neither the patrons nor the staff seem to care. She blows a puff in my face and I cough. Although I cannot smell it, I can taste the slightly bitter residue lingering on my tongue, a sharp, metallic aftertaste that leaves a strange dryness in my mouth. Then the door to the corner-shop restaurant jingles open, and a tall man walks through, dressed in a plain leather jacket and jeans. Next to him is a little girl, who mustn''t be a day over nine years old, wearing a puffy coat, a scarf, and a beanie, one imprinted with a cute bunny stencil. Her face is gaunt-looking, just like the lady behind the counter at Quick Bites. She and the tall man walk past us and step into a booth several seats down. Perhaps it was because I had been so fixated on the little girl and her drab bunny hat, or perhaps it was because I had been distracted by conversation, but I didnt recognise the face of the man until he took a seat. Its Raze, and for once he doesnt have such a cold, soulless look on his face. Hes smiling, not cheekily, not sarcastically, but truly. How does a man like that find joy? He notices me looking at him, but only for a moment, then, as the waitress approaches their table, he submits his attention to her and orders. His sister, Fingers says, and I look back at her. Suddenly, and without reason, she stubs her half-smoked cigarette on the table, sweeping the ashes away with her sleeve. I look back at the two again. The little girl takes off her beanie. Shes completely bald, shaved down to nothing but skin. I notice that she has no eyebrows either. Oh, I say. Fingers nods, chuckling. Every payday its the same. He takes her here. They live in a pretty run-down apartment around the block. Food isnt always great or consistent, he says. Skips meals so she can eat sometimes, he says. And the government doesnt help? She scoffs. Those pigs? Theyre the reason were all up in this shit to begin with. Raze reaches across the table and takes the little girls scarf, placing it next to him, laughing. The girl is laughing, too. I turn away. Hey, so maybe we should head back and work on that video. Not gonna finish your food? I look at the plate and push it away. Lost my appetite. Its a load of crap anyway. We stand, head to the jeep in the parking lot, and make our way through the city again, back to HQ. It''s not raining anymore. * * * Somewhere, in a dark place where the air smells sterile, heavy with the scent of metal and chemicals, a faint hum of machinery echoes through the stillness. A maze of flickering lights, their sickly glow casting long, uneven shadows across the concrete floor. Overhead, exposed pipes snake along the ceiling, dripping with condensation that glistens like sweat. The walls, barely visible beneath the intense light-filled smog, are secured with dark cabinets, their contents hidden behind frosted glass, and an array of knotted cables sprawls across the floor, leading to a large, robust, beating machine. A single figure is strapped to a chair, their body a silhouette against the cold, clinical light. Tubes and wires are hooked up to their limbs, injecting an eerie, bright green liquid into their veins as they pulse. Their eyes are half-lidded, unfocused, the skin underneath bruised, perhaps from sleepless nights, perhaps from one too many procedures. The machine hums. A display screen flickers with rows of data, pooling far too quickly for the human eye to process any of it. The only sound, aside from the machines whirring, is the soft beeping of a heart monitor that tracks a slow, steady pulse. Its interrupted by distant footsteps, and then a singular beep. The door to the area opens. Theres silence for a moment. Someone steps inside. Finally, after what must have been thirty seconds of agonising quiet, the voice, deep and gravelly, says: The prototype is ready. Slowly, the eyes of the figure peel open, revealing bright green, glowing irises. Preem, the figure says, the voice gentle, soft, and ultimately, feminine. code of consciousness - 2.4 2.4 By the time we make it back to the HQ parking lot and Fingers switches off the ignition, a familiar face comes squawking from farther down the alley, passing needy streetfolk who dont even so much as glance, too preoccupied with their strides, their commutes, their hustles, to give a damn. Its Dance, and hes got something tucked under his arm like a football. When he closes the distance, I realise, with curious eyes, that its a cardboard box. Its difficult to make out what hes saying at first, but as we step out of the jeep, it becomes apparent that hes calling Fingers name. He stops, and they talk for a bit. Not a long conversation by any means. Dance has cargo he has to haul off to some buyers, which in laymans terms means hes done some chemistry and someone wants a taste. He pops open the boot of a nearby Reveriea boxy, rust-bitten relic of a car that looks like its barely holding together. The faded paint, once some indistinct shade of green, is nothing more than a patchwork of scrapes and grime, with strips of reflective tape lazily slapped over the dents. Inside the boot, scuffed boxes are strapped down with bungee cords. He tosses the box inside; vials clink against one another. I snag a look through the creeping flaps: the vials bubble with a peculiar shade of dark yellow, one that reminds me of crushed spider pus. The vials arent even secured; they could have very well shattered from the drop, and all Dances work would have gone to waste. Does he care? Probably not. Do I? Not really, though I am curious as to what sort of chemistry hes cooked up. Is it medicine, like the liquid in the MX-3 inhaler? Or is this stronger shit, something the real crackheads are paying for? Either way, it doesnt take a genius to see how this guy makes his money, though it does beg the question of how he can supply so much of the stuff. Perhaps what Dr. Maelstrom said about cyberjunkies giving everything they have for the buzz is truesacrificing their bodies, their minds, and whatever shred of a life they have left, just to chase that fleeting high, the kind that makes you forget the world, but leaves you hollower each time. Dance mentions that hed cooked up a batch of virothene, which I presume is the medicine Fingers mentioned the other night, the one hed injected Cormac with. He says he left them in the red room. And these buyers, who are they? Fingers asks. Some cunts from the beaches. Dance shuts the boot and lets out the nastiest, most sickening cough Ive ever heard, not even bothering to cover his mouth. I step back and chuckle. Seems you could use one of those shots yourself. Just a head cold, says Dance. Couple of ibosll sort it. Wastin money tryin to cure it completely, mate. If you say so, I respond. Whats in the boxes anyway? They look... interesting. Youre awful chatty now, eh? Dance leans against the boot, creasing his bushy eyebrows. He taps his fingers along the taillight. Last night you were a mute duck. I dont mean to intrude, I say. Be nice to the girl, says Fingers. One day shell be your ticket out of this shithole. Dance smirks, folding his arms. He crosses one foot over the other, leaning back fully now. Know chemistry, Rhea? I shake my head. Not the faintest clue. But Id love to learn. Well, he says, smirk deepening, this stuffcalls itself Lumina in the shops, but we just call it Shineaint like your usual junk. Its a neurotransmitter booster, yeah? Makes your brain light up like a Christmas tree. Youre sharper, quicker, think youre invincible. Reckon you could take on the whole of Techstrum if you dosed up enough. Fingers snorts. Until you get hooked. He nods. After a while, novelty runs out; yeah, thats right. You end up braindead, like some of the choomies waltzing round N.A., vomiting, pissing, sleeping in dumpsters. I shiver. And this is legal? Dance laughs, a low, bitter sound that comes straight from the abdomen. Hear this sheeeeila? This citys laws are just guidelines for the rich. Shines the golden ticket for anyone who thinks theyre too clever for the gutter. Problem is, its cooking the city from the inside out. One dose at a time. Youll see what I mean eventually, mate. I think I already have, I say, thinking of the faces outside Dr. Maelstroms office, and of the story he told me about the scrublands. Dance heads around the front, hops into the driver seat, and says, Dont touch my doooooozies while Im gone. He slams the door. I nearly think its going to collapse, given how dilapidated it is, but it holds just fine. The engine struggles to a start. Several chuffed growls later and he takes off onto the main road, off to whatever crackhead lunatics want to sample his product. Fingers tells me hes been doing this for years, creating and selling drugs, well before she ever met him. Hes a master of the art, as good as they come, but yet here he is, stuck in the same crumbling apartment, scraping together scraps compared to what he could be making. Compared to what corpos make. Im not sure if hes satisfied with his position, but I sure like to think that someone like that has the potential to improve society rather than decline it further. He could cure people, people like Razes sister, people like that vomiting man, people like me. Maybe thats a bit of a stretch, but the point remains: hes wasting away to nothing when he could be working on something greater, although I suppose he wouldnt have the scratch. The only people supplying him are the addicts, not the government. Guess there are two ways of looking at it. The crowd tunnelling through the alleyway thins out as Fingers and I head for the Old Mill, but only by a little. Some folk dont move at all; theres a little nook off to the side just before the entrance to the apartment complex. A tarp is sprung across it, and underneath theres a man shouting something, though its impossible to tell exactly what until we get closer. He looks old, probably early seventies, with a receding hairline, and hes wrapped in a long, mildewing oilcoat, boots that reach above the shins, and sunglasses, the sort blind people tend to wear, though something tells me he can see just fine. Theres a little hat which one might assume is a collection bowl at first, but oddly its turned over, with eddies lying around it. Change? the man yells, his voice worn and stitched. Change? He repeats this. Its all he really has to say. Just another panhandler. Fingers tells me hes The Afternoon Change Man, and that he does this for a couple hours before going back to sleep in his little recess. Homeless, sure enough. Cant have enough of those in Neo Arcadia, I suppose. Later, down in Dash Two, things are a little calmer. We waste no time and get straight to work on the video. Fingers boots up the file in the computer room which normally shows the cameras of the apartment complex. I take a seat across from her and load it up on my side, too. I play it several times, analysing it as much as I can, but nothing seems to stand out to me. Its just simple drone footage showing a cargo ship with dockworkers on board. However, after a while, I begin to notice things that I hadnt before. Cameras, particularly located at the back, centre, and front of the ship. Theres a chance there are more, but according to Fingers, the spoofer should be able to sniff out that technology in a heartbeat, and that I should be able to manually override each one, or at the very least, temporarily swap out the data. Theres a feature embedded in the spoofer that can link two separate devices and mirror their perspectives, meaning if anyone is monitoring them externally, they might not notice two cameras displaying the same footage in real time. Fingers also says the spoofer can freeze or glitch out the camera tech. I think that would be the smartest choice. This is especially useful for infrared cameras. Fingers says such tech can pick up on the Chroma-Skin. So, the first point of order would be to glitch out any cameras installed along the dock. I wonder, however, if there would be any armed security onboard, given the nature of the goods being transported. From the video, its difficult to tell. It''s quite possible that, if there are weapons, then they might be concealed. It''s also possible that the armed security is in the ship itself, on the lower levels, or somewhere around the loading bay. Fingers mentions that some of them, if not all, might have similar infrared technology embedded in their visors, especially at nighttime. So, its important for us to establish a path that would minimise the risk of exposure, but given the footage, there arent many options.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. We discuss a lot of different ideas, everything from arriving from the water, dressing up as dockworkers, to faking an inspection with manufactured IDs. None of that would work, for obvious reasons. Then I notice something: the crane pulley rail. A cargo crate rolls along the crane pulley on the shipyard, and then stays above the dock, waiting to descend. It came from the shipyard, from one of the straddle carriers. Perhaps if we were to manage to get inside of one of these things, to hack into one with the spoofer, then it might simply carry us along the pulley, and safely and securely ease us into the centre port of the cargo hold, the gap at the centre of the ship. It looks like the pulley system is used to organise the crates, to move some into the centre, while others remain on the dock. Theres certainly enough space on a ship this massive to fit a hundred at least. But Fingers explains that this could go wrong, that the crane might not drop us in the centre port, but rather on the dock, and someone might spot us if we were to try open it. But I mention that we can use the spoofer to check the cameras for clearance, or to perhaps cause a distraction. Its risky, Fingers says. I think, compared to navigating through most of the shipyard and then climbing onto the ship, it is better, I say. You can see from the video that the straddle carrier is unoccupied while the crate slides across the pulley. They must take breaks after so many loads. And what if theyre finished with all the loading by the time we get there? Fingers says. What if there are no more crates to unload? We can hardly supply a decoy crate in the meantime. The plan falls short. Come on, I need you to think, Rhea. Shes right. I hadnt considered that before. Even in the video, it looks like most of the cargo is being hauled off. That plans a bust. Fingers blows raspberries, lost in thought. What if we... went there earlier? I wipe sweat from my brow. The heat of this den is really getting to me, despite the fan on the ceiling. Or maybe I''m hot with embarrassment from suggesting such a silly idea. Earlier? What do you mean? Rather than showing up at night, says Fingers, we show up during the day, when infrared systems are likely to be turned off. Or at the very least, when theyd be less effective and more prone to error. Navigation would be simpler. Chroma-Skin would be less detectable. Second to that, theyre likely to still be loading cargo during the day, likely to still be organising it with the pulley crane. It is a really large ship. And remember, there are multiple ships there that we cant see, each needing their own set of cargo. This is an illegal shipment, meaning illegal cargo is mixed in with real cargo all along the shipyard. In theory, they will have a spoofer of their own, which tags illegal cargo as real cargo, but with the central ship, the straddle carrier will only pick out the list of cargo showing up on its database. My eyes go wide. Which means it will take a long time for the carrier to pick up all of the illegal cargo spread throughout the shipyard, I say, sounding like a student pretending to understand complex algebra after the teacher explains it for the third time, only I do understand, and well. So, we dont need to worry about rushing. We just need to wait for the right crate to come along. Ding ding, says Fingers. Tell me that wont work. I contemplate it. It quickly becomes apparent that shes been in this line of work for quite a long time. I failed to recognise that the people organising this shipment were also conning, scheming, using spoofing software to complete their plans. As a result, its likely there are no practical fail-safes in place. They cant call in reinforcements without tipping off someone else about the entire operation. No, they''re operating on the assumption that everything is perfectly smooth, that their systems are airtight. But theyve overlooked one detail: theyre too focused on getting the job done quickly, while weve got time on our side. We dont need to rush; we just need to be patient, to wait for the perfect moment to slip through the cracks. Questions? Fingers asks. I take a moment before responding, staring up at the ceiling fan and leaning back on the swivel chair. The blades run round and round, causing the white light from the screens to blink shadows across my face. How do you know which crates are spoofed? How do you know which one we should hide in? She smiles, reaching into her pocket. Simple. She pulls out the RFID spoofer and tosses it to me. I catch it without a problem, getting the idea. This can tell which is which? Not only that. She leans forward, hands clasped together. But regardless of the crate you choose, you can sniff out the data of one of the crates being carried onto the illegal ship, copy the shipment code, and swap the data with any of the carriers in the field. It will show up on their system as a match, and they will carry it on board, regardless of what it is. We wait till night, use the cameras for clearance, exit, and make our way towards the tag containing the snake device. Do you know what the tag of the device is? I ask. 5-22-9-12, she says. Rico sent me the deats. Youll be able to see it with the spoofer, but obviously, it has a giant snake symbol on it, too. I look at the spoofer, then at my inanimate arm, wondering if this will be an awkward situation. I can only use one arm. This means Ill have to insert my neural wire into the spoofing device and then take it out at several points. Thatll likely slow us downa lot. The Chroma-Skin will hold it, Fingers says, as if reading my mind. She seems to have an answer for everything. Well strap it around your shoulder. Theres a little pouch. Exactly for spoofers? I ask. She nods. The reason Rico offered em up to begin with. Aside from, of course, cloaking you entirely. The suits were designed by netrunners, for netrunners. Though, they are outdated. Now cybernetic enhancements are more advanced than that. Can implement spoofing hardware into peoples bodies, and the software into their neural impulses. Comes with risks. Like suddenly having your brain fried from a malfunction. Sure hope nothing like that happens. I sit up straight. Hard to really trust modern technology. Its all so.... Whats the word? Unstable, Fingers says. I shake my head. Nah, thats not it. Its more like... its pretending to be perfect, but its not, like its deceiving us. I place the spoofer on my lap, tapping my foot. Synthetic, says Fingers. I snap my fingers. Exactly. Synthetic. I pick up the spoofer again and stand, eyeing it curiously. All this technology, its so much. You dont know how shocked I was when I found out I had this blade embedded in my arm. And the way it works, as if the neurons and nerves are all interconnected, part of the same body, when deep down I know theyre manufactured somewhere in a lab or a sweaty workshop.... Its bizarre. Im sure it was like this back in my timeId be surprised if it wasntthough something tells me everything is way more advanced now. Especially with all the chemistry Dance is cooking up in that lab of his. Things only really started picking up when Techstrum took over, Fingers says. Which, eh, I think it was like only fifteenish years ago at this point? Im not sure. Ive lost count. But yeah, the company seems to constantly be propelling society forward in terms of tech, while leaving it behind in everything else. And what about the chemistry? Fingers shrugs. Eh. Not sure. Never really thought to ask. Dance? She slaps her knees and then stands. Yup. Not something Im all that curious about. I learn a lot of information from Cormac. Cormac? I remove my jacket, finding that the heat in this box of a room is nearly wiping me from the inside out. Im drenched in sweat and the hairs on my legs are standing, prickling away at my skin like tiny needles. Its a little awkward, but I ease the first sleeve out of my dormant arm by tugging my shoulder and then whip it off cleanly. I place the jacket on the coatrack. I can feel the sweat gluing the T-shirt to my body. Cormac was once a mercenary for Techstrum. Fingers looks at me sternly. Worked for them for six years or so, but when they partnered with the NACP to develop tech to She hesitates, her gaze flickering to the ground before meeting mine again. control people, Cormac walked away. In what way? Controlling people? Well, its disturbing. Supposedly the government wanted to use Techstrums capabilities to develop neural interfaces that would manipulate thoughts, rewrite memories, and essentially turn people into puppets. My eyes flare wide, and my skin crawls. Thats sick. She sighs. From what I understand, Techstrum didnt really want to create that sort of thing. The government wanted to spread it across the poorer area to help reduce crime rates. The main thing, at least according to Cormac, was that it was supposed to suppress emotions like anger. It was some really advanced crap. Dont think were at that stage where its possible, but yeah, Cormac walked away after he saw the papers. How did he get access to them? She shrugs. Didnt ask that either. Point is, after he left, the government wanted him gone. Thought he was too dangerous. Sent someone to assassinate him. Almost died. Jesus Christ, I say, unable to grasp what Im hearing. Do you think theyre still working on it? This... mind-control technology or chemistry or whatever the hell you wanna call it? I sure hope not. Hard to really tell with a government as fucked up as ours. Crawling with corruption and greed. Shes trying to be humorous. I can tell by her tone. The whole fix with Quillon Bennett, about retrieving the schematics... I say slowly. ... Its not just about making a lot of money, is it? Not just about getting schematics for this man, about taking a huge risk. Its about finding out the truth for you, isnt it? Silence impresses itself upon us. Its so heavy I can feel the weight bear down on my shoulders. Good question, she answers. Lets wait and see. A smirk crosses her face. I decide to cut the conversation there. I already know enough. Its certainly concerning to hear that something like that was ongoing within the walls of the citys government. Perhaps this was their answer to avoiding another uprising. To avoiding people getting sick of the wealth dichotomy. To avoiding any form of pushback. If what Cormac says is true, then its no longer about wealth, but about complete and utter control over the city. It makes me sick to my stomach. I might bring it up with Dr. Maelstrom tomorrow, after the procedure is complete. If that man has access to the dark net, and potentially files not readily available to the public, he may know something more that Cormac didnt, although the chances of that are unlikely as things stand. For one, Im sure hes not the only one with access to the dark net. There are likely thousands. For two, if information like that leaked, it would be made known to the public already. Things like that dont just get swept under the rug, not even by netrunners. I decide to take a break from working on the video file. I grab a water from the fridge near the red room, then head outside to get some fresh air, to cool down even. Its still as busy as ever, with people flowing up and down the alley in bountiful bunches, despite the gloomy, elephant-grey skies. The voice of The Afternoon Change Man breaks through the hum of the crowd, his worn voice echoing out, Change? one last time before he turns back to nap in his recess. Its a simple question, but it hangs in the air like a challenge waiting to be tackled. the weight of small hands - 3.1 3.1 Isolde Crane promised her daughter they would go to the Luminara festival downtown and buy a stuffed bunny the size of a street vendors cart, but promises were easy to make when they were months away, and when there wasnt a bloodstain smeared across your door with the words RENT IS DUE. She had been sitting at her desktop computer for the past three hours, searching and searching for a job. One thousand applications, one thousand rejections, and zero phone calls. For someone of her educational background, a woman whod graduated with a masters in pharmaceutical chemistry, she couldnt believe that no one would hire her, that no one would give her a chance. She wasnt looking for anything specialeven a waitress or food-serving position would dobut the economy wasnt crying out for any of that. It seemed most places were already up to their eyeballs in employees, and that a lot of these job vacancies were fake or already filled. The walls were fading to a dull grey, embellished with the purple gleam of an occasional flickering neon sign which shone through the window. The apartment was small, yet cramped with mismatched furniturean old metal-framed bed with a threadbare comforter sagging under the weight of too many restless nights, a bedside desk buried beneath crumpled job applications and scrawled reminders that had gone nowhere, and a beanbag that had long since lost its shape. On it, a little girl with white hair nuzzled her octopus and bear plushies, sound asleep. She had always been a quiet sleeper, like her father, but hed vanished, taken off like a whisper in the wind, too scared, perhaps, to handle the reality of raising an autistic child. Her name was Elysia. She was twelve years old, though with her puffy cheeks she easily looked a couple years younger. To Isolde she was the most beautiful person in the world, even if she didnt speak or listen all that well; she was uniquely perfect. A knock from the door snapped her attention away. She thought that it was the landlord at first, but after a couple seconds, a voice came from the other side, and she relaxed. I hope youre not asleep. It was Silas. She knew by the raspy, ominous tone, one that she swore would get him killed someday. She got up from her desk, feeling slightly light-headed, and made her way over to the door. She opened it, expecting to see him looming over her, but he was slightly hunched, carrying boxes that were stacked messily atop one another. He brushed past her, minding his step. He must have been walking for quite a while, because he didnt look too hot. He dropped the boxes near the sagging bedframe, and Elysias eyes blinked open. She rubbed them sleepily. Hey, kiddo, he said, turning towards her and settling his beanie over her head. It sank down so low it nearly swallowed her face. Catch any animals today? In the rain? Isolde said. Think a storm is gonna blow through. Things arent lookin too great, Silas. He took a seat on the bed and scratched his head. Much of his hair had receded, and what was left grew in listless, piebald patches. Were some items on sale down in the market. I picked up some new blankets, couple books for yourself, and some cold-and-flu medication. Its about that time of year. Got all kinds of stuff. Oh, and something for The Bunny Hunter. He reached into the inside pocket of his dark slicker, knelt in front of Elysia like an old-fashioned suitor proposing marriage, and snapped his arm forward, as if drawing a gun. He even made a pew sound. In his hand was a brown cloth rabbit, stitched together from fabric scraps: faded corduroy, plaid flannel, and an old, soft knit. Its button eyes were uneven, giving it a lopsided, quirky charm, and a candy-red ribbon was tied into the bow of its neck, frayed, but tied with care all the same. The rabbits ears flopped to one side, no doubt weighed down by the years, and its chest, perhaps once a heart or star stitching, was obscured by a charred stain. Elysia took it, and although she didnt say a word, her adorable wild grin and rapid footsteps beating against the carpet told him all he needed to know. She gave him a hug, like she normally did when he came over. It wasnt often he got to do stuff like this. I really appreciate you, Silas, Isolde said. Ive been applying everywhere and the landlord is still up my She paused, taking a breath. Elysia, sweetheart, go to your room. Silas broke the hug with Elysia. He took back the beanie and she hobbled into her little hut to play. Why dont you wash that paint off? Seems a little degrading. I tried, she said. Bastard puts it up the next day. Just a waste of water and Im already up the ass in bills as it is. He winced as if prodded, then reached into the top cardboard box, pulling out a newspaper. Then you wont like what The Neon Ledger said this morning. He tossed her the paper but she didnt catch it. It was the shake in her hands. She picked it up. The expression of horror that dawned on her face was so naked that she no choice but to sit down. This couldnt be real. No way. Theyre thinking of cutting welfare payments? When did this become a thing? Since that new company took over the tech industry, he said. Techstrum, once again, running people out of work and kicking them while theyre down. She shook her head, got up, and walked restlessly around the room. No, no this cant happen, Silas. Im already knee-deep in shit. Does it say how much theyre cutting? Its not listed in the paper, but I checked the source material. Stipend slashed by approximately 41%, under the pretext of quote-unquote budgetary constraints. He did air quotes. And supposedly theyre reallocating subsidies to Techstrum and military programmes. Those fuckers. He nodded and hummed. Youre not the only one. People are outraged. Wouldnt be surprised if a riot breaks out. Is this going to happen? Or is it just, you know, theorised? I really dont need this now. He sleeved a sheen of sweat from his brow, looking torn. The chances are high itll take place. It pretty much always does. All really people can do is pray it wont last very long, which, as you know, is wishful thinkin. I truly am sorry to tell you. Isolde chuckled. She simply could not believe what she was hearing. Softly, she said, I dont know what Im gonna do. This is.... Jesus Christ. Cant they let us just have one thing? Cant they? Your only hope is applying for a job at Techstrum, he said. They have a lot of openings. Pharmaceutical roles, too. Sooner or later a lot of the other jobs are gonna either be wiped out or therell be massive layoffs. Those assholes? The ones who are causing all this? Who invited them here anyway? He shrugged. Ah, well, the state must have taken an interest in their tech, I suppose. Lot of eggheads. Developed some cybernetic stabilisers, the kind that keep soldiers or high-level execs from burning out their heavy augments. Guessing they contracted them to enhance law enforcement and probably streamline factory operations. Cheap labour. I knew theyd start outsourcing overseas eventually. N.A.s been sinking for decades. Isolde was looking at Silas with a mixture of shock and wariness. She could understand that. With everything that was going in the city, the chronic inflation, the market drop-offs and large corporate layoffs, it was only a matter of time before theyd hire outside help to keep the rich rich and the poor even poorer. Maybe if theyd work on civilising the two sides of society they wouldnt have to do such things, thought Isolde, but of course, the government would seize any excuse to avoid digging that deep into their pocketsespecially not for common folk. Perhaps it was fear that held them back, the idea that such lowly folk would be ungrateful, that they might even try betray the bureaucracy. She didnt know. That was where her understanding ended and her hatred began. Silas hated them, too, but she believed he was more content with it all. He had a job selling books and tools made from scrap pieces hed pick up at markets, shops, and sometimes even junkyards. He didnt have to worry about missing bills or having a crazy landlord paint humiliating messages on his door. He was something of an engineer, although hed told her on numerous occasions that he didnt possess any formal training or education. Shed known him for some years now, met him at a kiosk. He sold a lot of books but didnt read much, if at all, but Isolde love to read, both fiction and non-fiction alike. Stuff like this, howeverstuff about welfare cuts, lay-offs, and rising costsmade her wish she was illiterate. I dont feel so well, she said, dropping the newspaper on the carpet. Softly, she asked, What am I gonna do? Her arms hung loosely at her sides, and she stared at the fluorescent light strip running across the ceiling. It flickered. Silas stepped over and knelt before her, just as he had done with Elysia, but this time he didnt have something to pull out of his pocket, something that would make the problem go away. Instead, he picked up the newspaper, folded it, and then stuffed it back in his interior jacket pocket. He patted Isoldes knee. Whatever happens, I wont just let you end up on the streets. Ill think of something. Ill ask around. Make some phone calls. See what I can find. Push comes to shove I can help out with payments. Isolde shook her head, staving off tears. She spun around on the swivel chair, pressing her face into her hands, her elbows propped on the desk. No, she said, her voice muffled. This is my problem. Im not going to drag you down with me. Ill figure it out. I just need some time. Silas gave her a reassuring pat on the back, then gently massaged it in soothing circles. If you ever need me, Im a phone call away. She turned to face him. Thanks, Silas. There was silent for a moment. The sound of the fluorescent light strip thrummed in it. Silas stood up, put his beanie on, and said, Ill head out. It was nice talking, Isolde. She smiled ruefully. Watch your step on the way out. Once again, I appreciate everything. He nodded, pressed the scannerlock, and the door hissed open, the metallic panels gliding apart with a soft hum. It was a little grindy, from decades of use and no renovations, but it held up just fine. Enjoy your evening. And he was on his way.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. The door slid closed. Isolde rubbed her eyes. She wasnt crying; only tired. She grabbed the crumpled job applications and started piling them away into the wastebasket, and paused once she heard the sound of her daughters door hum open. When she looked over, Elysia was standing there, rabbit doll grasped firmly, her gaze unfocused and distant, as if staring through the room rather than at it. Her face was calm but unreadable, a blank slate except for the faint furrow of her brow, hinting at some quiet, inward thought. How Isolde sometimes wished to hear her thoughts, to know how her daughter felt about all of this, but she understood that a girl like her didnt understand, or wouldnt understand, such injustice. It didnt matter. What mattered was making things better. Elysia walked unsteadily over to her mother and, out of the blue, wrapped her in a tight hug. It was so unexpected, and perhaps so unlike her, that a tear graced Isoldes eye. She kissed the top of Elysias head, then turned back to the desktop computer. She still had the job-search website open, and she saw, near the top, a new job alert. The title of the job sparked intense curiosity. Neurochemical Development Specialist. But then her eyes landed on the company name listed alongside the job description: Techstrum. It was a longshot, and she felt uneasy about applying to a company who indirectly made things worse for society, for those on the lower end of the ladder, but she didnt really have a choice in the matter. She had to apply everywhere, get something, fast, before everything went to hell. She spent some time fixing up her resume and personalising it to match the job description. Even wrote up a cover letter, more detailed than ever, explaining her experience, her educational background, and, perhaps most importantly, her circumstances. She mentioned that she was on the brink of homelessness, and that she had an autistic daughter to take care of. It was an emotional cover letter, and may have even destroyed her chances, or, she thought hopefully, increased them. Perhaps whoever was hiring at this agency had a heart, and would at the very least invite her for an interview. Her hand shooknot with shock or fear, but with nervesas she guided the mouse pointer down towards the bottom-right corner and hit Submit. Please, she murmured. She leaned back on the swivel and let out a sigh while her daughter played with her plushies on the beanbag. Isolde was partially relieved, having completed such a long resume, but she also felt weary. It was like a heavy fishhook had sunk into the back of her sweater and was slowly reeling her down a very long, very dark corridor, like she was being pulled into waters too deep for her to handle, and into hands too large and bulky for her to escape. The next day, Isolde threw on a thin raincoat and ventured through the apartment complex towards the market down on Lower Elm Street, telling Elysia to stay put while she was out. She didnt like bringing her daughter to the market, because it tended to get very busy in the early mornings to late afternoons, and she had a sinking feeling that one day she would lose track of her, or that some sicko would swoop in and snatch her from her grasp. It wasnt difficult to see why someone would think that way. Lower Elm Street had a higher crime rate than most, because in the market most of the drug deals and illegal trades occurred, under the tarps, in the alleys. Some didnt even try to hide it. She was looking for two things: eggs and milk. That was all she could really afford right now; she had a budget to watch, and it wasnt getting any larger. Temperatures were in the low forties. Colder than she would have liked it to be, but it was the winter. Things were already on the brink of freezing, although weather control operatives were busy clearing streets of black ice. The market sprawled beneath a web of buzzing signs and sagging palm-oil tarps. The ground was slick, patched with frost that weather control must have missed or not even cared to clear. She had to watch her feet. This wasnt the time to add a hospital bill to her already growing list of problems. She cleared her throat, looking for the D&Psign, Dairy and Poultry, as it were. It wasnt a difficult sign to miss, because it was shabbier than most of the others, with a missing A that made it look like Diaries and Poultry, she once thought funnily, but it tended to move from place to place, and this was an enormous market. It spanned more than a block alone, was built into the side of an apartment complex, and dominated the entire street for the early half of every day. Vendors called out in raspy voices, their breaths visible in the chill, haggling with needy passersby who clutched to their ragged winter wears and counted every eddie like it might be their lastand it very well might have been. The air was sharp and smelled oddly of damp cardboard, with the faint acrid tang of ozone, no doubt coming from those overbearing streetlamps. Eggs and milk. Simple things. Yet Isolde wandered aimlessly between the stalls, nearly swallowed by the crowd on more than one occasion, noticing that even the basics were more out than reach that they had been a month ago. Fifty eddies for a small slab of butter. What on Earth was happening? People must have been preparing for what was to come. The crowd started to thin out a little, near the upper steps of the apartment complex, leading into the entrance which was packed with vending machines, smokers, and, to her surprise, NACP units out on patrol. Their uniforms seemed to get upgrades quite often. Sleek, black exoskeletons snaked along their spines and branched out across their limbs, the matte material catching no light, absorbing, controlling, and moulding all warmth and life around them. Over their shoulders, armoured plates jutted out like mechanical wings. Dark, heavy visors masked their faces. Below them, angular helmets twisted into crisp, insectoid points, while their chest plates puffed out with lionlike pride, bearing the words NACP in cold, snow-white characters. Even the way they stood, thought Isolde, was so... rigid and perfect. Inhumane. She wasnt looking into the faces of people who swore to protect and serve but rather the dark, foreboding, controlling, predatory glares of the devils henchmen themselves. She figured it was best to stay out of their way, but, poor luck would have it, that the D&P was located just a little past them. The cheapest vendor for milk and eggs, stuck right behind these enforcers. Why the long face, Isolde? a voice called out, slightly high-pitched though evidentially masculine in its resonance. Isolde turned, and after a riptide of commoners cleared from her view, she saw, standing on the other side, a familiar face. He was leaning on a barrel of some sort, his blonde hair spiked up into a miniature mohawk, arms folded, dressed lightly in a belt-bound leather pauldron, denim jacket, cargo jeans, and boots. His eyes were obscured by a thin red line, and he bore a grin that was nothing more than a yellowing line of receding gums and poor dental care. It was Rhyce. Next to him stood a couple of tall, bulky cronies whose faces were so packed with cyberware it was impossible to tell where the flesh started and the electronics began. She hadnt seen this man in years, not since Still hanging round this shitbox, ehhhhhh? He widened his stance, and she could see, between his legs, a barrel of some sort, one swirling with bottle-green liquid. She was curious. That didnt look like a drink. She looked over his shoulder and saw that he had vials of the same liquid neatly squared away in small boxes, with a sign that read: SYNTHETIC STRESS RELIEF. But that didnt look like any stress reliever shed ever seen. They normally came in the form of pills. But this... this looked peculiar. Isolde approached him. You realise theres a couple of blues right around the corner, right? He and his cronies chuckled. He splayed his arms, as if doing nothing wrong. Im selling stress relievers. Totally legal. Nothing they can do about it, and we sure as hell aint givin them a taste. Thats liquid, she said. Youre just asking for trouble. He scowled. Is that a way to say hello to an old friend? She furrowed her brow. Calling him an old friend would be a gross misrepresentation. They dated briefly, over a decade ago, after a chance meeting in a rural bar. Just a temporary fling, at least, for her. Shed been young, restless, and just out of university, broke as a bat, and used to chat up men to get free drinks. It was wrong of her to lead him on like that and not make her intentions clear. She understood that now. But even back then he wasnt the most pleasant person to deal with. Yet here he was. The same rotten smile on his face, the same reckless look in his eyes. What are you doing here? asked Isolde. I thought you were going to move out of N.A. Ay, Rhyce agreed, and he stood aside, slapping the top of the barrel containing the green liquid. Also told you Id be back someday, with a completely new life. She eyed the keg more closely this time, squinting. The liquid sloshed, as if there was something swimming around, but it was too thick to make out what exactly. What is that? Rhyce grinned. Cool, right? he said. Isolde wouldnt say cool. More creepy than anything. He clears his throat. This is Ghostfire. She cocked an eyebrow at him. Ghostfire? He grabbed one of the vials and held it inches from her face. She recoiled slightly, but he beckoned for her to grab it, so she did. The liquid was warm, and she could feel it moving around beneath her fingertips. She sniffed it, expecting it to have some strong drug smell, but it was odourless. What does it do? she asked. Well, I fell in with a gang out in The Scrubs, he said, referring the desertlike scrublands along the border of the city. Chemical geniuses, though not all that rich. This chemical is the answer to cyberpsychosis, sweetcheeks. She twisted the vial around, then chuckled. This? This will stop people from going crazy? It looks like it would have the opposite effect. He shook his head. Tested it out. People with intense cyberware upgrades showed reduced symptoms of cyberpsychosis once they injected this into their system. More clearheaded, easier to think. Any scientific explanation for that? Because as far as Im concerned, this is a cash-grab. The primary cause of cyberpsychosis is the neural overload caused by augmentations. Your brains natural pathways are flooded with information, and when those signals cant be properly processed due to an overload or incompatibility with the cybernetics, it fractures the mind. She sounded technical, like she had been back in university. It was deliberate. Youd need something that could not only stabilise the brains neurochemical balance but also enhance its plasticityits ability to adapt to the new augmentations without rejecting them. The brains reward pathways need to be carefully regulated, or else the user will experience a feedback loop of aggression, mania, or apathy. This is probably just another dopamine spiker that provides temporary relief and nothing more. He snorted a laugh. The pig. If you consider a whole month temporary. They tested it on their most decked-out people, had em locked away in case things went wrong, and for a month they were calm and clear-headed before starting to show signs of mania. You really are still stuck-up, arent you? Still talking like you have all the answers, ehhhhhh? She scoffed and thrust the vial back into his chest. He caught it with a lightning quick reaction. Augmented limbs, of course. She could see the wires glowing beneath his skin like pumped-up, bodybuilder veins. He tightened his grip on her hands. She jerked to break free but couldnt. It started to hurt. Let go, she said calmly. Just relax a lil, al-rooooooight? Havent seen you in so long, and yet youre still being a feisty diva. Little old for that, dont you think? She laughed sarcastically. Up close, he smelt like he hadnt showered in days. I just would have wished you never came back. All you do is cause trouble. And you still smell like shit. He took a moment to respond. You know, you used to be a fun girl, he said. Now youre stuck with no one, raising a vege. Yeah, I heard about that. How your man left you once he saw what popped out of the oven. Her eyes flew open, and her skin, once cold and numb, fleshed out with goosebumps, each strand of hair rising like soldiers. Her fists balled, and all the sound around her seemed to dwindle to nothing but a continuous, high-pitched buzz. What did you just fucking say? You heard me, vegemom, he said, and his cronies laughed. Youre angry because you took the hard life that leads nowhere. You could have been someone, but you chose to be no one. Youll never amount to anything so long as youre taking caring of that disgusting, useless, waste-of-space thing. Isolde drew her fist back and thrust it towards his face with all the power a five-foot-eight woman could muster, but it was caught, not by Rhyce or one of his friends, but by a thick, gloved hand. Rhyce let go of her and she turned around. Staring into her was the dark helmet and visor of an NACP officer. There a problem here? the officer said, his voice muffled and staticky through the helmet. Although she could not see his expression, she could tell he was cold on the inside. Rhyce sat back on the barrel and crossed his arms. Just two friends catching up. The officer chuckled, still not letting go of her hand. Typical. Two scrappers fighting over pittance. Any more out of you two and youll end up behind bars. Watch it. You understand me? He spoke so menacingly, as if a murder had been committed. Rhyce nodded. All good, chief. You have a good day now. The officer let go and looked at me. On your way. She stepped back, looked at Rhyce and his stupid dog grin, doing her best to fight off tears, and took a deep breath. She moved away and went over to the D&P to purchase eggs and milk. They were more expensive than last time, too, but she didnt care about that. All she cared about was making that asshole suffer. the weight of small hands - 3.2 3.2 so fast. Just when she thought she got the better of them, they were no sooner out of reach. After a while, feeling slightly exhausted, Isolde crawled out of sight and hid behind one of the bushes, waiting for a bunny to approach. Once she sawand feltthe bunnies scurry under her arm, she listened as Elysias pattering footsteps drew closer. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. RENT IS DUE Silas Harbor I have a surprise for u. Swing by the pier tomorrow around 8am. Booth 7 :) sure thing :P I love you HAPPY LUMINARA 2086! today, maybe not tomorrow, the good will be respected, and the bad will be tossed out on their asses with the rest of the rats. I know it doesnt seem that way, but my gut tells me itll happen. Know that? 107 Crevalle Est. You start Monday, 9am. Best hopes and dreams, Your boss Lucian. the weight of small hands - 3.3 3.3 It turned out that the rumours Silas heard were true. This years Luminara festival was the busiest Isolde had seen since she first arrived in Neo Arcadia in 2079, the same year her husband walked away. Navigating through the crowd wasnt an easy task, especially with her daughter clutching to her side, but shed been so relieved following her discussion with Silas that she barely noticed. It was a little past five oclock in the afternoon, but already the sky was getting dark with faint, shimmering specks emerging and blossoming fully against the encroaching vastness of the cosmos. Stalls lined the promenade in chaotic, colourful rows, spilling over with trinkets, hand-stitched crafts, and freshly grilled street food, everything from noodles to steamed buns to skyfruit skewers. Street performers had their own little wooden stages; some played the violin, some danced with sensu fans, dressed up elegantly in their Japanese dresses, and others juggled torches, though the flames were artificial, creating beautiful cascades of neon that shimmered like liquid rainbows. In the distance, at the far edge of the pier, The Whale loomed over the crowd. Maintenance workers dressed in heavy overalls were finishing up the last bits and pieces, placing candles along the front, lighting them one by one. The front of The Whale had been pulled out to reveal a series of long, rectangular steps, and people sat on them, chowing down and sucking up their sodas through plastic straws. Isolde planned to visit Silas stand, to see how he was doing, to see if she could help out in any wayLord knew he would need it on a night like thisbut, once again, Elysia stopped in her tracks. When Isolde turned to see what she was focused on this time, she noticed the carnival game kiosk, large and lit up with swarming LEDs that snaked around the edges like lightning through a tube. The line to the cotton-candy machine was huge, so huge in fact that it was no longer unmanned but instead controlled by not one but two employees, young teenagers looking to make a quick buck over the holidays. Isolde could see, clearly now, the full range of prizes available in the back row, and indeed one of them had been a large white rabbit with pink eyes. Not quite as large as a vendors cart, but large enough for Elysia to sink her teeth into. The game itself was a type of ring toss. She watched as one of the children threw rings at cylindrical pegs, failing miserably. Interesting. She and Elysia approached the kiosk and waited in line. She noticed it was ten eddies a try for basic prizes, but for the larger ones, the animal plushies, it was twenty-five. Ouch. Lot of dough. But that meant there must have been a setting embedded, or perhaps a change of rules, that made it more difficult to win. Looking around, it seemed that the toy animals were completely stacked, meaning no one won, and no one would win. Many in front of her attempted the more difficult challenge, but they all failed, one by one, until it was her turn in line. The middle-aged man behind the kiosk bore a smile so fake it was almost a scowl. His salt-and-pepper hair curled over his ears, barely tamed by an N.A. Anglers cap, and his apron, once clean and white, was stained down to a dusty brown. Which you want? he snapped. Small prize or big prize? Isolde waited a little before responding. She just needed a moment to think. What way does it work? Do we get to choose the prize beforehand, or do you select one at random? You want the rabbit? he said. She raised an eyebrow. Yeswe do. How did you He pointed at Elysia, not saying a word. Isolde looked at her, and she was holding the stitched rabbit doll in her right hand. She didnt even notice until now; Elysia must have kept it hidden in her coat pocket. The man cleared his throat. I can offer up the bunny, but you have to beat Level 2. Thirty eddies. But the sign says Listen, Im doing you a favour here by pre-selecting the prize, he said. Thatll cost extra. And cash only, no electronic transfer. He tapped the sign that confirmed the payment method. Three coins, now hurry up. Theres a line behind you. Isolde didnt like the idea of paying extra, but she decided it wasnt worth the argument. With a sigh, she pulled out her wallet, fished out three ten-eurodollar coins, and slapped them onto the table. The man scooped them up, examined one by biting it, and then tossed them into the register with a flick of his wrist. The games called Ring Rush, he said, grabbing a small remote from his pocket. With a click, the pegs on the board slid back slightly, increasing the challenge. He stepped away to collect the neon rings left behind by the last player, speaking over his shoulder as he worked. Youve got six rings. Toss them from where youre standing and land them on the pegs. Green pegs are worth ten points, blue are thirty, and purple are fifty. Easy enough to remember? Isolde nodded, eyeing the setup. So, the points are based on distance. More or less, he replied. The green pegs were closest, standing stout and stable, the blue ones were farther back with a narrower base, and the purple ones sat almost at the very edge of the board, flickering intermittently like taunting strobe lights. Each time they blinked, they left faint afterimages in her vision, making it even harder to aim. She frowned slightly. The chances of her securing one hundred points in six rings or less were slim. Now she understood how no one had won any of the big prizes yet. It was a scam. Is there a time limit? Isolde asked. If you take too long, Ill tell you to get a move on, he said, handing her the rings. But, technically, there aint. Just dont hog it. There are other people who wanna give it a go. You can start now. He stood out of the way, folding his arms, looking unimpressed. Isolde decided it would be best to aim close for her first shot. She stood back, aimed for one of the green pegs, and tossed the ring. The ring landed on the top slightly, but slid clean off, in a way she couldnt have predicted. How was that possible? It could have only slid off like that if there was a force, such as airflow. An idea came to mind. She placed her hand over the kiosk, and she could feel cool air blowing against her skin. The man had a fan in the back, set up deliberately beneath the shelf. He snatched her hand and pushed it away. No leaning over the counter. Sorry, she said, tossing another ring, this time aiming for the green peg to the far right, away from the airflow. It landed, and a screen containing her score popped up on a hologram, updating from 0 to 10. Then she noticed something else: the light pattern in the board itself. The neon fixtures zipping through the pegs werent random, but deliberate. Every time the light completed a full journey across the tubes and up to the tips, the glowing bases vibrated, just slightly. It seemed plausible that it was to encourage the player to throw only when the pegs were at their brightest, not when dim. That way the vibration would be more likely to knock the ring off balance. So, she waited, and waited, watching as the light travelling through the tubes completed its pattern and climbed up one of the blue pegs. Three... two... one.... She tossed the ring, and it flew gracefully onto the blue peg, a perfect landing. The score updated to 40, and now the crowd stepped forward, intrigued. She landed it? one man said. Things just got interesting, a woman said. It was surprising, because the blue pegs were much farther away than they would have been had she opted for the smaller prize. Four rings left. Sixty points to go. She knew what her next step would be: to toss a ring on the same peg, but her plan was put to a stop before it even began, because not even five seconds after having completed the throw, the peg sank into the board, leaving only the other blue peg, and it was positioned directly in the path of the airflow. Of course. She should have known it wouldnt be that simple. She took a different approach. She knew it would be next to impossible to go for another thirty points, so she aimed for the right green peg again. She repeated her technique, waiting for the light to travel through the tube, and when it fell down again, she tossed the ring. It landed, granting her another ten points, leaving only fifty to go. However, this time, like the blue peg, it sank into the board, and now her only options were the purple pegs all the way in the back, because the air was passing directly over the blue and green, making them virtually impossible targets. Three left, and she only needed to land one; it was that easy, and that hard. The purple ones were different. They had flashing lights, likely an intentional safeguard in case anyone figured out the pattern. She did her best to analyse them, hoping there was something she could exploit to increase her chances of success, but without being able to see the tube light, it was impossible. Shed have to guess, and not only that: shed have to throw high, because with the air passing down the board the ring would likely get blown away well before it went the distance. She waited for the light to travel up the tube again, and counted down from three before tossing. She missed. Frankly, it didnt even come close. The crowd oohed. Gonna need you to speed it up, the man said, leaning against the table. She took a moment, waited for the pattern to repeat itself, and tossed another ring. This time it nearly landed, but fell short because the arch was too low, causing the air to misdirect the fall. Shit. Her heart raced. She felt something tugging on her arm. She looked down and saw that it was Elysia. Isolde wondered what she could have wanted, or what she could have been trying to say, but when she saw the look in her eyes, those sweet, little, angelic eyes, she could tell that her daughter understood, on a level so deep and pure, what was at stakeand perhaps it meant very little to your average parent, but to her, she would climb the mountain of hell and back if it meant she got to see her daughter happy, to see her smile. Isolde took a deep breath, furling her brow in concentration. She changed her footing, placing one leg forward and one leg behind, as if brandishing a bow and arrow. She watched the light travel along the tubes once more, bit by bit, across the board and up the little peg, and she waited. Three. She drew her elbow back, positioning the throw. Two. She kept her eyes steady and exhaled slowly. One. She tossed the neon ring and it glided through the air, leaving a glowtail in its path. It arched high, well above the air, and descended in what felt like slow motion. Down it went, with precision, focus, and determination. It landed, and the score updated to 100. The crowd erupted with cheers, whistles, and applause. Isolde couldnt believe it. She had actually won this rotten cheaters game. Shed not felt this kind of excitement since she was a little child. She picked up Elysia and carried her in one arm, grinning broadly. She was smiling, too, and that touched Isoldes heart.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. I guess theres a lucky one in every game, the man behind the kiosk said, grabbing the white rabbit from the shelf. It was wedged in there good; he had to tug a couple times to get it down. He approached them and handed the life-sized animal plushie over to Elysia. She cant speak, said Isolde, but if she could, shed say thank you. I can see it in her eyes, the man said. Then, to the crowd, he shouted, All right, whos next? Isolde put Elysia on the ground and let her carry the huge plushie around for a bit, but it was clearly too big and perhaps too heavy, so she decided to tuck it under her armpit and approach Silas kiosk in the distance, asking if she could place it in the back until later. He had no issue with thatnot that she thought he wouldand even pointed out that one of the vendors had a pets-for-sale stand on the opposite side with a caged jackrabbit. It would surely be out of her price range, but she saw no harm in having a look at it later. She offered to help Silas with some of the work, because all around him people were grabbing books and lining up to pay, along with the tools hed stocked underneath. He shook his head as he often did, telling her to enjoy herself. No surprise there. Shed also made a promise. Elysia tugged on Isoldes jacket sleeve again, looking suddenly distraught. She raised her hand, splaying two fingers. It was a way of saying she had to poopone of the more important signs shed taught her in case she was having an emergency in publicso Isolde looked around. There werent any outhouses like there normally would be. There clearly wasnt enough space given the sheer number of vendors that showed up this year. She decided to ask one of the people behind the stands, and they pointed her back in the direction of The Whale. There was a set of steps to the far-right side that led down to the beach. Supposedly it contained an outhouse, though shed never heard of it, probably because shed never been down there before. She escorted Elysia along the pier and down the steps. The outhouse was there alright. There had also been tonnes of scrap metal, used tyres, broken furniture, and car doors buried into the sand. Underneath the pier, there were homeless folk with tarps set up, huddling around a drum fire. To think that Isolde had come so close to joining them, to being on the streets. Had Silas not been blessed with such an enormous heart that might have become reality. She was so utterly grateful. She also felt terrible for the people suffering, with no place to go and families to feed. Maybe one day, she thought hopefully, when she was in a good spot financially she might be able to offer a hand, just as Silas did, but for now she had her own problems, and a pretty large mouth to feed. She opened the outhouse door. It wasnt nearly as dirty on the inside as it appeared on the outside, and it still had a full roll of toilet paper, along with a washbasin. She let Elysia head inside, closing the door behind her. Isolde waited, and waited, listening to the sounds of the festival radiate through the cold evening. She shivered a little. It was supposed to get down to minus-two around seven oclock, so she figured that would be a good a time as any to wrap things up and head back for the weekend. She wanted to stick around for the speeches and the lightshow. It was a tradition shed held onto ever since she was a little girl, but she also enjoyed what people had to say. She particularly wanted to know how the community planned to cope with the inflation and pay-cuts, because not everyone would be so lucky. Elysia took her timeshe was something of a shy pooperand as Isolde looked around at the junk spread out across the beach, something shiny caught her eye. She approached the rubble, got down on one knee, careful not to prick herself on the broken bottles, and picked up the shiny object. It didnt take her long to recognise what it was: a vial. In particular, one of Rhyces vials; she knew by the green smear of liquid running along the inside, becoming thick and gooey at the bottom. Funny I should see you here, a voice said, and she knew, even without looking, who it belonged to. She turned slowly. It was Rhyce alright, but there was something different about him; he wasnt surrounded by any of his cronies, at least not yet, and his face looked strange: sharper, almost unnaturally symmetrical, with a metallic sheen glinting under the moonlight. His left eye was no longer flesh but a glowing, crimson implant that whirred as it adjusted its focus. Along his neck, faint seams betrayed the outline of dermal plating, and his movements had an unsettling fluidity, as though his muscles had been swapped for something synthetic, something stronger. His ears were replaced with cables, or perhaps tubes, that swerved up and around his cranium, bearing the shape of mouflon horns. Carefully, very carefully indeed, Isolde grabbed a piece of broken bottle and stood up, keeping to the side so as to not reveal it. She moved over to the outhouse again, mouth gaping, eyes focused but frightened all the same. She wasnt entirely sure how to respond. Eventually, however, she broke the silence and said, What do you want? Relax. He turned slightly, revealing a contraption attached to his back: a cylindrical canister tinted with a green hue. The liquid, Ghostfire. I''m here for the same reasons you are: the lightshow and the speeches. I think the communitys going to want to hear what I have to say. Youre speaking? she said, thinking that he wasnt the sort to talk about hope or justice. She didnt trust him, not one bit. You only just got back here.... Listen, Id much rather you leave me alone, Rhyce. Nows not the time. He stepped towards her, and she noticed something else that she hadnt before: in his left hand was a beer bottle that was near three-quarters empty. She got a whiff of the alcohol and body odour off him; it was so pungent she almost gagged. You know, he said, walking around her, there was a time where I actually cared about you, know? A time where I was stupid enough to fall for that classy, fresh-out-of-college smile and spend all my hard-earned money on you, up until of course you left me, left the whole district at that, taking my money with you. The toilet flushed in the outhouse, and the faucet began running. Isolde didnt say a word. Shes with you, isnt she? Rhyce took another swig of his beer, downed it all in one gulp, then biffed his chest twice before letting out a belch so gross she caught wind of it from more than a yard away. Isolde grimaced. Rhyce, you need to leave, now, before something really bad happens. She felt the door of the outhouse begin to creep open, but she shoved back on it, keeping it shut. Youve had too much to drink, and youre not thinking straight. Not that he was a straight-thinker when he was sober, but this was something else entirelya volatile mix of suppressed rage and bravado that made her stomach churn, like staring into the eyes of a pit bull who finally gnawed through its abusive owners leash. Rhyce looked up at the pier, pointing the empty bottle. This is what you wanted, he said. You decided to take all my money and come to this fucking place. Arent you a real piece of shit, Isolde? Not only that, but youre a thief, too. Bet you never told your vegetable child that. She took a deep breath, trying to control her fear, but it was floating up her throat like hot gas. Im sorry I used you, she said sincerely. I was young, I was stupid, and I was afraid. You scared me when you drank. Youd get angry. You had a problemhave a problem. It was wrong of me to steal, but I can pay it all back. He looked at her with a brow so furled it seemed as though he was about to strike, and Isolde tightened her grip on the broken bottle. You dont even have a job, he said, turning to her. But there is another way you can repay me. She looked into his eyes, startled. Rhyce, dont be stupid. Now he pointed the bottle at her. Come here, he said. Ill write your debt away. Nice and easy. He dropped the bottle, walking towards her, one heavy, ground-eating stomp at a time. Elysia began banging on the door of the outhouse, trying to break free. She tried to tell him to back off once more, but the words were caught in her throat, and that hot, steaming fear had rolled up her body and wrapped itself around her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs. Every instinct screamed at her to protect her daughter, but her hands trembled, her voice faltered, and she was frozen. You want me? she managed, and he slowed down. Ill be honest, she added, trying to hide the quaver in her voice, but no doubt failing. Its been so long since Ive had a big man take care of my needs. Ive been so... stressed. But if youre willing to let everything go for a little fun, then trust me when I say Im more than happy to oblige. He looked at her thoughtfully, and his furled brow relaxed, now underwritten by a pair of gentle, understanding eyes. I promise you, he said, itll be nice and easy. Another bang from the outhouse door, this time with more force. Elysia, Isolde yelled, stay inside. Well only be a moment. Rhyce fell silent, brooding. He was close now, very close. He reached down to his belt buckle and began to undo his pants. Slowly, he grabbed her by her chin and pulled her into a kiss. His breath smelled awful, just as it had over a decade ago, but she went along with it. When he reached for the zipper on her coat, she tensed her muscles and, with all the power she could muster, swung the shattered bottle up and around, sticking it right into his eye. Rhyce fell back with a scream, blood pooling down his face. Isolde yanked the outhouse door open, snatched Elysias hand, and made a beeline for the pier steps. You bitch! Rhyce shouted, now sounding fully enraged. She glanced back, only for a second, and saw that he still hadnt picked himself up off the ground. She brought her daughter up the steps, moving as quickly as possible, heading back to the crowd, away from that monsters sight. People watched with confused glares, perhaps wondering why she was in such a panic, but then she noticed that some of the blood had gotten on the neck of her jacket and the lower part of her right cheek. She headed over to Silas kiosk, finding that the line had dwindled partially, although not by much, and asked him for some wet wipes, offering to pay. He was concerned, asking where the blood was from, but Isolde was too frightened to explain. She was just happy that shed gotten away and was now surrounded by people. He wouldnt dare to chase her up here, not if he didnt want to get arrested or, worse yet, beaten to death. If there was one thing she could say was certain about the southsiders, it was that when push came to shove, and lives were on the line, they would rise up and work together. They wouldnt just let a mother and child be subjected to physical abuse or danger. Shed witnessed it before, read about it on the news. They might not have had a lot of money, but doing the right thing didnt cost a single eddy, and in that sense, they were richer than most. Silas handed her the wet wipes free of charge, but held on to the neck of her jacket, looking her coldly in the eyes. Who was down there? She explained the whole situation, that Rhyce was her ex-boyfriend from over a decade ago and that shed taken his money to flee and hide in Neo Arcadia, to start a new life. She explained that he was a drinker, and had been selling dopamine boosters, labelling them as stress relievers. She mentioned what he intended to do to her in lieu of her repaying the money shed stolen, and as soon as he heard that, he picked up his phone and called the police. He temporarily put a halt to the business, stepping away for better audio, telling her to watch the stand while he was gone. She waited for what must have been five minutes, comforting Elysia, who, while she wasnt crying, Isolde could tell was upset. She knew. It was difficult to put into words how she knew; it simply came down to that mothers intuition that God graced every lady with the moment their firstborn was pulled out of the womb. A connection, a bond, that no one could take away. After a while, Silas came back to the stand, telling her that the blues were on their way and would arrive in the next ten minutes, a slow-response unit, looking to take a statement, a description, anything they could get their hands on to track this person down. Whether or not they would actually follow through on this promise was another question, but at the very least if comforted Isolde to know that he wouldnt just be another face in the crowd anymore, that if he did try to set up a stand and sell his phony product an NACP officer would pull him, toss him into the deepest, darkest cell of the toughest prison in the country, never to be seen again, at least not for another long while yet. The stage lights of The Whale suddenly flashed on, pointing inwards, lighting up the cyclorama, and the crowd, once bustling and sprawling with hubbub, quietened, watching as a man dressed in a plain white shirt and slacks walked to the centre, holding a script in one hand and a microphone in the other. How are we doing Neo Arcadiaaaaaa? he yelled enthusiastically. The crowd roared in applause and cheers. Lets make some motherfuckin noise for 2086! The crowd loudened more; Isolde even joined in on the claps, though she certainly was much more reserved than most. She was still getting over what happened, after all. The man nodded and raised a hand, doing the peace sign, two fingers splayed, thumb tucked underneath. We have an exciting list of events for you this year, because we thought wed go all out given those nasty government changes. First things first, Id like to thank each and every one of you for making it tonight. This is by far the biggest Luminara event weve had, with over five thousand southsiders filling the docks and pier. The atmosphere is absolutely electric and it goes to show that no one and nothing can stop us from banding together. The north can try push us down all they want, but we have something they dont: strength in numbers. More applause from the crowd. Now Id like to start off todays list of events with everybodys favourite: the lightshow, the man continued, reading the script. In the previous years, we The crowd suddenly shifted reaction, more to confusion than to excitement. She didnt know why at first, but then she saw someonesome peopleclimbing up the right-hand side of the stage. A sharp breath escaped Isoldes lips. It was Rhyce, blood still oozing from his eye, this time with his cronies standing behind him. The man with the script laughed awkwardly. Guys, I appreciate the enthusiasm, but nows not the time to He didnt even manage to get a full sentence out when Rhyce marched up to him, grabbed the microphone, and pushed him onto the wooden floor. The crowd loudened with confusion, wondering who on Earth this person was or what he wanted. Isolde knew, oh Isolde knew very well, and she couldnt wait for the blues to show up and arrest him on the spot. Behind him, one of his cronies carried the same keg of Ghostfire that was on display in the market. He lugged it along by the handle, grinding the outer rim against the wood. He set it upright at the centre of the stage, then stepped aside, allowing Rhyce to sit on it. His goons gathered around him, arms folded, their soulless, cybernetic faces staring into the crowd. Hello Neo Arcadia, Rhyce said. Have I got a proposition for you. The crowds reaction was not a cheer or a murmur, but a wave of uneasy silence, punctuated only by the faint hum of Ghostfire radiating from the keg like a heartbeat in the dark. the weight of small hands - 3.4 3.4 Rhyce smirked, clearing his throat. All the glass had been removed from his eye; the blood, however, remained, slipping down his cheek and dripping off his chin in tiny, unsettling droplets. Look at you, he said, sweeping a hard gaze across the crowd. Dancing, singing, spending whatever little eddies you have on these stupid little games. Meanwhile the government is taking more and more of your money, your jobs, your homes. And you all want to stare blankly at some fireworks. He got up and started walking across the stage, eyes to the floor. You know, its exactly events like this that got the south into deep shit to begin with. They throw us a bone and we roll over once a year, hoping we dont stand up and do anything about it, but how many of you are willing to lose people? Friends? Family? Sisters, brothers, daughters.... Well, I have a massive revelation for you all. A revelation? Who does he think he is? The Holy Messiah? The crowd buzzed with a blend of emotionssome dismissed him as crazy, others held their breaths, wanting to hear more, and then there were those like Silas and Isolde, who wanted that bastard dead. Rhyce snuck a hand into his inside jacket pocket, as if drawing a pistol, but to Isoldes relief, and perhaps everyone elses, he pulled out a piece of paperno, a blueprint or schematics of some sort. He opened it up. Our little friends from The Scrubs got their hands on some very peculiar documents leaked by an insider at the corporate giant Techstrum, he said. Thought Id read it out to yall. Might be worth considering the next time you wanna celebrate poverty. He cleared his throat again and began to read: Prototype name: Seraph. Primary Function: Optimize neural pathways to enhance compliance and reduce erratic cognitive behaviours. Secondary function: Adjust memory storage and regulate emotional responses to improve system efficiency. The device utilises a network of microfilament conductors that interface seamlessly with core cognitive frameworks, enabling precise, real-time adjustments to both short-term and long-term memory matrices. Upon activation, the Seraph Device generates a calibrated electromagnetic field, fine-tuned to stabilise neural oscillations, effectively neutralising resistance or impulsive decision-making. For remote operations, the system is equipped with a secure activation protocol, allowing commands to be executed wirelessly, ensuring responsiveness without requiring direct physical interaction. Designed to streamline functionality and maintain performance integrity in high-demand environments. The device can be remotely activated through a secure signal, permitting the controller to impose commands without physical contact. Prototype testing shows a 67% success rate in controlling basic motor processes, with a 72% compliance rate in complex cognitive tasks. Specimens remain active during the process, but their resistance is minimised through a gradual recalibration of their neural impulses. He looked up from the paper. Or, in simple, plain English, this is a mind-control device, and we are the specimens. The people roared with outrageunderstandably so. Still, Isolde couldnt shake the thought that this was all just a web of lies, crafted to incite panic and drive the people into a riot. Oh, Rhyce said, and the crowd quietened. In case you think this is fake or made up by some conspiracy theorist living in his moms basement, I think you should take a look at this. He walked over to the cyclorama, found a port, and jacked his neural wire into the central computer. The cyclorama flashed on, turned black, then switched to show a digital version of the leaked corporate documents. Highlighted and underlined at the bottom was a single paragraph next to a signature: Authorized by the Neo Arcadia Defense Council. Classified Project: Seraph. All rights reserved under Council Order 3021-A. The chiefs name, Kent Silverwood, was stamped in black underneath. The blueprint alone couldnt prove Rhyces claimsit might just as easily have been an elaborate hoaxbut it didnt matter. Chaos erupted around her. Voices clashed: accusations of madness, fragments of Ive heard this before, and angry demands for his immediate arrest. The truth was that this conspiracy was not new. Itd been making the rounds for decades after an ex-agent for the government claimed to have been part of a programme dedicated to infusing nanobots in food so that they could monitor people, tracking everyones location to lead to a more efficient save-and-arrest process, but those claims had long been debunked and the agent had been deemed a psychotic whistleblower with a track record of corporate fibs. Someone like Rhyce, someone as reckless and cunning.... It made sense that hed latch onto such a belief and try to weaponise it, the monster. Theyre planning to control us, Rhyce yelled through the clamour. People listened. He got down on one knee and slapped the top of the Ghostfire keg, then ran his hand along the glass. It was difficult to make out, but there was a shadow swimming around in there, following his fingers. After a moment, he stood up and paced the stage again, this time facing the crowd in their entirety. This, ladies and gentlemen, is a chemical devised by some of the greatest minds in the state. Once the insider revealed these classified documents, they set out on creating a repellent, something to ward off the effects, and not only that: something to make us stronger, less susceptible to cyberpsychosis. Its the answer to man over machine, to the south over the north.... Our greatest weapon against the elites Thats a lie, a voice said, stopping him in his tracks. Isolde never would have imagined it in a million years, especially with so many people watching and listening, but the voice was hers, and it was stronger than ever. She let go of Elysias hand, approached the steps of the stage but stopped short of climbing them. You told me this was just a cyberpsychosis treatment, which is also a lie. Cyberpsychosis cant be simply cured by some magic medicine from a meth lab near the borderlands. She turned to face the crowd. To everyone listening: it sounds convincing, but as a scientist, I assure you it is all one big, fat lie from an even bigger liar. Before Rhyce could respond, someone else jutted in. So, youre the man. It was Silas. She watched as he stood out from under the kiosk tarp, arms crossed, a smirk tugging on his lips. I have to admit, I thought youd look a bit tougher than this, seein that you have no problem sexually assaultin the mother of an autistic child. A wave of shock rippled through the crowd. Rhyce wiped the blood from his eye, leaving a dark smear across his skin. He burped, then gathered his words, slouching slightly. I didnt sexually assault no one. That ladys nothing but a thief. Stole my money, everything I had. Cant blame me for trying to get it back. Theres getting it back and forcing sex as collateral, Silas said, his voice cold and menacing. He paused. Stand up straight when Im talking to you, punk. Let the whole of the south see what a spineless weasel you are. You can call me whatever you want, pal, Rhyce said. But the point stands: the government are plannin to control us all. To all of you listenin: dont let this man distract you. You can waste away and ignore this, or you can protect yourselves, your family. A voice called out from the crowd: Now, say here, you sound like all those other whistleblowers. By Gods name high and mighty, I aint puttin that stuff in my body, specially with a sex-offendin advocate tellin us about some old conspiracies. Yeah, another man yelled, his voice carrying a thick Texan accent. You and that dunky walk are gonna need a lot more proof than a slip of paper to convince us. The crowd cheered. You aint nobody but a rat from the streets! Another cheer. And we ought to call the exterminator and get you out of here before you infest the rest of us decent folk! Specially after what you did to this lady. We wont stand for that, will we folks? A unanimous No! And I think its about time we do somethin, aint that right folks? The crowd''s eruption roared like a miniature earthquake. Isolde felt their voices thrumming through the boards, threatening to shatter the pier as if it were a fragile thread stretched too tight. Together, the southsiders pressed forward, surrounding the stage, leaving no angle for them to escape. As people crept up onto The Whale and Rhyces goons eased off, unsure of what to do or how they could overcome such enormous group power, Isolde felt an overwhelming sense of satisfaction. This was it, revenge. She never knew it could taste so sweet. She turned back to grab Elysias hand and wait for the policewith everyone keeping him captive, there was no need to occupy his time or entertain his silly little beliefsbut she was surprised to find that her daughter was no longer behind her. Isolde gave a look around, thinking she might have sat by the life-sized bunny plushie behind Silas kiosk, but that hadnt moved, and Elysia was still nowhere to be seen. Soon, the surprise turned to fear, and the fear turned to ruthless, air-sucking panic. She called Elysias name over and over, navigating through the crowd, but the clamour was too loud. She asked some of the people if theyd seen her, a little girl with white hair, but they hadnt; everyone had been too focused on Rhyce and his stupid conspiracy. Where was she?Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. It dawned on Isolde: something Silas mentioned earlier, about the jackrabbit on the opposite side, under the pets-for-sale stand. She searched for it, nearly swallowed whole by the patrons, spotting it in the distance. Once she broke free from the crowd and could see clearly, she saw that there had indeed been animals: puppies, kittens, and a lizard, each contained in their own cage. One of the cages, however, was empty with the sliding latch pulled loose. The label beneath it read in black marker: JACK RABIT. Isolde panted, struggling to form thoughts. Elysia could be anywhere in the damn festival looking for that thing; she could have gotten lost, or worse, taken. Tears welled and her hands began to shake. She called her name again, and again, and again. Only one voice responded. Ms. Crane? She turned, faced with a pair of NACP officers, one short and one tall, both dressed up in their formal wear, helmets shimmering in the light of the carnival game stand. My daughter, Isolde cried hoarsely. Wuh-white hair. Short. Wearing a blue coat. Chasing a rabbit. Please tell me youve seen her! But the officers attentions veered off elsewhere, towards the cyclorama. The tall female officer said, Oh, dear Lord, brushed her aside with her heavy, thickly gloved hand, and approached the stage, the male officer following her lead. They each pulled a pair of sleek, matte-black pistols from their hip holsters, their barrels glowing with a soft, cobalt-blue light. Listen to me! Isolde screamed, her voice breaking as tears streamed down her face, choking her words into frantic, breathless sobs. She followed the male officer and grabbed his shoulder, but he elbowed her back, and it hurtbad. She buckled over and fell to her knees. One of the people from the crowd consoled her pain, but it did nothing. Her child was still missing and this bastard didnt even want to help. BOOM! A gunshot ripped through the night air, firing a tail of electricity into the sky. Everyone backed away, encircling the officers. The female officer had her gun pointed towards the clouds, smoke billowing from the breach. And, just like before when Rhyce waltzed up on stage, it was silent. Everyone listen close, the female officer shouted. I need you all to retreat from the area. We will handle this situation accordingly. I repeat: please retreat from the area. Rhyce chuckled. Tell them, officer. Tell everyone whats on the screen. Tell them whats really got you in a panic. The woman murmured something to the male officer. Arrest this lunatic, the Texan man yelled. Get im outta here! The male officer grabbed a pair of handcuffs from his belt ring and began walking towards the stage. Meanwhile, people moved away, as per the officers orders. Rhyce let out a long, tiring sigh. Typical. You fuckers never listen. His voice was lower than Isolde had ever heard it before. He raised his arm and pressed the side of his left temple. The glowing, crimson implant in his left eye twisted before turning spring green. With a mechanical whine, the canister on his back hissed as a thin stream of Ghostfire began to pulse through the tubes connected to his body. He tensed, gritting his rotten teeth. The green glow in his eye deepened, flickering like an unstable fire. Isolde felt sick to her stomach. Seeing this in any other context might have chilled her to the bone, but her mind was consumed by her daughter, overwhelmed with fear and pain. She was frozen with panic, unable to do anything but watch. Adios, a voice saidperhaps Silas, perhaps someone from the crowd. It was impossible to tell. The male officer stepped onto the stage, heading around Rhyce. His goons backed away. Rhyce Lucifer Melbourne, you are being detained while we investigate a report Rhyce flashed back with inhumane speed, so fast he was nothing more than a green blur, and snatched the officer by the neck, holding him up with a single arm. The female officer jerked her gun up, as though ready to fire, but Rhyce shoved the male officer in front. With a cold, calculated motion, Rhyce wrenched the pistol from the officers trembling hand, levelling it at the mans skull. The crowd dispersed in a panic, scattering hurriedly. Gradually, their numbers dwindlednot entirely, but enough for Isolde to stand out, kneeling on the ground and gasping for air. Silas, who hadnt moved from his spot, approached her, helping her up. Wheres Elysia? he said breathlessly. I Isolde choked. I dont know. She was here just a minute ago. Sh-shes opened the rabbit cage. Silas looked over at the pets-for-sale stand, then began guiding her away from the stage. Its okay. Shes not far. Dont you two fucking move, Rhyce shouted. At first, Isolde barely recognized it was himhe sounded so delirious and scratchy. His claims about Ghostfire minimising cyberpsychosis were without a doubt short-lived, because he didnt look sane in the slightest either. He was aiming the gun right at Silas and Isolde. None of you can fucking leave until these officers admit to what theyre planning to do. Rhyce pointed the gun at the short officers head. Fucking tell everyone, you cunts. Tell them this is a real fucking document from your real fucking corporate tech shithouse. Rhyce. The female officer extended her hand, palm down, and gently lowered it in a soothing gesture. This isnt the path you want to go down. Let go of the officer and we can make this simple. No one has to get hurt. Answer the fuckin question or I blow this officers brains all over the fuckin stage, Rhyce said. Tell the people. Were sick of your lies. The female officer looked up at the cyclorama. The picture had stayed there even though Rhyce had disconnected his wire. I have no idea what that is.... Bullshit! His grip tightened. The face of the male officer was slowly turning red while his lips were tinted blue. He couldnt breathe, and soon he would pass out or perhaps die in this cyberpsychos grasp. Through a strangled voice, the male officer choked out words, but they were too unintelligible to make sense of. Rhyce loosened his grip, and the officer caught his breath. After a moment, the officer said, slowly, The document is real. Shock rumbled through the crowd. The mind control plan was real. The female officer approached the stage, keeping her gun aimed at Rhyce. Now, put him A flash of blue light, and then the male officers brains were blown across the deck. Rhyce gripped the limp, lifeless body, the head twisted and torn apart like a bloom of raw flesh. It was so sudden, so horrifying, that even his goons stood in silence, in fear. After a moment, however, they each pressed their neural ports, causing streams of Ghostfire to climb up their torsos and ignite their cyberware ports with that same shade of spring green, their veins pulsing, thickening, monstrifying beneath the skin. The people ran, as fast as they damn well could. The female officer fired, but Rhyce flashed out of the way, once again appearing as a green blur. He pressed the barrel of his gun to her temple and pulled the trigger. The blood splashed across the pier floorboards. Dead in an instant, before she could even process it. Then his eyes landed on Isoldes; it was impossible to tell where his blood started and the officers blood ended, but he was mad. She could see it. And it was too late for them to run. He would be too fasthis goons would be too fast. Silas and Isolde stood there, she leaning on him for support, and he steadying her with a firm arm, but she felt a slight tremor that betrayed his fear. He could have chosen to run, but he didnt. He stayed, slipping a hand into his back pocket, pulling out something small and stout: a tool of sorts. It was difficult to tell what it was from the angle, but she thought it was a screwdriver. Rhyce marched towards them, just as he had marched when she threatened to take Isolde by the outhouse, just as he had marched when he pushed that speaker on the floor, and she noticed somethingsomething tiny and quick, scurrying out from behind The Whale, almost tripping Rhyce as it bolted between his legs. A jackrabbit. Elysia, Isolde said, her words tired and strained, but loud enough for Rhyce to hear. Dont worry, he said. Once Im done with you, Ill send her to hell with you. Ill end that waste-of-space vege just like how Im gonna fuckin end you. Shouldnt have stolen from me, and shoulda just let me reclaim your debt, you bitch! Isolde felt her strength give out as she buckled again, though the physical pain had vanished; this was something far deeper, an ache that cut to her very core. When Rhyce finally closed the distance, Silas drew his elbow back and swung the screwdriver up and around, but this time, oh this time, Rhyce caught it, and he whacked Silas in head with the side of his fist, causing him to skid across the pier. No! Isolde squeaked, and Rhyce snatched her chin. This time he wouldnt pull her into a kiss. This time he would kill her. He holstered his pistol in his pants and picked up the screwdriver. Lets see how you like it, he said. Nice. And. Slow. His grip tightened, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The tip of the tool hovered just inches from her eye. With a cruel, slow smile, he leaned in, his face inches from hers, his awful breath hot against her skin. Adios, bitch. And then, with a violent, sudden motion, he plunged the screwdriver forward, aiming for the space between her eyes. She yelped, bracing for the ungodly amount of pain that would follow, keeping her eyes shut.... A loud banga gunshot, she was sureand then the sound of a body skidding on hard planks. Her eyes flashed open, and there were a pair of odd-looking limbs hovering over her shoulders, faced forward with the palms wide open, as if theyd just pushed something, and when she looked ahead, she could see that Rhyce had been shoved onto the ground several yards away, blood dripping from his shoulder. A gunshot wound. And farther ahead, behind the The Whale, she saw her: Elysia, down on all fours, wanting to creep out but frightened. Rhyces goons had her incidentally blocked off, and she was shivering. Elysia! Isolde cried, but the hands cut her short, grabbing her by the shoulders. The limbs were thin and the fingers were long, constructed entirely of steel, but with the flexibility and fluidity of what she could only describe as a serpent. The steel hands yanked her away safely, dragging her towards someones shoes. She lay on her back, looking up at the source of the steel arms. It was an enormous NACP officer, taller than life, and he wasnt wearing a helmet like the others. No, he was maskless, showing a long, thin face, buzzed brown hair, and a demonic, wide grin. There were other officers behind him, most of them unmasked, and each of them containing heavy augments. One of them had mantisblades extending from his forearms, gleaming with a deadly edge. Another officers eyes glowed with a faint, otherworldly light, the implants giving him enhanced vision that could cut through darkness or smoke. And another was dressed head to toe in sleek, matte-black armour. She was the only one with her face covered. Slowly, the suit encasing her slim frame digitised before turning invisible, leaving only the faint outline and distortion of light around her. Cormac, sir, the woman said. Whats the move? The long-limbed man let go of Isolde, his fingers brushing against her skin with unnerving coldness. He stood motionless for a moment, his gaze fixed on Rhyce and his goons, as if weighing something heavy. Then, slowly, he licked his lips, his smile becoming predatory. The move, he said softly, his voice a low rasp, is to make sure they dont leave here alive. the weight of small hands - 3.5 3.5 Rhyce pushed himself up from the splintered boards of the pier, his movements unnervingly steady despite the dark bloom of blood spreading from his shoulder. His breath came in slow, controlled heaves. Behind him, two of his henchmen approached, flanking him. How they could support someone as cruel and merciless as him, Isolde couldnt fathom. It was as if their free will had been stripped away, their actions dictated by some unseen force. Looking closer at their mesh-like skin and the pulsing green veins that traced unnatural patterns across their temples, it was hard to tell where flesh ended and technology began. Their eyes glowed faintly, vacant yet unyielding, as though tethered to Rhyces will by an invisible chain. Perhaps they were controlledpuppets of the same sinister technology he flaunted, their humanity suppressed by whatever was in that green concoction. The substance spilled from his lips like molten drool, each laboured breath rattling as if his lungs were on the verge of collapse. Was he running out? It didnt matter, because a moment later he pressed the side of his neural port again, causing more Ghostfire to pump through his system. This time his cyberware didnt just glow greenit pulsed violently, as though alive. His face contorted, veins bulging beneath the surface, and the metal along his neck wrenched forward, tearing through flesh and leaving jagged wounds. The cables snaking through his body throbbed with each beat of his augmented heart, and his eyes flickered erratically, twitching as if they might roll back into his skull. His steady glare morphed into a twisted grin. The humanity was gone; this was more machine than man. The long-limbed mercenary, Cormac, didnt look frightened in the slightest. Destroy the canister, he said. Just like that, the officer with the augmented visor lifted his large rifle, crouched down on one knee, and fired. A beam of dark-blue energy streaked across the pier, heading right for Rhyce. Rhyce darted to the side and charged, a blur of speed and fury, but the projectile shifted mid-flight, arcing back with lethal precision. It slammed into his back, sending him sprawling onto the wooden deck before he could close the distance. Insignificant worm, Cormac said, slowly walking towards him. Isolde was partially relievedsomeone had finally stopped this monsterbut then she saw Rhyce pick himself up off the ground again, and she held her breath. He wasnt steady this time. His body convulsed, glitching in and out of place as though reality itself rejected him. His movements became erratic, his form jerking and distorting, a guttural scream tearing from his throat as sparks and Ghostfire spewed from the ruptured canister on his back. The liquid sprayed in wild arcs as Rhyce zipped, colliding with kiosks, toppling game stands, and smashing through animal cages. When he finally careened into The Whale, the impact dislodged the row of candles lining the edge of the stage. The flames tipped into the spreading Ghostfire, igniting it in an instant. The blaze surged along the trail hed left behind, snaking through the pier like a living creature, devouring everything in its path, spreading, growing. And soon, kiosks began to fall. The smoke misted through the air as a dark smog, making it impossible to see beyond The Whale. But Elysia was still down there. Isolde picked herself up. She wanted to tell the mercenaries, any of them, but Rhyces goons flashed through the darkness, appearing out of nowhere. One of them struck Cormac square in the jaw, the impact echoing like a hammer on steel. He staggered but didnt fall. Instead, his long arms shot out behind him, catching his weight with an almost elastic grace. With a force like a boulder in a slingshot, he snapped forward, his massive, steel fists aimed to obliterate their skulls. But they were faster, so much faster, slipping out of reach and vanishing into the smog, their silhouettes flickering in the haze. My daughter is down there, Isolde cried, but it fell on deaf ears. The invisible mercenary dashed into the smoke, following the trail of green mist. Soon, the officer with the mantisblade followed, and then Cormac began walking. Isolde grabbed his arm, and he turned to her. Please, she said, her voice heaving with fear. Muh-my Cormac shoved her away with his long mechanical arm. Move! Another strike, once again straight to his jaw. Isolde slid back on her ass and hit her head against something solid. Her voice cried out with rage: You buh-bastard. You eh-evil bastards! She picked herself up once again, leaning on the object; the smog was becoming so thick she began to cough, the harsh ashy taste thick on her tongue. She coughed, and coughed, and coughed. The realisation hit her. No one was coming. No one would save her. Her daughter would be swallowed by the chaosthe flames, the smoke, the clanging of metal limbs in battleall of it drowning out Elysias fragile, terrified movements. Isoldes legs trembled as she pushed herself upright, the object shed leaned on digging into her palm. She didnt care. The world around her had devolved into chaos and blood, but one thought burned brighter than any flame licking the pier: Elysia needed her, and fast.Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! Tears streaked Isoldes cheeks as she padded along the deck, keeping low, doing her best to avoid the thick, chemically enhanced smoke. She could hear the battle outside, could see it through the smog: clashing metal, flashes of green, interrupted only by the blue energy from the officers rifle, zipping back and around. She kept moving, creeping along the inside of Silas kiosk, her hand brushing against the large white rabbit doll. It was already burning up and blackening from the heat. She couldnt stop. Not now. Isolde was steps away from crossing the border between the front and back of The Whale when a body crashed to the ground with a sickening thud. One of Rhyces men lay there, writhing, his breath gurgling through blood that bubbled up from his lips. His armno, what was left of itended in a jagged stump, sparking wires tangled with shredded flesh, the ghostly outline of bone glinting beneath the grume. He was about to pick himself up, but a steel limb shot forward and smashed down on his skull with the palm wide open. It was crushed, leaving only the brain splatter. A little of it got on Isoldes jacket, but she pushed on, staving off the disgust and fear. She snuck around the back of The Whale, and she could see clearly. Elysia was crouched against the underside of the stage, sucking on her finger. Isolde scampered forward, moving like some wild animal, and at the same time, Elysia hurried over to her, wrapping her in an enormous hug. She broke it swiftly and saw a large bitemark on the tip of her index finger. The jackrabbit, of course. Elysia was bawling. Ill fix it later, Isolde rasped. But we have to leave. Now. She took Elysias hand, grasping it firmly, and guided her around the left side, towards the steps leading to the beach. It wasnt the best place to escape, but anything was better than this deathtrap. In the distance, police sirens whirred, and through the darkness glisters of red and blue emerged. She approached the side, keeping her eyes steady, but she stopped suddenly. In front of her sat Rhyce, his back against the stage, the skin of his face peeling away to reveal the raw muscle underneath. Green goo leaked from his eyelid. His chest heaved, each breath struggling through his body, and clutched in his arms: the Ghostfire tank. The shadow inside swirled about, bashing against the glass, trying to break free. In his left hand was one of the officers blue-ringed pistols. He looked at Isolde, and she expected him to say something, but he didnt. He brought the pistol down to the tank, took a deep breath, and No! Isolde turned, yanked Elysia in front of her, away from the tank, and pulled her back behind The Whale. BOOM! The explosion ripped through the pier with deafening force, a blinding flash of green and orange, sending shards of the tank over her shoulder, the heat reeling into her neck. She screamed in pain. The pier groaned, the wooden planks cracking and splintering like brittle bones. She felt the weight of the platform shift back, and suddenly she slid under, her head striking the metal sharply. The Whale shuddered as the supports beneath it gave way. Its metallic hull creaked, twisting grotesquely, before it tipped forward. She watched above as it collapsed, and the boards beneath helplessly subsided, bringing everything down with it. Isolde did her best to catch on to something, but everything came at her too quickly. The boards snapped, pulled, and yanked. Down she went, keeping her daughter tucked in her arms as jagged splits dug into her limbs. Another scream, and they continued falling. The Whale lodged itself deep in the pier, and for a moment she thought it had stopped, but looking above, she saw the remains of the Ghostfire tank begin to creep over the ledge, and in it: the hanging body of a dead snake. Her eyes lit up as the flaming barrel fell down. She couldnt turn over this time to protect Elysia from the blow. All she could do was rest her arms over her daughters skull. It crashed into them, the weight enormous, burning Isoldes arms. The pier beneath snapped one last time, and they fell. Isolde lost control of her daughter; the pain was too great, and they dropped into the harsh litter along the beach below. They were free. She looked up at the aperture from which theyd fallen, seeing that the tank had wedged itself in the gap. She looked down and saw Elysia picking herself up near the drum fire several yards way. Isolde pushed against the sand, screaming to her knees, but the pain was too strong for her to sit up. She reached out her hand to Elysia. The pier slid. She looked up at the aperture again, and this time the Ghostfire tank had broken free. It fell quickly, struck the drum fire, and lit up in flames. The fire spiralled outward, catching everything in its wake. Elysia stood there, her small frame silhouetted by the blaze, her wide, frightened eyes locked on Isolde. Elysia! Isoldes voice cracked, raw with desperation. She clawed at the sand, dragging herself forward, but her limbs were heavy, useless against the tidal wave of pain coursing through her body. The flames reached her daughter. They licked at her blue coat, the delicate fabric igniting in an instant. Her little arms flailed, beating against the air, against the fire that consumed her. Her face twisted in agony, tears streaking her cheeks even as the heat blackened them. Youll never amount to anything so long as youre taking caring of that disgusting, useless, waste-of-space thing. Isoldes outstretched hand trembled, her fingers grasping at empty air, powerless to bridge the gap between them. The flames surged higher, a wall of green and orange that swallowed Elysia whole. And then there was nothing but the fireroaring, crackling, devouring. Elysias patting faded into silence, leaving behind only the horrific image seared into Isoldes mind: her daughters small, fragile body lost in the inferno, her sweet, angelic face twisted in a final moment of terror and pain. See, Mommy is what we northsiders call a bum. A leach, feeding off me and my husbands money. Dont be like Mommy when youre older, mmmmkay? Isolde collapsed onto the sand, her screams drowned out by the unrelenting roar of the flames. She pounded the ground with her fists, sobbing uncontrollably. Her stomach twisted and vomit surged up her throat, spilling everywhere. She coughed, the snot gooing across her lips and nose. I love you. She couldnt speak; she could only wail. She couldnt dare to look up at her daughters corpse. She turned away, onto her side, slobbering, struggling to breathe. All she could see was a pair of boots approach her, and the long steel arms hanging loosely near the shins. It was silent for a moment, but she heard the voice, and she would remember it: Trauma team en route. Weve had a civilian casualty. the weight of small hands - 3.6 3.6 anything Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. RENT IS DUE I Love You. currents beneath steel - 4.1 4.1 Its one of those quiet days. No line of chromeheads milling about in the alley, no one slouched in the foyer. I guess it makes sense. Dr. Maelstrom likely spaces out his appointments to allow each client enough time for the procedure and recovery. Practical, if nothing else. Only one person ahead of me. Theyre in and out within ten minutes of my arrival. No fuss, no fanfare. Then Dr. Maelstrom steps into the waiting room, gives me a curt nod, and motions for me to follow. Through the low-hanging beads again, down the steps, and around the corner. The surgical bed waits in the centre, laid flat this time. I shrug off my jacket, strip down to my T-shirt and jeans, and climb onto the bed, staring up at the grid of dark ceiling tiles. Wordlessly, he reaches for the anaesthesia mask hanging from a hook above the cot, draws the hose into place, and straps it over my face. Cool, synthetic air rushes in, and the edges of the world dissolve into a blur. Lights out in seconds. When I wake up, my skin feels clammy, sweat sticking to every inch of me. My hair is matted against my forehead, damp and uncomfortable. My eyes are slow to open, and my head feels weighty, but its overjust like that. I reach up, peeling the mask off, gulping down thick, brackish air. The room presses in around me, dense and heavy. I cant smell anything, but I dont need to; the stench is easy to imagine: antiseptic, burnt circuits, unwashed bodies. It sticks to the back of my throat. Disgusting. How many people have passed through this place in the last week, the last year? And how often does a clinic like this even get cleaned? Not often enough, Id bet. Best not to dwell on it. I stretch my neck, trying to work out the knots, and glance down at my side. My right armits gone, finally. In its place is a snaggy stub. The cut isnt clean, but itll do. Was wonderin when youd come around, a voice drawls. Dr. Maelstrom, of course. Hes at his computer, faced away. He spins round on his swivel, wiping his hands with a microfibre cloth, lips as neutral as ever. I sit up. How long was I out? He stands, takes a deep breath, and slaps the wet cloth on the arm of his chair. An hour. Longer than most. That was a surprise. Concerning, really. How long are people normally out for? Post-surgery? Fifteen minutes. Had to reschedule a few appointments. Oh, Im sorry, I say, feeling guilty. Didnt mean to disrupt your business. I can pay you back if you want. He breathes out a half-assed chuckle. Im messin with you. Finished up five minutes ago. And be careful. Shouldnt believe everything you hear without some sort of back-up. A laugh flies out my nose. You asshole. I smile, stepping off the surgical bed. I admit you did a good job. Hows it feel? Dr. Maelstrom walks over to the bedside trolley, wheeling it aside. Different, I say, stretching my limbs. Strange, but in a good way. Feel twenty pounds lighter, though that might just be the gas escaping. He bends over and picks up a couple tools. It wasnt easy. Whoever installed that mechanical arm used some kind of reinforced alloy and buried the connections deep into your nerve clusters. Cutting through it was a nightmare. It take long? He stands up straight again, placing the tools on the trolley. Bout forty-five minutes, which is longer than average. He scratches his beard. Its quiet for a moment, and then he asks, You find anything else about that picture, or are you still waiting? I presume hes referring to the promise I made Fingers, about sticking around until we complete that infiltration mission together. Which reminds me. No, nothing yet, but can I ask you something? He starts wheeling the trolley away but stops halfway around the corner. Depends on what it is. Hes probably messing with me again. Sorry, I say. But Fingers mentioned something to me. Just curious if you know about it. He turns, eyes focused now, leaning on the trolley with one arm. Go on. She mentioned the NACP partnering with Techstrum to create a device that would control people, I say, trying to remember the exact words. You know anything about that, seeing as, you know, you seem to have access to a lot of info on the dark net? He chuckles, turning. Youre out of the grave three days and youre already talkin about that conspiracy. Conspiracy? He pushes the trolley out of view, then steps in front of me again. Its an old story, made worse a decade n a half ago, after a leaked government document made the news. The Seraph Device. Turned out the wording confused people. Thought it was referring to human specimens, controlling their thoughts, emotions, so on. Theres been a couple different iterations. Put it simply: people thought it meant controlling southsiders, when it actually meant controlling AI. Controlling AI? He raises an eyebrow. Singular questioning. If you want to know specifics, you should be more upfront, otherwise people will play you for a fool. He has a point there. Not the first person to mention it either. I glance to the side and see my jacket hanging on a nearby coatrack. I walk over to it, grab it, but dont put it on. Too warm for that. Instead, I tuck it under my armpit. Sorry, its just I know very little about, well, life today. Know very little about life back then, too. Why would they need to control AI? The Helios Paradox. The Helio I almost ask but stop myself. You know, I wouldnt be asking so many questions if you didnt give such abrupt answers. He chuckles. Its a paradox surrounding AI. Huge problem thats been making the rounds for decades. The more advanced AI becomes, the more difficult it becomes to control. From what I do know, which is very little, theyre trying to find a way to streamline AI to lead to a more efficient economy. Using AI to take over everything, from logistics to healthcare to even governance. They claim itll optimise every sector, make everything run smoother, faster, more cost-efficient. But the problem is, as AI gets smarter, it starts making decisions that humans cant even begin to predict. Its like giving a child a loaded gun: sure, it might be efficient at some point, but at what cost? Im not sure that would be efficient at any point. Most famous example was The Velvet Requiem Incident in 2061 when a male stripper bot suddenly became sentient and murdered a client in her bed, pretty brutally, too. Jesus, I say, disturbed. What a way to die. Still, this all feels like a cover-up. Why would the government try to assassinate Cormac just for accessing supposedly top-secret documents if they didnt affect the public? Now that the information is out, why would they care what Cormac knowsunless theres more to the story? Something he hasnt shared with Fingers. Maybe something hes deliberately keeping to himself. I guess its also possible that this information circulated around the dark net and they might be trying to eliminate anyone with access to government files. I dont know, but its intriguing to me, nonetheless. It does raise some serious questions, though. What about the circuitery? I ask. What exactly is going on down there? All those bodies, all that trash? Is it just a dump leading out into the canal? It would seem that way. He takes a seat on the swivel chair and starts wiping his hands again with the microfibre cloth. A common misconception people have is that the circuitery is just a graveyard of dead bots and unrecyclable trash, but you know how that old saying goes, about one mans trash being another mans treasure. He sets the cloth on the computer desk and leans back, causing the casters to give out. People dump whatever they can, specially the northfolk. Corrupt cops, failing businessmen who cant keep up with the bills, and even the government themselves. Its not just junk; its evidence, secrets, and assets theyd rather forget about. Those dead androids under the bridge? Theyre not there by accident. Some are prototypes, scrapped before they hit the market. Others, failed experiments, or bots with programming too dangerous or unpredictable to let loose. And then there are the ones that knew too muchwitnessed something, recorded something, or were programmed to do things thatd make headlines if they ever got out. He leans forward, eyes narrowing. But you did get out. And thats what makes you so interesting. Half woman, half machine, at least according to your biometric readings. Literally half. I look at my right side; its so peculiar not seeing an arm. Say, how much does it cost for a replacement? You know, in case I somehow do hit it big. For a mechanical or cybernetic limb, youre looking at over a hundred grand, he says. I let out a low, drawn-out whistlethe universal sound of sticker shock. Little steep, dont you think? Yeah, but theres another problem, he says, pointing to my clipped shoulder. Your nervous systems shot thereliterally. Fried brachial plexus. Looks like your bodys immune response went haywire, attacking any foreign tech in the area. Even if we install a cybernetic arm, your nervous system wont recognise it. The limb would just sit there, completely dormant. Youd have a hundred grands worth of dead weight strapped to your body. His eerie tone throws me off. It takes a moment for my thoughts to settle. Just a little disturbed by the whole situation. Well that fuckin sucks. Thats life for you, maam. He winks. Something tells me it wont hold you back very far. Footsteps come clacking from the foyer. Its Jin, still dressed in her black turtleneck dress, her dark skin boasting a pale glow beneath the honeyed incandescence of the overhead filament, hands behind her back as always, and that smilethat lovely smile. Fronts all ready to go, she says. Righto. Dr. Maelstrom slaps his knees and stands up with a groan. Hes just tired, Im sure. Come back to me whenever you can come up with enough scratch for the procedure. Remember what I said: not feeling pain aint all its cracked up to be.
Later, Fingers picks me up from surgery, and we head back to the Old Mill to go over the details of the job. Ive learned its a habit of hersdigging into every angle. Turns out shes done her homework on the loading bay and the off-screen areas. While there isnt much security in the immediate vicinity, theres a market nearby that wraps around, meaning theres a good chance of people watching from within the crowd. Not that it matters. If these suits are even half as good as Fingers says they are, then there should be nothing stopping us from bypassing the security cameras during the day, hacking into a storage container, and hiding inside until that large crane device hauls us off to the cargo ship. But she makes a point, one I hadnt considered beforehand: weapons. In case things go wrongand they often dowe need to be armed. She has the perfect idea: two pistols, compact enough to fit snugly into the suit''s leg pouches and designed to remain flush with the nanomaterial without causing any awkward bulges or disruptions. She tells me a lot about them. Both pistols are equipped with integrated smartlink systems, allowing for a neural interface with targeting overlays fed directly into the suits HUD. They have polymer-ceramic casings, making them lightweight, nearly undetectable to standard scans, and resistant to heat and EMP bursts. The barrels are designed with monomolecular rifling, which, according to Fingers, means you dont have to concentrate as hard to land a shot. Each is fitted with micro-compensators to counteract recoil. Thats all fascinating, but the main point, the one which I find most satisfying, is that they include built-in suppressors with a heat-dissipation matrix to reduce thermal signatures. I suppose its an added feature in case the infrared cameras were to pick up on standard material. Even if theyre less effective during the day and our suits could slip by, a normal pistol might get sniffed out; with these, theres no chance. Too small, too compact, and too sneaky. As if that wasnt enough, they each have a subtle chameleon coating on the exterior that allows them to blend into the suits configuration. Wicked. Where did you get these? I ask, twirling the gun around. I place it on the table beneath the red light, next to Razes ashtray, press the sides, and pull the magazine out. Packed to the brim with subsonic ammunition. Id expected something of the like. Bought them off a black-market dealer while you were gone gettin your arm chopped. She spins it around on her forefinger, grasps it firmly by the handle, and aims it at the dartboard, making a playful poof. Pretty cool, eh?This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. I nod. How much did they cost you? Five bags. Each. That same whistling sound from earlier. Im not the only one who lost an arm then. Speaking of, Fingers says, placing the gun on the counter. She steps away for a moment, disappearing briefly before returning with a sleek case bearing the v-Technica logo. Gently, she clicks it open and tosses me one of the anti-fibre suits. I catch it, the airlocked plastic crinkling beneath my thumb, almost ready to pop. Its cold to the touch, like its been pulled straight from a freezer or left by an open window on a winter night. Placing the bag between my knees, I unzip the seal and pull the suit free. It slides out effortlessly, almost unfolding itself. The material feels... nice, strangely. Its hard to describe: smooth yet tactile, soft but with an edge of durability. One of those textures that keeps you running your fingers over it without quite understanding why. Its weaved together from a nanofibre mesh, so dark it seems to absorb light itself. Midnight black, yet theres a subtle shimmer to it, like liquid shadows shifting along the wires, though its probably just a reflection of the light. A jumpsuit of sorts, one that you can stand into and zip up, only this doesnt just stop at the neck; it climbs over the head and clicks. I can tell by the ribbed design. Seems everything is fairly secure, but what about the pouches? Throw it on, Fingers says. Ill show you how it works. Shrugging, I begin taking off all my clothes. Im still a little shy about getting nakedwho wouldnt be with someone watching you?but I push through the discomfort, avoiding eye contact. A couple minutes later, I step into the legs of the jumpsuit, finding the holes to be wider than Id anticipated. I slide my arm into the left sleeve and shoulder it up until it lies across my neck, the right side dangling. I put my back to the wall, tug the hanging sleeve around my notched shoulder, and zip the suit up to the top of my head. Sure enough, it clicks tight. Everything is dark. Pitch-black, even. Then, the interior fabric digitises, revealing the outside world. But theres a problem. The suit is too big, drops down over my body like a ghostly rag. My heart bumps. Shit. Fingers steps over, grabs the empty right sleeve, and waggles it. Then, with a quick press of her thumb against my lower left side, the fabric ripples. A vertical seam shifts open, revealing a hidden side pouch. She pulls the sleeve around my body, tucking it into the pouch, and presses the area again. The suit responds immediately. With a soft whir, the fabric contracts, tightening, squeezing. The once-loose sleeve shrinks and flattens against my torso, securely held in place as the suit moulds to my body. Within moments, its nearly skintight, the sleeve barely noticeable, its excess material absorbed into the pouch. The fit is perfect. How did you know that would work? I ask, laughing. Fingers grins, her eyes glinting. I didnt. I just figured if I pressed enough buttons, something would happen. Turns out, lucks my best weapon. Know? The breathy laugh through the nose. Ive had my hands on a few of these prototypes. Theyre designed for flexibility. You just need to know where the pressure points are. She gives the suit a once-over. Figured youd need a little help with the fit, but I wasnt about to let you wander around like a walking tent. Was worried for a second there. I was thinkin, The damn size, Fingers! The size! I take a couple steps, finding the movement smooth and comfortable, then stretch out my limbs in a three-quarter X, thinking I look something of a hip-hop dancer. She laughs, folding her arms. Feels like paper, dont it? Strangely, it does; its so thin and seamless its as if Im wearing nothing at all, which may or may not be a good thing. Only time will tell. I break the pose. What about the spoofer? Where does that go? She reaches into her jacket pocket, pulls out the spoofer, and presses it against my upper left shoulder. This time, things are clearer. The nanomaterial on my skin warps, sinking inward before pulling apart, revealing a pouch underneath, slightly different in design. A small rectangular incline, about an inch deep. She slips the spoofer inside and it locks. Immediately the antifibre skin along my left arm splits open, exposing my bare forearm, bicep, and shoulder. Slowly, the fabric around my upper left temple begins to peel away. Fingers gestures to the exposed area, and I whisk out my neural cord. She takes it from me and bungs it into the spoofer. My vision flickers with digital smear, but after a moment, it sharpens, and the quick-hacks reappear on my neural display, exactly as before. Manual Override, Server Locator, Data Blocker, and, of course, Short-circuit. Fingers presses the wire down against my skin. Stabilising, the voice in my head says. The suit vibrates lightly, its nanofibers creeping over the wire, securing it in place. Fingers releases the tension and watches as the fibres merge back together, seamlessly covering me and keeping the wire safely tucked underneath. Neat. Fingers begins undressing in front me, not a hint of shame in her lithe yet muscular body, steps into the suit, and zips it over her head. Like before, it''s too big for her, but after pressing the side of her ribcage, the suit begins sucking in, tightening around her skin. The antifibre flexes and moves on its own accord, no doubt controlled by advanced artificial intelligence, perhaps nanobots embedded in the material. Once it fits, she presses just above her sternum, revealing a miniature button underneath; she taps it, causing the fabric to warp and almost vibrate, slowly losing colour and texture. The black surface of the suit shifts, first to a translucent shimmer, then into a distorted blur, like rippling air above hot asphalt. Within seconds, Fingers is gone, not just hidden but utterly invisible. Well, sort of. I can see the outline, just barely, along with the subtle distortion of light around it. Not that something like this would matter at night; it would be next to impossible to notice, especially for the untrained eye. We spend a bit of time discussing the capabilities of the suit, what it can and cannot do, but the main points are centred around stealth. It is possible to disrupt the material if something sharp prods the antifibre, so she says, and it will also completely switch off if it comes into contact with heavy water for too long, or any liquid really. Good thing the rain has been fairly light recently, although a bit misty for my tastes. After a while, Fingers decides to pack everything away and take me to the seaside by which the shipyard is located. It''s an hours drive from the Old Mill even though the satnav indicates a twenty-minute journey; those damn machines never account for traffic or aimless pedestrians breaking our green lights. When we arrive, the sky''s already folding into darkness, but that''s no surprise. Late autumn has a way of turning the afternoon sun into a cranky old man, punching out early and mumbling, Thats enough for one day. Its a busy enough market, stretching about the length of a football field, though it feels even bigger under the weight of the twilight. The dying sun slips its last lustre over the rows of stalls and rusted steel awnings, giving everything a tarnished gold sheen that doesnt quite hide the grit. Children laugh through the crowd, scampering, while patrons nearly stumble over one another. Its not difficult to understand why; everything is so compact, and the signsthose glitzy wooden slabscombine to create a disturbing kaleidoscope. Its dazzling, sure, but in a way that makes your eyes ache or head swim. Theres all just a little too much going on. Some of the children here look quite poor. I notice on the far-right side, shouldered up under a makeshift metal awning cobbled together from scrap sheets and bent rods, a mother and child, who must be no older than ten, eleven years old tops. The other children, while happy and playing and chatting with some of the folk at the market, are wearing fairly thin clothes for the weather: drawstring trousers and those cheap-looking hooded sweatshirts that hang off their frames like hand-me-downs from siblings twice their size. Their shoes are mismatched or falling apart, worn soles slapping against the ground as they dart between stalls. It doesnt take me long to understand why. Its a distraction. While some of them talk to the merchants, another sneaks around the back, pilfering eddies. I have to admit; theyre fast. They might have a career ahead of them, if they manage to make it through this awful winter. They ought to be careful, though. After what Id experienced, I know exactly how bad some merchants can get if you try to swindle. How deadly, even. Nonetheless, Fingers leads me up a rickety set of metal stairs bolted against the side of a crumbling red-brick apartment complex. The docks stretch across the horizon, an industrial landscape of rusted steel and cargo ships moored in rows. Old piers line the north side while smaller honky-tonk marinas dot the edge, their sleek vessels dwarfed by the massive ships tethered further out. Its the southern stretch that gets my attention. The cranes tower overhead, their long arms extending like skeletal claws, lifting cargo containers into the belly of monstrous freighters. The whir of hydraulics and the harsh neon glow from the towering shipping cranes reflect off the slick, rain-soaked concrete; its so lucid you can see the refraction splayed out across the ground. There are still hundreds of cargo units propped up along the shipyard. Interesting. This looks nearly the same as the drone footage, with some slight differences. The primary cargo ship, the one which contains that snake-symbolled storage crate, is much lighter along the dock; everything seems to have been relocated into the interior, and its so utterly huge, way larger than it appeared from an aerial view. They all are. Their hulls are easily more than four hundred feet long, and they must be more than a hundred metres above the waterline. Its a little scary, honestly. I didnt expect to see something this large, but now that I have, Im wondering if finding that crate will be easier said than done. Fingers hands me the spoofer and, without instruction, I lay it on a small HVAC unit, jacking in. I carry it around to the edge of the rooftop, looking out at the shipyard again. This time my vision is obscured by bluish haze, and the containers are highlighted in yellow. When I zoom in with my optics, the data cube shifts and populates. The crates seem to be generic enough, carrying sheet metal, furniture, and even vehicles. Simple things, supposedly. But how do I determine which one is a fake? I can try looking out for any duplicate tags and.... Well, no, that wont do. What if I monitor those closest to the smuggle ship? Suddenly, I see the crane of the smuggle ship swoop down by an unoccupied forklift, sucking up a crate with, I presume, a large magnet of some sort, the claws squaring under and keeping it secure. It goes up and up, locks in, and then slowly conveys along the rail. Information about the unit pops up on the data cube. Container ID: WAT-93F-RD88 Owner: Meridian Transport Co. Contents: Unclassified (Priority X) Destination: Off-world Sector A2B, Watson, China Weight: 18.7 tons Security Level: High (Authentication Required) 93-F, I tell Fingers. Remember that, will you? I try to scan one of the units on sitting on the dock itself but theyre all out of range, so I focus on the ones near the safety rails instead. One by one, I observe the centre tags, seeing everything from L23, Z41, T88. Theyre always three characters long while the figures to either end vary. The first three characters seem to indicate the location, the middle set is a code for the ship, and the last is a generic cargo label. The middle is what I need to focus on. It takes a long time sifting through each individual containerthere are just so manybut eventually, among the stacked piles, I see that same tag: 93F, and the weight: 14.4 tonnes. Interesting. The selection order may be based off of weight, doing the heaviest first, and the lightest last. The crane must set the heavy ones along the dock then reorganise the selection by placing them into the giant centre hold, the lightest being at the top so they dont get crushed underneath. That means, in theory, if we want to not be wedged in tight, we should opt for the lightest so that were placed at the top, but how I do I find out which is the lightest? Remember the hacks Rico gave you, Fingers says. Maybe those can help. Of course. Rico uploaded these specific options for a reason. One of them seems to fit perfectly. I zoom in on one of the 93-F crates and select "Server Locator." An upload bar appears, creeping upward until it finally hits 100%. When it does, a large red dot lights up in the center of the crate, with branching red lines radiating outward in a precise, mechanical web. The lines connect to other marked dots on nearby crates, all converging on the smuggle shiplikely where the control system resides, some kind of central computer. Now I know which crates to focus on. A hundred, maybe more, all marked with the same identifier: 93-F. I scan each one carefully, checking their weights, narrowing my search to the lightest option. Takes a hell of a long time, but eventually I find it. Its a small crate, only about the size of a commercial van, clocking in at a little under five tonnes. Thats where we should hide. NGT-93F-7X2842, I tell Fingers, but I have to repeat it a slowly for her to jot it down in her phone. I explain the logic behind why that would be the most efficient choice, and she smirks, placing a hand on the shoulder of my clipped arm. The sleeve of my jackets been turned inside out, so as to not have it hang about. Plus, in her own words, I wont look like a circus tent. Knew you had some brains in that thick chrome dome of yours, she says. I think Ill like you, Rhea. Might have to hang on to you after all this is said and done. You think? I laugh, disconnecting the spoofer and tossing it back at her. Tellin you, once were done with that Techstrum job or whatever you wanna call it, that big league, Im packin my pockets and takin off towards the sunset like in those old westerns with Gary Cooper. Gonna take my pretty chrome dome for a test run in the scrubland. She stuffs the spoofer in the pocket of her hoodie, brushing a stray of cyan hair from her eye. You get your own money, you can do whatever you like, cupcake, but until then youre stuck with me and Razes shitty attitude. I chuckle, wiping sweat from my brow. It isnt hot, just intense. I was honestly nervous about messing things up, but the quick-hacks.... Theyre efficient, to say the least. A nice apartment, a nice bath, and one of those sexy male strippers Dr. Maelstrom told me about. Can you imagine that? Big, buff hunky-dunk? Oh, I can definitely imagine, Fingers says primly, putting her arm around my shoulder and walking me down the metal steps again. Still busy in the market, even though weve been up there a while, too long to count, trying to scan all the different crates. Along the way out towards the parking lot, Fingers tells me I can drive the rest of the way back, as if thats an award for all my hard work today, but somethingsomeonecatches my attention on the far-left end of the market sprawl. Its those kids again, but You bastard, one of the merchants shouts, his voice stretched tight. You want to lose a fuckin arm? Wheres your mother? Your father? Show me! Hes grasping a machete in one hand, and as we draw closer, I see hes caught hold of one of the children, the thieves. A little boy. The boy strains helplessly, not saying a word. His friends seem to have taken off. The eddies, he snaps. Spill em, or Ill chop your arm off. You want that? The boy shakes his head. Then where are they? No response. The boy is either mute or too frightened to speak; its sickening, frankly sickening, that people are too cowardly to step up and do anything. Sure, he has cyberware, but do people have no class? He yanks the boys arm forward over the table of his kiosk, and the boy kicks helplessly, punching and scratching to break free. He lays the boys arm across a meat chopping board. You have ten seconds to tell me where you put em. Thats my nights work, and Ill be damned if I let another rodent An arm flies forward, grips him by the elbow, and yanks the merchant back on his ass. A basketful of oranges and apples tumbles over him. The armcold, strong, and fed upwas my own. The boy takes off running after his friends, and the man shoves the basket off of his head, looking up at me. He points the blade at me and yells, You bitch. He stole my money! He starts to pick himself up off the ground but a leg swoops down and kicks him into the fruitfall, dropping the machete. Fingers, of course. She quickly snatches the blade. People gather around, laughing. Say another word and Ill turn this machete into a toothpick, Fingers says eerily. And youll be the one I sharpen it on. A part of me hopes hell say something, try to fight back, just so I can watch Fingers kick his punk ass, but he says nothing, sulking in silence, clearly hurt from the harsh kick. That and, well, he no longer has a weapon to scare people off, and we certainly arent poor little kids. Yeah, thats right. Shut your mouth. If I see you threatening anyone around here again, never mind kids, Ill kill you. Understand me? Jeez, you got it lady, he says, picking himself up. Fingers smirks, waving the blade at him, as if to say goodbye. Ill be keeping this, she says, walking away towards the parking lot. I follow her, but not before taking a quick step forward. The sudden movement makes the merchant stumble backwards with his ass caught in the basket bunch. He groans deeply. Must have really hurt his spine on the table. I couldnt help myself. Hes a damn weasel. People like that make me sick. When Fingers and I make it back to the Fragment Roamer, I feel good, albeit still nervous. Tomorrow is the big day. Everything could go right, or many, many things could go wrong. Its a lot of money on the line, so I hope were in and out, smooth as pie. currents beneath steel - 4.2 4.2 Its a quarter past one in the afternoon. Fingers figured this would be the best time to hit the terminalmost of the dockworkers should be on lunch. Turns out, only some of them are. Most of the terminal officers are gathered by the safety rail, leaning on motorcycles, supervisingbasically doing nothing. Such is the life in corporate N.A., where management gets rewarded for appearing busy while the real work gets done by machines and drones. I notice something that the footage had failed to pick up on: the dockworkers arent human; theyre androids, at least the labouring staff. Each one is nearly identical: humanoid in the vaguest sense: tall, thin frames of brushed steel and black composite, with joints exposed like the hinges of a folding chair. Their faces are flat and featureless, dominated by a single horizontal split where eyes should be, some glowing red and others green. A stencilled serial number is stamped just below that slit, the only marker distinguishing one from the next. They move strangely. So perfect and in sync. Some haul heavy material into containers with their thick, pinpointed claws, everything from sheet metal to furniture to entire motorised vehicles, hydraulics hissing with every step, every flex, every struggle. Others are mounted on tracked bases, gliding across the concrete predatorily. Each android wears the same faded yellow vest emblazoned with Meridian Transport Co. and a holographic badge clipped to their chest. No chatter, no laughter, no human flawsjust the cold, relentless hum of machinery doing what its built to do. Whatever personality they might have, if any, is buried under layers of corporate firmware. They''re perfect workers. And theyre absolutely in our way. Not only that, but there are plenty of cameras. I know because I tapped into a nearby infrared hooked on a datamine watch terminal not too long ago, using Server Locator to get a general outline of the place. The good news is that there are a lot of blindspots, especially with so many stacked crates. Navigating to the lightest crate isnt as much of a problem. We wait near the entrance, just inside the large open gate where trucks usually pull through, our antifibre suits activated. Were armed with the sleek nano pistols Fingers snagged and a fresh batch of MX-inhalers that Dance had so expertly brewed just days ago. Theyre stashed in our pouches, so they shouldnt show up on any outside scanning technology. Shouldnt being the keyword. I use the same function as last night, Server Locator, to link up the crates attributed to the smuggle ship, 93F, and find that there arent as many left for collection. Good. Only makes things easier. I quickly locate NGT-93F-7X2842. Its on the other side of the open shipyard, past the forklifts, past those supervisors, past those damn androids. I scan as many of them as I can, trying to determine whether or not the androids or workers have infrared technology embedded in their optics. Thankfully, only the front cameras do, and as predicted, the mode is switched off for day-time efficiency. Better not fuck this up. I follow Fingers lead, using my blue-scan neural display to get a better picture of her outline, as we sneak around the crates, wait for androids to pass, and tip-toe, ever-so-quietly, to the far end of the terminal, by the smuggle ship. There are only a few 93F containers left, so once were inside, it wont be long before were on the ship. Eventually, we reach the crate, stacked on top of two larger units, arranged diagonally. We climb up, keeping low as androids whiz past on their tracked bases and forklifts. When the moment is right, I activate Manual Override on the units dial-lock, release the pistons, and quietly open the crate. It takes a little muscle, a little force, but my cybernetic arm has the strength to handle it. We slip inside quickly, pulling the door shut behind us. I use the spoofer to lock it again, just in case anyone grows suspicious, and step back, finding that there truly isnt much space to move around in here. The crates interior is dimly lit, the only illumination coming from faint green status lights on a few embedded panels. The walls are lined with a dull, scuffed metal, each surface dotted with rivets and faded caution labels in half a dozen languages. Several much smaller crates are strapped to the walls with heavy industrial bands, their contents labelled in barcodes rather than words. Theres barely enough room for Fingers and me to stand side by side. A narrow path between the stored cargo gives us just enough space to crouch down or shift position if we need to, but thats about it. Could be worse. At least theres no stench of fish to deal with. One of the many benefits of having lost the sense. Now what? I ask in a low voice. I already know what her answer is going to bethat we just waitbut its so silent and awkward I cant help but make conversation. You tell me, Fingers says. How many units are left? I squint, observing the red dots all connecting and submerging on the computer terminal, counting the ones along the shipyard. Twelve. Shouldnt be too long before were onboard then. Slowly the skin of her suit appears. Shes turned it off, hand pressing down on the centre chest button. Dont need it. They cant see us in here. But what about the scanners? She lies against the wall, legs crossed. As long as we dont touch anything, the drones wont notice. They work off these barcodes. She points to the crates. As long as they can see em, were golden. No issues. Just stay low, and dont stand in the way when they come around. Why do we have to wait for drones to come around, anyway? I ask, pressing the button on my sternum and disabling the invisibility. Would it not be easier to just leave the crate once it gets dark, head to the centre hold, grab it, get out? Even if the drones scan it later, well be long gone by then. Thats an assumption, Fingers says. I take a second, wondering what she could mean by that. I dont understand. How? She gestures with an open palm, turning it towards the ceiling in that universal motion that screams, Isnt it obvious? She stares at me, and although I cannot see her face, I can tell she has a confused look. We dont know where the snake crate is, she says. It could be located anywhere, at the bottom of a stack, in the middle, between hundreds. You didnt really think it would be neatly stacked at the front for someone to access it, did you? She has a point, a pretty concerning one, even. So, how are we supposed to get it? Simple. She points at me. Youre gonna get it for us. How? Do you expect me to just lift everything out of the way without anyone noticing? I say, slightly annoyed. Has she really not considered that? She shakes her head. First, watch the attitude. Seriously. Were gonna be in here a long time and youre already thinkin Ive messed up on the plan. Theres a claw inside, an organiser claw. Moves the crates around, very similar to the crane system. Cargo hold has one for stacking, because groundworkers can only go so high with forklifts. Sorry about my tone, I say sincerely. But what do you want me to do in this case? One of the more powerful quick-hacks Rico gave you is Manual Override, she says. The same one you would have used to unlock this container. Pretty standard hacking mechanism, used globally. All you have to do is override the claw, move crates out of the way, pick it up, and put it somewhere more secure. I touched on this, but clearly you werent listening. I dont think so. If she had told me this, I would have remembered it. I dont just forget stuff like that. Still, its not worth the argument. And if people see this? I ask. Theyre bots, Mono. Not safety inspectors. Not, watchmen. If you use the organiser claw, theyll think its just routine, she says. This is assuming we even need to do that. Its likely to be a very light crate, according to Rico, and if your theory about stacking by weight is true, itll be at the top, so there wouldnt be much movement needed. That makes sense. So, its that simple: move the crate to somewhere with easy access, preferably out of view, unlock it, grab the item, and leave. And how do we leave again? I ask. Crane system, right? Also, the item were getting for Rico: I doubt its gonna be small enough to fit in the pouches. She nods. Yeah, so as explained when we first went over the deats, the crane pulley can be interfered with, just like any other piece of technology. Once again, you override the crane to pull along the rail, have it drop down, and well sneak on top, have it carry us out. Leave the item handling to me. Ill keep it low and hiddentrust me, Im good at that. You just worry about controlling the firmware.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. Okay, that makes sense, I say. And Im assuming the reason we wait for the scans is to give us more time. If we leave too early, then we have less time to get the job done, because they could come around after we collect the item but before we leave, leading to a lockdown. Its a micro-issue, but Rico had it covered when he initially concocted this fix. Fingers nods, as if reading my mind. Exactly. The last thing we need is a time constraint, and the place blowing their shit if we dont get out after the scan. I nod back. Got it. She breathes out a chuckle. You sure do get into a panic quickly, ay? Sorry, I say. I know I probably shouldnt be saying this to my boss, but I am really nervous. Cant help it. Then dont think of me as a boss, Fingers says. I dont really like being called boss anyhow. I dont believe in corporate hierarchies. Im just the girl sourcin jobs. Thats it. Well, the planner, too, technically, but thats irrelevant. Just have a little faith in me. I promise Im not stupid. So much goes into this kind of work. Every tiny detail, down to the last micron, seems to be meticulously planned by these fixers, which, honestly, is reassuring. Still, it says a lot about Fingers. She mustve built one hell of a reputation if Ricos trusting her with a job like this, one I overheard is worth millions. But it leaves me wondering: what could possibly be inside this container to warrant such a massive payday? Why does it need to be smuggled out so securely? And how did Rico even find out about it in the first place? Many questions, little answers. I doubt Ill get any even if this job is a complete success. We wait in the container for hours, nearly dozing off from boredom. The only upside is the air: a narrow slit running through the centre of the crate lets a steady breeze filter in. Keeps the place from turning into a hotbox. I pull out my phone to kill time, remembering Fingers suggestion yesterday about doing my own research. But without dark web access, its slim pickings. Theres barely anything about the citys current gangs, let alone ones that existed some forty years ago. Even the scrublands droughts that Maelstrom mentioned turn up little more than surface-level news. My search is flooded with endless articles about drug busts, murders, and grim warnings about a dwindling outland on a crash course to extinction. Not exactly helpful. The hours drag on until the steady whir of the crane overhead breaks the monotony, accompanied by a rhythmic beeping that grows louder as it approaches. Suddenly, a weight presses down on the container, making it shift slightly. Moments later, theres a faint jolt, and I feel the sides adjust as the forks lock us into place. This is it. We stay completely still as the crane lifts us smoothly into the air, pausing briefly before sliding us forward towards the smuggle ship. The journey feels slow, no doubt due to the sheer size of the freighter and the distance the crane has to travel. Eventually, were lowered with a controlled motion, landing with a heavy clang. The sound reverberates through the container, and I can tell from the stillness that weve been set down on top of another unitmost likely at the very top of the stack. Unit 7-X-2-8-4-2 has been successfully positioned at Grid A-17, Tier 4, a female voice announces, so loud it echoes across the dock. Its so lifeless and monotone that it cant be anything other than AI. The announcement repeats itself in two additional languages, Mandarin and German, before falling silent, leaving only the hum of machinery and the distant clatter of android workers below. When I check using the Server Locator, I see that all the smuggle crates are on board, but theres another problem: while we might be at the top of the stack, there is another stack directly in front of us, blocking the exit. Shit. Fingers, I say. We have a problem. She sits up. What is it? Theres a stack in our way. Completely blocked off. No way out. She looks at the floor for a moment, thinking. What time is it? The digital clock on my neural display reads 21:47. I confirm it with her. Okay, she says, heres what I want you to do, and listen to me very carefully because you cant fuck this up. Sweat slips down the back of my neck. Its so cold, icy. Im listening. Unlock the door, she says. Im confused as to why she would want that, but I comply, overriding the piston locks with the spoofer. Done. Push it open as far as you can, Fingers says. I comply again, pressing the door open. It stops pretty much immediately, leaving only a slit to look through. Done. Scan the crate in front of you and use Data Blocker on it, she says. And do not do anything until you have the screen up in front of you. Once again, I obey her commands, using the spoofer to activate Data Blocker on the crate. However, unlike the other quick-hacks, an upload bar doesnt appear right away; instead, the left side of my neural display shifts to show an additional three options: Delete, Alter, Transfer. Interesting. Now, she says slowly, select Delete. I nod, select the option, and watch as an upload bar whips up to 100%. The red line connecting the centre dot of this unit to the computer terminal in the distance snaps out of existence. Done. She places a hand on my shoulder and points at the crate through the slit with the other. Now, select Alter. I do, and then the data cube moves from the right to the centre of my neural display. The words and numbers blink, as if they can be edited. Uh-huh. Change the tag, 93-F, to something else, she says. If you can remember any of the previous tags along the dock, even better. If not, just input some random three-digit figure. But I can remember the other tags, very clearly. Carefully, I change the tag into T88. Done. Good, she says. Now, select Transfer. Done. An upload bar slowly progresses, and when it fills up, the information on the crate changes, no longer containing the red dot. When I use Server Locator on it, the red line attaches itself to a terminal in the next cargo ship over. Now what? I ask. She leans back against the wall. If you didnt fuck up, when the drones scan that crate, theyll realise its in the wrong place, and get the crane to relocate it. Did you use another shipment tag? I nod. Good, then theyll move it to one of the other ships in the dock. Its a promising theory, and I really hope it works, because if it doesnt, well be stuck here for the entire journey. With the unit blocking the exit, barely any air is coming through the slit, especially since the wind is blowing in the opposite direction. We could be cooked alive well before that point, too. Time slips by faster than I expect. Eventually, Fingers motions for me to shut the door and lock it again. I comply, though Im not entirely sure whyuntil the sound of loud buzzing filters in from outside. My pulse quickens as I glance at my phone. Its ten oclock. Scanner drones. Before I can react, Fingers grabs my arm and pulls me down flatwell, as flat as the cramped space allowsand hisses, Dont move. A faint blue light filters through the slit in the container, casting an eerie glow on the walls. The buzzing grows louder, steady and deliberate, as the drone lingers nearby. My breath catches in my throat. After what feels like an eternity, the drone emits a soft chime, and a robotic voice announces, Grid A-17scan complete, 22:04. Anomaly detected: Unit WAT-T88-2378393. Error: incorrect shipping label. Source: .... Silence for a moment. Painful, worrying silence. .... Unknown. The drones voice resumes, calm and methodical. Initiating correction protocol. Requesting crane override for relocation of Unit WAT-T88-2378393. Destination: Holding Bay C-4 for manual inspection. The buzzing intensifies as the drone transmits its request. A pause follows, the silence heavy, broken only by the static of the AIs processing. Then, the ships loudspeaker crackles to life with the mechanical tone of the cranes AI. Override accepted. Relocation initiated. Estimated time to completion: Four. Minutes. And. Twelve. Seconds. The buzzing fades as the drone moves on, leaving only the hum of the ship and my pounding heartbeat. Fingers pats my back. Were safefor now. Slowly, the crane returns, the pulley screeching to a halt. It beeps as the sound of its cogs descend. Clang. The beeping ascends. Then it moves away, heading behind us, towards the terminal. I instinctively go to unlock the doorI just cant wait to get out of this deathtrapbut Fingers stops me. No, she rasps quietly. The time. We move at eleven. Thats right. Id forgotten. So, we wait and wait, watching the time tick towards eleven oclock. When it strikes, the thrum of the scanner drones passes overhead, leaving the vicinity, perhaps moving on to the other cargo ships, perhaps turning in for the night. Doesnt matter. I turn to Fingers for approval to exit, and she nods. We activate the suits again. I waste no time unlocking the crate, shoving the door open with all the strength my cybernetic arm can muster. Cool night air rushes in. A thin rain sprays across the expanse of the cargo deck, the droplets catching the glow of distant floodlights, but its light enough to keep our antifibre suits invisibility intact. We step outside, and immediately, the next problem becomes clear: were boxed in on all sides. Its not a major issuenothing we cant handle. I move to the nearest crate and press my back against it, extending my hand. Ill boost you up. Fingers steps into my hand, and with a firm push, I lift her onto the top of the container. She climbs up with ease, turns, and reaches back for me. Gripping her hand tightly, I brace myself and let her pull. Up I go, easy as pie. I stand up and brush myself off. Finallyfreedom. From up here, the cargo ship extends in every direction, utterly colossal. Stacks of containers rise and fall in uneven rows, creating a complex grid of metal and bright markers. The low hum of engines vibrates through the structure, blending with the sharp hiss of hydraulics from the ships automated systems. Down below, dockworkers move about. In a normal operation, most of them would be heading home for the night, but not androids. Oh no, they would be worked to the point of failureand then repaired just to be worked to the point of failure all over again. Efficiency never sleeps, especially not in corporate N.A. Now what? I say, frankly growing sick of the question. Well, I think you just set us up for success, Fingers says. Look behind you, at the terminal. I turn, following the path of the crane pulley. Its already dropped off the hacked unit, and those supervisorsthe ones who were lazily sipping coffee by their motorcycles earlierare now swarming the container, inspecting it like its a ticking bomb. Above them, the crane retracts, rising smoothly into the night sky before redirecting itself back towards our position. My gaze tracks its movement as realisation clicks into place. That crane is heading straight for the centre hold, and if what Fingers said about Manual Override is truethat I can control its direction and movement... Oh, Fingers, you absolute genius. We hunker down and wait for the crane to return to our position. When it glides into place above us, I squint and activate Manual Override. A separate box pops up, simple and intuitive: Up, Down, Forward, Back, On, Off. I select Down. The cranes magnet head descends, its sleek bulk looming over us. The magnet itself is deactivated, just as I expected, and once its within reach, we climb onto the metal platform, gripping its thick metal housing tightly. With a quick mental command, I select Up, and the crane obeys, lifting us into the air. The wind whips past us as I guide the crane-head towards the centre hold. Below, the ships bright interior stretches out. Android workers move with precision among forklifts and towering stacks of containers, the storage floor bustling with motion and the harsh glare of industrial lights. I glance at Fingers outline, waiting for her signal. Through the distortion, she nods. I dont hesitate. I select Down, and the crane begins its descent. As were lowered into the heart of the ships cargo hold, my grip tightens on the metal housing. The workers below remain oblivious to the quiet, calculated intrusion happening right above their heads. Just follow my lead, Fingers whispers. Dont do anything stupid. I nod, my pulse quickening. Our next moves have to be perfector were done for. currents beneath steel - 4.3 4.3
The containers sit in tidy, colourful rowshundreds arranged in a metallic mosaicwhile the androids hoist smaller units onto forklifts, muscling them into place with the brute-force precision only an AI collective could command. As the magnet descends, none of them seem to noticeor care, for that matter. Fingers prediction that theyd treat abnormalities as standard routine, lacking the critical thinking to question them, appears to hold some merit. Still, we should err on the side of caution: just because the androids arent paying attention doesnt mean human workers, if there are any, wont start asking questions. I halt the craneheads descent just as we align with a nearby stack of containers. Fingers steps to the edge, tipping her foot over before taking a long, fluid stride onto the top of the container. Without hesitation, I follow her lead. A metallic grinding echoes across the central hold, drowning out the clatter of forklifts and the whirring of android servos below. The noise is so intense it nearly silences the voice in my head. Glancing up, I spot the claws descending, though claws doesnt quite describe them. Theyre enormous, disk-shaped magnets, like oversized burgers with segmented steel edges that flex and shift. Pistons brace their every movement, and faint blue arcs of electromagnetic energy flicker at their edges. As the magnet lowers, its segments expand and contract, latching onto a container with a loud thunk. The whole contraption jerks slightly as it lifts its load, swinging it smoothly through the air before depositing it on a higher stack. The motion is both precise and predatory, and I cant help but feel like were being watched by an enormous metal creature tending to its lair. There are four of them, Im suretwo ahead, two behindand the ceiling is designed in such a way to facilitate their movement. A network of sliding rails and intricate track systems, crisscrossing in perfect symmetry. The metal beams stretch across the hold, a kind of mechanical spiderweb, supporting a lattice of thick cables and pulleys. The rails are slick, almost too smooth, designed specifically for the magnets to glide along without a hitch, and they do. Compared to the cranehead, these are much faster, whipping from one end, around the gap of the flood gates, to the other, and when they do, that same shipmind plays out: Unit 9-Q-1-3-5-7 is now en route to Grid C-12, Tier 6. Estimated time to position: 14 seconds. The magnet sucks up a crate from the metal floor, ascends, and slides to the other end, placing it slowly on top of a stack. A sharp voice cuts through the din, echoing from the elevated steel walkway that encircles the interior like a suspended square balcony, offering a commanding view of the sprawling central hold below: What is it doing, ah? Why is it down here? An African accent. Difficult to tell who its coming from. I keep low, hiding behind a crate stacked unevenly at the top. Manual Control says the cranes been acting up, an employee says. He wears heavy blue overalls, paired with a bright yellow high-vis vest. In his left hand is a clipboard and in his right is a small, rectangular object. He presses a button on the object and points it up at the cranehead. A beam of blue light sweeps over it, scanning it. The object beeps and the employee looks at it. Hm. Yeah. Seems theres an issue with the circuits. Shit. Has it grown a mind of its own, ah? shouts the African man. I catch a good look at him when he steps past the employee and snatches the scanner from his hand, inspecting it for a second. The man is imposing, I admit, his tall frame draped in a sleek brown business suit that somehow manages to look more like armour than clothing. His skin is deep black, gleaming under the harsh industrial lights. A vibrant, green visor sits over his right eye, flickering with streams of data and scanning lines as if constantly calculating, constantly watching. On his left arm, a gauntlet device hums softly with energy, its metallic surface glowing faintly at the seams. When he raises it, the air seems to tighten, and with a faint hiss and mechanical whine, the cranehead above jerks to life. It rises slowly, almost reluctantly, as though acknowledging a master it cannot defy. I quickly scan him using the spoofer, and his details show up on the data cube: Name: Obadele Kanyama Affiliation: Meridian Transport Co. Wanted For: N/A Weakness(es): [[Suppressed]] Resistant To: Quick-hacks (87%) Below the scan, something new flashes: WARNING: Subject equipped with high-tier ICE (Intrusion Countermeasures Electronics) and Netshield Mk-IV. Any unauthorized network activity will trigger immediate retaliation protocols. Further down, a secondary alert flickers: ADDITIONAL WARNING: Subject gauntlet detected with Override Capability. An anti-quickhack defence mechanism? Who is this guy, and whats he doing working on a cargo ship? Thats some serious cyberware for a simple supervising role. Jesu, Obadele yells. You go and tell Manual Control to keep it in the port, eh? If that thing comes back here, I will destroy it myself. It is too much risk for our security, especially when it starts moving on its own. Go nowtell them, sharp-sharp! Yes sir, says the employee, hurrying along the platform, pressing his neural port. Mono, Fingers rasps, her voice low, and I look around. It takes me a moment to find her outline, so I squint to save time, finding her crouched next to me, behind the container. Need you to start scannin. Dont worry about him. We dont have all night. Sorry, I say. Where do we start? Theres hundreds of units. Fingers raises a frustrated hand. Thats your job, she says, again quietly. Eyes on the steel, get movin. What if that man sees us? I ask. He has a retina scanner. Embedded spoofer. If he squints, hell see our outline. Then well keep out of sight, she says. Now, look around, do you see the snake symbol at all? First, I scan all of the crates on this side of the central hold, particularly the tops, because I cant scan any underneath, what with them being blocked off. Theres nothing. Whats the tag again? I ask. 5-22-9-12, Fingers says. 5-22-9-12. Remember that. I peek around the corner of the unit, observing the other side of the central hold where hundreds upon hundreds of other units reside, catching glimpse of Obadele, who hasnt moved from his spot. He just stands there, hands behind his back, observing the workers, the claws, the system. Regardless, I keep my head low and begin scanning the crates on the other side, using Server Locator to get a better snap function as I sift through the data of each crate individually. Its a little awkward from this angle, because every time I lock onto a new crate, I struggle to remember if Ive already scanned the one before it. My memorys sharp, but not sharp enough for this. After a while, I say, Look, we need to move to the other side and see if its on top. Why? Its impossible to tell from this angle, I say, once again keeping my voice quiet. Im sorry, but my memorys not cut out for this shit. Fingers takes a deep breath through her nose, thinking carefully. She looks over my shoulder, towards the other end. We might be able to navigate to the other side. The only problem is that man, that asshole, with the retina scanner. Hes not moving, not budging one bit. Its almost eerie how much he can stand in one place; its as if hes daring us to come outside, for him to spot us and put an end to this whole operation. Given the spoofers description of his spec, this isnt someone wed want to alert. Okay, Fingers says. Heres the plan. She points over to the employee on the metal platform, whos leaning over the railing, forearms tucked into one another, eyes blue, possibly on a call. See that guy, over there by the stairway? I nod. Yeah, what about him? Short-circuit him, she says matter-of-factly. ... What? Just trust me, she says, placing a hand on my shoulder again. Short-circuit him. The brown-suit will get distracted, and we run for the other side. Okay, I say, heres the problem: if I short-circuit him, hell put this place on lockdown. He knows what a short-circuit looks like, surely, and hell know a netrunner is out there. She shakes her head. You think cyberware doesnt spontaneously malfunction? She stops herself from going any further on that train of thought. Listen, do what I fuckin say. Short-circuit him, now. I hesitatethis could go very, very wrongbefore the hum of my neural interface pulses to life in my mind. With a thought, I activate Short-circuit. The upload bar blinks on my neural display, its progress bar rising steadily, faster than I expected, shooting up to 100%. In an instant, the employee''s body jerks as if struck by an unseen force. His eyes flicker, pupils constricting to pinpricks, and his limbs stiffen for a second, before he slumps back against the railing with a low groan. The steady pulse of his internal systems begins to glitch, his cyberware shorting out, triggering an overload of electrical feedback in his nervous system. The faint whir of his internal systems grinding to a halt is drowned out by the sudden rasping breath as he tries to recover, but its too latehes twitching in place. My heart bumps. Please, oh Lord. Obadele hurries over to him. What happened, eh? What are you doing? he shouts. Move now, says Fingers, and we hop off the crate stack, landing with a clang. Thankfully, like before, the android workers dont care. It makes sense, too. This place is nothing but clangs and crashes; we blend right in.
Following Fingers outline, I make my way to the far side of the cargo hold, climbing one of the stairways in the far-right corner and leaping across the gap to the tops of the stacks once more. This side is cluttered with uneven crates, some blocking the view ahead. As I crouch behind the nearest crate, I check on the employee and Obadelethe short-circuit has worn off, and the employees now pulling himself up from the rungs. Obadele shouts, Are you stupid, ah? I told you the company needs all staff to monitor their cyberware capacity, but you didnt, isnt that right? The employee catches his breath, holding his cybernetic arm. I monitored it. This isnt normal. Liar, Obadele says. If it was up to code, it wouldnt have malfunctioned, yes? Look, the employee says, getting loud but not quite shouting, my cyberware is up-to-date. I didnt skip out on that. Theres something jamming signals in here. Think about it: the crane malfunctioning, the mislabelled crate, and now this. Somethings goin on, Mr. Kanyama. My heart races, faster than ever. Obadele snatches the employees arm and inspects it. Hey, he says, shouting now. Let off man. You cant do that! He keeps scanning the mans arm, possibly wanting to identify any abnormalities or outdated hardware. Mr. Kanyama. Please sir Shut your mouth, eh? says Obadele. So long as youre working for me, I can do whatever I damn want with you. You dont forget, Jesu, youre just noise that blew up from the southside. You are lucky I even let you in this place at all, ah. Youre nothing but a cog in my machine. A speck of dirt I keep around for convenience. So, dont get smart with me, ah. You hear me, boy?Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. The employee opens his mouth, but Obadele holds up a hand, cutting him off. Dont even start, Obadele sneers, clicking his tongue. You think just because you somehow managed to crawl your way up here, you''re better than the filth you came from? No. Youre still the same, just dressed in cleaner rags, standing in a room full of fools who think they can escape their fate. Your fate. His words slice through the air like a whip. The venom in his voice isnt just angerits something more primal, something bred from years of watching the world play out in predictable, ugly cycles. He lets go of the employees arm. Now, get out of my sight. Down to Tier 7 and monitor the workers, and dont forget where you came from. His eyes dont shift from the employees face, and for a moment, the smaller man looks as though he might argue. But he doesnt. The subordinate takes a slow, reluctant step back, his head low, the tension in his shoulders hardening with the uncomfortable obedience that is born from years of silence. Years of Yes sir and well-contained anger on the teeter-totter of bursting. The employee turns and retreats, heading towards the stairwell, his steps heavy with resignation, not daring to look back. Obadele watches him leave, his posture almost regal in its arrogance. He turns to face the android workers below. What are you all looking at? Move! What an asshole. I didnt realise there was such a sense of classism to certain individuals. Im guessing that these workers from the southside are paid significantly less than their northern counterparts. Terrible. Absolute robberya robbery of opportunity, of dignity, of hope. No wonder so many people resort to crime, stealing from those in power. What other choice do they have when the system is rigged to begin with? That asshole wasnt just degrading that southsiders worth: he was enforcing a system that keeps people like him at the bottom, no matter how hard they try to climb. But what use was there in fighting? Who out there could put a stop to it all? There has to be someone, surely. Someone to walk the circuit, to dig deep into the roots of this broken system and tear it all down. Someone who can expose the lies, unearth the hidden power plays, and give the people something to believe in again. Someone for whom it isnt about finding a way to climb, but about finding a way to burn the whole damn ladder down. Though, thats a fight for someone braver than me, stronger than me, smarter than me. Someone with more at stake than survival. I just need moneythats all. Still, seeing such cruelty.... It can be difficult to ignore. I shift my focus to the task at hand, scanning through the crates with a much clearer view this time. After about twenty minutes and over a hundred scans, I finally spot the container with the snake symbol etched across it. Its darker and thinner than it looked in the video, but then again, that footage was made for clarity and emphasis, not accuracy. There had been so much the camera missed. I scan the snake crate and, sure enough, the data cube pops up with that same tag: WAT-93F-522912. As Fingers predicted, its in an awkward position, wedged in the centre of four parallel units. Now, things should be a little easier, although not completely. I look up at one of the claws; it rumbles overhead, as if waiting for a request. I highlight it with the spoofer, use Manual Override, and see the same options as before, although with some notable extras: Up, Down, Forward, Back, Left, Right, On, Off. A bit more complex, but it shouldnt be much of a problem. With a series of thoughts, I guide the claw over to the crate, careful not to let the connection slip, and position it directly above the snake symbol. I instinctively rub my temple, as if that would help. Just a calming measure. Breathe. Relax. Down the claw goes, steady now, and... When the magnet touches the container, I select On, which causes the magnet to attach itself to the metal roof. I guide the crate up. As I do, the forks pitch down and lock it securely in place. Doin good, says Fingers. Slowly, very slowly indeed, I bring the crate towards us, lay it squarely at the top of a closer stack, and bring the claw back up. Like nothing, ever, happened. The android workers continue on with their business, across the grated walkway, along their tracked bases, around the vicinity in their forklifts. All just part of the day-to-day routine. And that man, Obadele, is none the wiser, observing his machines, doing nothing. I feel satisfied, though I understand that its not quite over yet. Fingers and I creep over to the snake crate and I scan it with the spoofer, selecting Manual Override to unlock it, but Im faced with a different screen this time, one Ive not witnessed before: (Authentication Required)
A1 E7 D3 B4 F9 A8 C2 E6 F5 B1
C9 B5 A7 D2 F3 E8 B9 D1 F7 C4
F2 D6 A3 B8 E4 C5 F1 D7 A9 E3
A4 E9 C6 F8 D5 B2 A6 F4 E2 D8
B3 F6 C8 A2 D4 E1 F9 B7 C1 A5
F9 C2 D3 E7 A5 B4 F1 E6 D9 B8
D2 F8 A1 C7 B6 E5 F3 A4 D9 E3
A8 C1 B5 F2 D7 E6 A3 F4 C9 B2
D6 E8 F7 A4 C3 B1 F9 A2 D9 E5
C4 A9 B2 F5 D6 E3 C8 B7 A1 F4
Its a firewall. Fuck, this isnt good. Another problem, I say. Yeah? says Fingers. Rico forgot to mention the crate is locked behind a firewall, I say, my throat dusting up and sounding slightly hoarse. And I dont know how to crack this. Im sorry Its okay, Fingers says. And stop saying sorry, for fucks sake. Youre getting on my nerves. Now I want you to listen to me very carefully, like last time, okay? I nod. Yeah. Now, no arguing with me, no what ifs or buts, she says. Just, please, for the love of God, do what I fuckin say: see that claw? She points up at it. Its the same one I used to move the snake crate. I say, Yeah? Youre gonna pick it up again, she continues, once again placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. Youre gonna bring it all the way over to the centre, below the gap where all the space is, where the crane normally drops off units. And youre gonna drop ithard. Wont that damage it? I askand cause a pretty significant crash, gathering the attention of the entire place, but Im not going to argue. It wont, Fingers says, though Im not sure shes so certain about that based off her deprecatory tone. But that doesnt mean the personnel wont open it to give a look-around, to make sure everything is still intact, know? It sounds dumb, but were taking a risk here. There are only two ways we can get into this thing: either they open it for us, or we get the scanner key, but guess where that is. I squint at the units dial-lock, use Server Locator, and track the red line all the way over to the grated metal platform. It leads right into Obadeles gauntlet. Of course. Okay, I say, understanding her point. So, what then? What do we do after it falls? How do we get into it without anyone looking? It depends on a few different factors, Fingers says, but Ill let you know. For now, just get it done. Drop the crate from a nice high distance, as high as the rig will let you, in the centre near the flood gates. An astute nod. Got it. Once again, we hide behind a unit, out of sight. I control the claw, pick up the snake crate, and direct it beneath the flood gates, watching as rain shoots down over it. I can only get it so far before the pulley network veers off around the square opening; I keep it to the left, pull the crate up as high as possible, just like Fingers said, and Off. The snake crate falls immediately, crashing with an enormous, earth-shattering clang. Its deafeningly loud, echoes for a solid four seconds. Unit 5-2-2-9-1-2 has lost connection to the database, the female shipmind announces, its voice calm but unyielding. Please ensure all contents are securely maintained and return the unit to its designated position. I watch as the red line connecting the dial-lock to Obadeles scanner key disintegrates into digital dust. What happened, eh? bellows Obadele, and soon all the androids gather around the fallen crate, joined by some of the human employees who, by the looks of it, had been solely monitoring the machines. Just dropped out of the sky, says one worker. Gave me a damn heart attack, yells another. What is goin on tonight, ah? What in goodness gracious is happening! Obadele storms down the stairwell and approaches the snake crate. At the same time, Fingers and I hop off the stack and creep over to the area beneath the flood gates, watching from behind a pallet of metal sheets coated with bubblewrap. Obadele pulls out his scanner key, presses it against the dial-lock, but gets a red beep in response. Too damaged. Unreadable. He steps back, eyeing the androids. Well, what are you waiting for, ah? Open it!" He points at the crate doors, and two androids step forward, sinking their pinpointed claws into the gap and prying the unit open. The doors peel away with a horrifying metallic screech. It takes a couple jerks, but eventually the androids rip the doors off. Obadele steps inside, scans the unit, and after thirty seconds or so, says, Jesu. Thank goodness. Where is that boy? He turns, seeing the same employee from earlier, the one hed belittled. You. He grabs him by the vest. Go up to my office and turn on operator mode. Youre going to take over the claws tonight until we figure out whats wrong with the AI. He lets go, and the employee stands there. Well, move! The employee hurries away, towards us, but passes up the stairwell, towards the office. Had he possessed any form of scanning technology installed in his optics, he very well might have seen us. Thank goodness some luck is on our side tonight. The rest of you, shouts Obadele, get back to work. This isnt an excuse to take a break. Just like that, the employees and android workers get back to their duties, and Obadele takes control of the claw with his gauntlet, bringing it down slowly to the snake crate. Quick, move up, rasps Fingers, perhaps louder than she should have, though not loud enough for anyone to hear. I follow her towards the centre space beneath the flood gates, and when we hide behind another pallet, she points to the crowd of androids on the far right, who are already setting up to return to work. Short-circuit one of them, she says, again quite loudly. I waste no time, not bothering to question her methods anymore. I scan one of the androids with the heavy pinpointed claws, select Short-circuit, and watch as the upload bar whips up to 100%. The second the upload bar hits 100%, the android jolts violently, its claws trembling. A sharp crack reverberates through the space, followed by a hiss of static from the androids vocal emitter. Its eyes flicker erratically from a steady white to a disjointed red, and it convulses. Sparks spit and sputter from its joints, illuminating its battered frame in brief flashes. The other androids pause, their sensors swivelling towards the malfunctioning unit. The short-circuited android jerks once more, collapsing to its knees with a groan of grinding metal. A slow, dark trickle begins to seep out from its abdomen, pooling beneath ita viscous, inky-blue fluid, synthetic oil. It slides in thin rivulets along the floor, mingling with the dust and grime. I give up, ah, Obadele says. We need to put this place on lockdown. All the AI is malfunctioning. Must be the damn storm, eh! He doesnt move from his spot. Shit! That didnt work! Fingers, I say, slightly loud. The claw comes down and attaches itself to the snake crate, the magnet sucking it up. Clean up the mess, Jesu, Obadele says. Take it out backnot an android. You. Yes, you, southsider scum. He points at a human worker with a free hand, and the worker goes to pick up the android. The snake crate is lifted, and it''s clear he''s planning to take it somewhere remote, maybe leaving it there indefinitely for the rest of the night. Fingers... I say, losing hope. Just let me fucking think, Jesus Christ! Fingers whisper-shouts. I glance at the dead bot again, watching the employee grab it by the shoulders, when A loud slash, followed by a crack. The employees head splits open, revealing the pinpointed claw of the android. His arms go limp, his body slack. Suddenly, another worker shouts, Huh? The android drives its claw through the dead workers skull, finishing the job, then stands up. The illuminated line across its face flickers from red to white, finally settling into a cold, unyielding blue. The other worker gasps. Rogue bot! Rogue bot! He bolts, as do the others, but the android catches him, slicing through his chest and tearing him in two. Obadele turns from the crate, his attention snapping to the bot as the workers scatter. The remaining androids stare, frozen, unsure of what to do. The rogue bot tilts its head, detached and unfeeling. It pivots towards the remaining crowd, claws slick with a gruesome mix of synthetic oil and blood. Obadele raises his gauntlet, a sharp command on his lips, pointing it at the rogue bot. But nothing happens. The android twitches, then jerks violently, turning on one of its own, claws ripping through the machine like paper. Obadeles voice cracks, fury giving way to disbelief. It doesnt stop. The AI isnt malfunctioning. It cant be controlled. currents beneath steel - 4.4 4.4 A quick scan of the android reveals that all the information previously accessible on the data cube is now unavailable. Everything is greyed out, locked away, and none of my quick-hacks can penetrate the system. The bot rips through the other androids, tearing them apart limb by mechanical limb, splattering blue synthetic fluid in every direction. Obadele sweeps his arm out, motioning frantically from side to side, but nothing seems to work. Destroy it, he shouts, but the other bots stay motionless, their glowing eye lines pulsing red. One of them beeps, and a voice plays out: Request rejected. Perhaps a safety feature, perhaps defiance. Given Maelstroms explanation of The Helios Paradox, it makes sense that it would exist. One of the massive claws embedded in the ceiling jolts to life. It swings towards the flood gates with such speed I half expect it to snap clean off the pistons. The claw swivels downward, its magnet tilting diagonally relative to the ground. A low hum vibrates through the air as it begins pulling in the debris: shattered android limbs, spilled oil, and finally, the rogue bot itself. The bots thick, pinpointed talons screech along the steel flooring and draw deep, jagged furrows that glint with all the spark of tortured metal, the magnetic force so intense that wires in its wrists snap loose, one by one, before finally tearing free. The android whips up into the bed of the magnet and begins to melt away. Fingers pats my shoulder, pointing first at the hanging snake crate and then at the stairwell leading up to the platform. Upstairs. Now. We dont have much time. Shes right. No time like the present to head up, lower the crate, grab the item, and get the hell out of this place for good. So, I follow her up the stairwell, along the grated platform, and towards the elevated snake crate. Its suspended about seven feet above the railingtoo high to jumpso I take control of the claw, guiding it down until its level with us. With a quick rotation of the unit, the crate aligns perfectly, letting us step inside without a hitch. Below us, Obadele is still locked in his struggle with the rogue bot. The android twitches and jerks, not fully dead yet, though its clearly not far from its end. If he looks up just once, even for a moment, were as good as caught. We step into the snake crate, finding that a lot of the stuff insidepallets of coiled tubing, industrial hoses, and stacks of reinforced steel plateshas been shoved haphazardly to one side, likely caused from the fall. The digital tags attached to the items have disintegrated into digital smear and are glitching in and out of existence. However, tucked in the far corner lies a bundle of old tarps, draped like a shroud over something too large, or too inconspicuous, to be ignored. Fingers edges her way through the mess, each step a careful struggle to find solid footing. The space is so cramped that were forced to shift some of the debris aside. Its noisy, but not enough to drown out the low hum of the magnet beneath us. The hum doesnt last long, though. It eventually fades away, leaving a tense silence in its wake. I catch the faint sound of Obadele speaking, though the words are in a language I dont recognise. Probably just muttering to himself. Help me with this, Fingers says, trying to muscle a steel plate out from the tarps. I grip it firmly and slowly slide it out until the area separating the front from the back containing the tarps is free. I place it against the wall and keep it pressed, just for the time being. Its a little too awkward, and perhaps too noisy, to position it somewhere else. Fingers kneels and removes the tarps from the corner. She pulls something from the clutter and dusts it off. Its a silver briefcase with a four-digit combination padlock running across the centre, simple save for the engraving of a snake and the brand stamping that reads OUROVANE. Where have I heard that name before? Fingers steps up from the tarp pile, gripping the silver case with both hands, keeping it low. Theres no way for us to keep that invisiblethe pockets in the anti-fibre suit simply arent large enough to accommodate such sizemeaning that the chances of someone spotting us on the way out have significantly increased. The best bet would be to catch the crane over the cargo ship, towards the terminal, and wait until the coast is clear, because given the whole situation with the rogue bot, many of the human workers have likely evacuated, or are the very least not focused on their duties until given the go-ahead by their superiors. Still, its risky, but doable with the amount of cover provided by the units. I already know where most of the infrared cameras are, and if push comes to shove, I can manually override them, but for now following the original path should suffice, back towards the loading gate, towards the market, and to the parking lot. Out. Gone. Just like that. I wait for Fingers to pass me and then ease the steel plate into its original position, but suddenly I feel the weight of the unit shift and spin, and Fingers is thrust back into me. We stumble and crash onto the bed of the unit. Metal tubes rumble over us. Industrial cords whip down, and were nearly stuck. What happened? I stagger to my feet as the crate finally stops rotating, my balance barely holding. When I look up, there he is: Obadele, standing high above on one of the massive organiser claws. He clings to one of its forks, suspended in the air, the green visor locked onto us through the crates opening. He scowls, teeth grinding, his eyes flashing that same eerie shade of blue Ive seen so many times before, on Li Wei, on Rico. Rats, he shouts. Southsider rats! Im already reaching for the pistol tucked in my anti-fibre pouch, feeling the skin peel away the moment my fingers touch the grip. But as I draw it out and take aim, Obadele jerks the claw upward, and a magnets bed lowers with a loud thud, sealing us in. Grab the plate, Fingers snaps, urgency in her voice. I holster the pistol, feeling the force of the magnet begin to build, pull the metal plate in front of us, using as much strength as possible, and Whoosh! Were thrown violently towards the bed of the magnet, the thick steel plate doing its best to absorb the impact, though barely enough to keep us from crashing. At the same time, coiled tubing, pallets, and industrial hoses are ripped from their places, hurtling towards us like debris caught in the pull of a black hole. Fingers wrestles the silver briefcase between our faces, and we lean behind it, feeling the metal strike painlessly. Warning, the voice in my head says. Magnetic field pressure exceeding safe levels. Proceed with caution or risk severe injury from forceful compression. No time to think. No time to breathe. This is it. Were caught. The skins of our anti-fibre suits emerge as the sharp objects prod us, revealing the black padding in its entirety. My lungs seize up, every breath cut short like Im trying to suck air through a straw. The walls of the unit groan, a low, metallic shriek that sends shivers crawling over my skin. The sound is alive, hungry, and closing in. I can feel it now, the pressure building, squeezing tighter and tighter, as if some invisible hand is reaching in to crush us like empty beer cans. The force weakens slightly, and then the claw pulls out, strong enough to hold us captive but not strong enough to bring the unit with it. Everything spills over, down onto the metal floor, striking with heavy, echoing clangours. Were stuck to the steel plate which is in turn stuck to the bed of the magnet. The claw repositions itself until were facedown, looking at the gore of shredded bodies and mangled android corpses, unable to move a muscle, our cybernetic enhancements holding us captive. I cough, and then I see Obadele rumble towards us on the other claw, staring at us. He doesnt have a scowl on his face anymore; hes grinning. So, you two are the ones disrupting my business, ah? he says, his African accent sounding thicker than ever, the gauntlet pointed at us. Jesu, I should have known. Two southsider scum coming to steal corporate cargo, thinking they can get away with it. Werent you stupid, ah? Fuck you, Fingers says, her voice struggling. Not so smart, eh? he says, descending on the claw a little, scanning her more closely with that green visor. Morgan Ellis-Vale. Or, as the streets know you: Fingers. Big price on your head, ah? Thought you could sneak under my nose, ah? Thought you could sneak illegal cargo out of the state, ahhhhh? Fingers says, mimicking his accent. Your operation wont last long. Only a matter of time before the blues show up and catch on. Faulty androids, mislabelled cargo? Youre a shoe in for the slammer. He laughs, the rain from the flood gates passing over him. Its stronger now, heavier, but his perfectly coiffed slickback remains untouched. You really believe the warriors are coming, eh? Youre as foolish as they say, isnt it? Another laugh, this one sharper. You people, eh? Life would be much simpler if you just bowed your heads and accepted your place. But no, you want to stir up nonsense, giving the others some foolish hope that they can rise up and fight. Fight what? Eh? You will always be the ones scraping for crumbs, always weak, always at the bottom. He shakes his head, his smile cruel. But you dont learn, do you? You try to take from the ones who make this land move, who feed your rivers and keep your streets alive. You dont realise we could crush it all if we wanted, eh? All of it. You wont destroy a damn thing, Fingers snaps, her voice sharp and unflinching. You think youre some big shot, strutting around with your fancy implants and your shiny tech, but the truth is, youre nothing. No more powerful than us, no more important. Hell, you can be replaced tomorrowprobably already have a replacement lined up, just waiting to slide into your spot. But you cling to this, dont you? Bullying the ones beneath you, your own team, because it makes you feel bigger. Gives you some false sense of control. Her tone turns razor-edged. But you know what? When the end-of-month review hits, and your boss is breathing down your neck, youll be shaking. Terrified theyll toss you down here with the rest of us. Youre scared. Just another coward in a cheap suit pretending to be untouchable.The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Heh. As if you know anything about a corporate structure, he says. But its too late for you to understand, ah. Too late for you to continue complaining. He clenches the gauntlet and the force of the magnet strengthens. Im going to kill you and take the money. Both of you. He suddenly scans me, the green eye flickering. Hm. Why is that? Why is it that you are... dead? I scan him back, particularly the gauntlet. Short-circuiting him isnt an option, because the ICE imbedded in his defence software will ward it off and retaliate, likely damaging me instead. I asked you a question, eh? he says, getting closer, but not too close so as to be pulled under. Why are you dead, Rhea Steele? I use Server Locator on his gauntlet, seeing the red lines attach themselves to the claws, which gives me an idea. I select Data Blocker, which prompts the additional options of Delete, Alter, and Transfer. Im not, I say, selecting Delete on the claw holding us, watching as the bar zips up to 100%. But youre about to be. The red line disintegrates, and suddenly the magnet switches off, dropping us along with all the other metal pieces. We hit the ground hard but scramble to our feet, adrenaline pumping. I reach into the pouch of my suit and pull out the pistol, levelling it at Obadele. I fire without hesitation. The bullet ricochets harmlessly off the claw. Hes fast, unnervingly fast. You want to do things the hard way, then? Obadeles green visor flashes in sharp intervals, scanning us, calculating. Fine. A tremendous crash shakes the floor. The snake crate slams down near us, so close it sends us stumbling backward. Dust and loose shards of metal scatter into the air, choking the space. From above, the claws converge, like predatory beasts closing in. The one Obadele stands on moves first, jerking into position above him, as if hes the master conductor of this mechanical orchestra. The other three whip along the ceilings railing system, the sound of grinding metal cutting across the line. They twist, extend, and snap into alignment, enormous arms of industry. The claws loom over us, their massive pincers snapping in calculated unison over circular magnet beds. They move with the fluidity of something alive, steel limbs becoming grotesque extensions of Obadeles will. He grins down at us, fearless, his gauntlet glowing brighter as he commands them with a flick of his wrist. Have it your way, he sneers. A claw dives in, descending with bone-rattling speed, its hulking form casting a shadow that stretches and ripples. I whip to one side, and Fingers to the other. The forks snap but miss, and the claw rotates to face me, charging up with a magnetic pull that sucks me back. I activate Data Blocker again, and then use Delete to disengage the connection. The claw hangs limp momentarily, giving me enough time to hurry towards the crate piles, before it slowly brings itself back up, under his control once again. A netrunner from the south, shouts Obadele. How cute. Might make some money off your cyberware once all is said and done, eh? I press the chest button on my suit above the sternum, hoping it will turn invisible again, but it doesnt. It beeps in defiance. Shit. Bullets being fired in the distance. Fingers. Shes distracting him. I have to be careful here. She doesnt have any quick-hacks or spoofing software, so if she gets caught, Ill have to free her. The best bet would be for me to get a good view on him, on everything. The platform. I navigate to the stairwell and begin making my way up and around to the other side, keeping low behind the railing, but just as Im about to reach the office hallway at the far end, I spot a claw swooping towards me. Quickly, I snap away, and the claw tears the platform down, causing me to slide along the grate. The pincers flex out straight, about to pierce my chest, but I shimmy to the middle, falling between them. The claw retracts and brings me up. I hold on tight, looking ahead. Obadele is focused on me and me alone, and I dont see Fingers anywhere. He whips his gauntlet up, causing the claw to rise beneath my feet; it bumps into the railing with a harsh snap and Im thrust off. When I hit the floor and look up, the claw zooms down real close and begins activating the magnet. Thinking quickly, I delete the connection once again, but I dont let the claw recover this time; instead, I step onto burger-shaped head of the claw, wrap my pistol-wielding hand around one of the pistons, and use Manual Override to bring myself up level with Obadele. Hes slowly reeling himself towards me, no longer grinning. He has a cold, calculative look on his face, nearly empty, only save for a semblance of anger. He raises his gauntlet, but I anticipate it, watching the red line begin to take form, and immediately delete it. Then I scan the claw that he stands on and use Short-circuit, thinking that if I cant attack him directly, Ill attack his toys. The claw that Obadele stands on shudders violently the moment Short-circuit uploads, the glowing blue wires running through its structure turning a chaotic, flickering red. Sparks erupt from its joints like fireworks, spraying molten flecks in every direction. The stabilising pistons scream under the strain as they jerk and misfire, causing the claw to lurch sideways. Obadele staggers, his footing slipping as the entire structure beneath him groans like a wounded animal. The glow of his gauntlet intensifies as he tries to regain control, frantically inputting commands, but the claw ignores him, convulsing as though caught in a digital seizure. Then the central mechanism snaps, sending a plume of smoke and sparks into the air. The claws pincers spasm, opening and closing in erratic bursts before locking halfway open, trembling as its internal systems fail one by one. The platform tips suddenly, forcing Obadele to grip the edge to keep from being flung off. Sparks rain down around him, and for the first time, his composure falters: just a flicker of panic in his cold, calculating eyes. I try to do the same to the other claws, but the neural AI fights the demand: Request rejected. Please wait One hundred. And. Four. Seconds. Of course, I should have known a quick-hack this powerful couldnt be continuously used without some sort of limitation. Youre really still trying? Obadele snarls, voice distorted by the screeching of the dying claw, pulling himself up as it begins to steady itself again. Then I notice Fingers coming along the side of the platform. This is it. A perfect shot. She peeks over the railing, aims her pistol right at him, and An organiser claw whips towards her, looming over her as if it has a mind of its own. She fires at it but the bullet does nothing. Before it has an opportunity to suck her in with the magnet, I disconnect the line, causing it to hang limp once again, and Fingers hops from the platform to one of the crate stacks tops. The claw jerks back to life, searching for her, while the other two are heading towards me. I aim my pistol at Obadele, thinking I might be able to land a shot on him, but hes smart: he moves behind the pistons for cover as the claw approaches. I look around, trying to calculate the best possible solution, looking at everything. With Short-circuit still on cooldown, my options are limited, and soon one of the claws will swing in. So, I use Server Locator, observing the red lines converging on Obadeles gauntlet. Its interesting. In theory, he should only be able to control one claw at a time, but somehow, hes able to control them all, even when faced away from them. The speed, however, of the claw faced away from him is slower, more mechanical in nature, as it scans the area in search of Fingers. If its not controlled by Obadele, and its able to see Fingers, then that means it must be... Of course, the employee. Manual control. I use Server Locator on the claw that had attacked Fingers, finding that indeed the line connecting its ID to the primary server doesnt just lead to Obadeles gauntlet. Whenever the claw moves, the red line switches to a separate server, directed behind me, through the hallway leading out from the stairwell. The operator room. I can see it through the walls; its in there. Thats the solution: get to the server room and disconnect all the claws, then hes a sitting duck, with no visible weaponry to protect himself. That employee wont be able to stop me either, not after being fried to bits. Seeing no other option, I hop off the claw and onto the platform, The landing causes the supports to screech. Given that it had already been damaged, thats no surprise. Thankfully, it holds under my weight, and I make for the hallway by the stairwell, but just as Im about to head inside, the door slides shut. I look back and see Obadele pointing his gauntlet at it. Oh, you think Im that stupid, ah? Hes close now, very close, so close that A claw whips down and strikes me in the left shoulder, knocking my entire body to the side, and again into the wall. Vitals low, the voice in my head says. Activating emergency protocols. Electricity surges through my body, giving me a sudden surge of adrenaline, but I feel weak, very weak, too weak to even stand. I try to activate my spoofer again, but this time it doesnt work. Data error, the AI says. Delinking. The skin surrounding the spoofer on my shoulder peels away, as does the skin around my left temple, and my neural cord zips back into place. Its been knocked out. Im done for. Bullets fly in from the side, but they stop suddenly, and when I look over, I see Fingers dodging the other claw. Then she holds onto something tight as the magnet begins to pull against her. Its high up, so shes not completely ripped apart, but its clear shes not going to last very long. Youre all the same, shouts Obadele. Weak, worthless southsiders. No jobs, and even when you do have jobs, you mess them up, ah. Just like you did this one. You will never be anything. You will always be nothing. Worthless, pathetic dirt. But dont worry, eh. Ill make sure you stay dead. For. Ever. The claw that was previously pulling on Fingers body lets up, and moves towards me instead, slowly. Obadeles magnet tilts upwards to face me, as does the other, and soon both claw magnets pull me up from the platform and keep me suspended in the air, pulling on me from either side. The magnetic force grips every piece of metal in my body, stretching my limbs outwards as if Im being torn in two. My pistol slips from my grasp, sucked violently towards the claw on the right, and my body trembles as the opposing magnets counteract, keeping me frozen in midair like a marionette caught between two strings. Pressure critical, the AI says. Please evacuate the area. Although I cannot feel the pain, Im terrified; after having been given another chance to live, by what I can only assume is the luck of God, Id chosen the wrong path and messed everything up. This is it. The end of the road. Darkness. Forever. But then, oh then, something shifts. The magnets disengage, and Im dropped on top of a crate stack, gasping for air. I look up, and the claws arent responding to Obadeles movements. The claw on which he stands suddenly jerks forward, kicking him off, onto the platform. What? he shouts. This isnt right. Obey your master! But the claws dont. The one to his left rotates smoothly, its pincers clicking open and shut with mechanical grace, while the claw to his right advances, blocking his path. They move in unison, cornering him on the narrow platform. Stop! What is this? he screams, but his question is met with nothing but the hum of machinery. Then, a voice crackles through the ships intercom, calm but cutting: You were right, sir. I should never forget where I came from. The employee. Dont you dare, Jesu, says Obadele. What do you think youre doing? Obadele freezes, his face twisting into a mix of rage and realisation. He tries to run, but the claws move faster. With an elegant sweep, one claw hooks the platform beneath his feet, tilting it just enough to send him stumbling towards the edge. He grabs desperately at the railing, his gauntlet slipping as the other claw moves in close, its pincers poised. You traitor, Obadele roars. You The claw thrusts forward, smashing through the gauntlet on his arm and sending him hurtling backwards. He falls to the floor, out of view. The intercom crackles again, the same voice speaking with quiet satisfaction: Always remember where you came from, Mr. Kanyama. I pull an MX-inhaler from my pocket, press it to my lips, and puff twice. The chemical rush hits immediately, cooling the fire in my veins and steadying my breath. My vision sharpens, my vitals flickering back to green in my neural HUD. I climb over to the edge, looking down at him as the claws descend. They jerk sharply, pulling Obadeles body taut. His cry of rage becomes a scream of agony as the force doubles, then triples. His cybernetic enhancements buckle first, the synthetic plating of his arm snapping with a metallic shriek. Blood sprays into the air as the magnets show no mercy. His legs give next, bones shattering under the immense pressure. Obadeles scream falters, choking off as his body is finally ripped in two. The claws jerk back simultaneously, sending the torn halves of his lifeless form against the walls and pallets. Silence follows, broken only by the faint hum of the claws retreating to their rails above. The sound of grinding cogs pulls my attention to the far left. I glance over to see the crane descending through the flood gates, its shadow stretching across the hold like a spectre. Youll want to move fast, the voice crackles through the intercom one last time. The blues might not be on their way, but their security will be worse. Trust me. And hey... never stop fighting. The intercom fizzles out, leaving nothing but the steady pitter-patter of blood pooling on the floor. I clench my jaw, grab my pistol, and take one last look at the wreckage. Then, I run. Its time to get the fuck out of here. currents beneath steel - 4.5 4.5 hurt ERROR: **XR-HT3000 Series 1** CIRCUIT FAILURE. PROCESSING INCOMPATIBLE. This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. Meridian Transport Patrol. THE BLUES FUCK US RAW!!! currents beneath steel - 4.6 4.6 Its pushing two in the morning when we finally reach Flux, early enough for the citys nightcrawlers to still be pouring in through those flashy chrome doors, but late enough that the glare makes my tired eyes sag, the bass-heavy music rattling in my skull like loose circuitry. Tatum and his dual-chipped clone stand outside, arms folded behind both backs, their red spider eyes flickering as they scan the line, waiting, watching, itching for some poor drunk to make a mistake, to pick a fight, just so they can toss them across the pavement like yesterdays trash. Theres no room to stop out front, not with the line blocking the entrance. A pack of low-level slicers loiter near the curb, their dermal implants pulsing faint blue, trading scratch for another hit of synth-smoke. No one looks up. In the south, no one ever does. Fingers swings the wheel hard and takes the alley around the back; its off-limits, Im sure, not meant to be driven in, but its wide enough to keep the jeep tucked away, with nothing but homeless folk gathered around burning trash barrels beneath a cracked skybridge joining the nightclub to, I presume, a strip club of some sort. The only lights back here come from old security cams, their lenses swiveling in slow, lazy arcs, tracking every face, every plate number. If Flux has eyes, this, I guess, is where they blink the slowest. Fingers kills the engine, the hum of the battery core fading into the distant thump of the music, and we step out into the rain. Lighter than it was by the seaside, a thin, misty drizzle now, but I dont care. This is it. The first step in uncovering my past, in finding out who I am, who I was. Cold, hard eddies. We round the corner and slip into the line out front, a slow-moving current of city-bred nightcrawlers, corpos, and cybered-up club rats, all waiting for their turn under Tatums watchful glare. It doesnt take long. Looks like hes just quick-scanning tonight, tagging the ones too drunk to stand and the ones dumb enough to show steel. Most are behaving, or at least smart enough to fake it. When we reach the front, Tatum and his equally ugly clone barely give us a second glance. Just a curt nod, a quick holo-check on Rico, and the low buzz of the doors sliding open. Inside, its packed. No surprise there. The artificial sky stretched across the ceiling is dark now, smattered with stars, aerodynes blinking softly as they glide through a projection of endless night. Its a nice touch, almost cosy. We push upstairs, where the real players are: the corpo suits draped around the central bar, laughing, drinking, smoking like they own the place, which, in a way, they do. No matter how much they spend, no matter how blackout drunk they get, theyll always have enough wealth and status to make it home safe, even in a district that would love nothing more than to eat them alive. On the far-right end, where the VIP booths sink into plush, C-shaped alcoves lined with dark leather, the real deals are going down, with whispers traded over crystal glasses, digits flashed behind polished nails, quiet nods sealing contracts worth more than most peoples lives. The glow from embedded holo-panels bathes the area in shifting hues of blue and violet, pulsing in time with the bass. And there, near the back, lounging behind that mountain of a bodyguard, Jog, in a booth draped in that same red velvet, is Rico. Same silver jacket, still catching the light like mercury, his puffed-up Afro towering above him like a crown. One arm draped over the seat, the other flicking absently at a holo-display, he looks relaxed, too relaxed, the kind of ease that only comes when you know the game is already yours. His eyes track us as we approach, sharp behind tinted lenses, a slow smirk creeping onto his face. He orders Jog aside, and we step into the booth, taking a seat. Fingers places the Ourovane case on the table, and he pours a glass of that cyan liquid, offering me one. Like before, I wave it off politely. Dont drink. Fingers takes the glass, sips it. Knew there was somethin special about you, Mono. Rico sets the whiskey bottle aside, grabs the silver case, and slides it forward. You two are bloodied up. Take it things didnt go so smooth? Fingers takes another sip of the drink. That obvious, eh? Didnt tell us the boss was a netrunner. Almost got ripped apart by a claw the size of a traffic drone. Rico smiles, slow and easy, like hes enjoying some private joke. Netrunners are netrunners for a reason. They aint like your average street tough, aint out here makin noise, flashin chrome, beggin to get noticed. They stay in the dark, buried in the code, pullin strings where no ones lookin. You dont see em till they wants you toby then, youre already tangled up in their web. After all, hard to snag intel on a person that attacks from the shadows, right? Still, says Fingers. It was pretty significant. Dangerous. It dont matter now. He starts flicking numbers on the code-lock. Once he lands on the right combination, the locks click open, and he lifts it just low enough to hide it from our view but just high enough for him to peek inside. After a moment, he takes a sip of his drink and says, Preem. My client and, by extension, investor will be very happy with this. Fingers lifts her hand, palm up, and gives a small, lazy flick of the wristthe universal well, there ya go. Awesome. Now, on to more important matters: creds. We held up our end of the deal. Brought the material back in perfect condition, as agreed. And we also agreed full payment if the NACP didnt come houndin on your ass and, well, your ass is lookin mighty comfortable in that seat. Rico chuckles, shutting the case and undoing the combination. A woman of biz: straight to the point, sharp tongue, no beatin around the bush. I like that about you. You can buy me dinner later. Fingers leans forward. You have the scratch? Another chuckle, this time accompanied by a grin. He takes off his shades and tucks them into the right chest pocket of his silver jacket. Then, he taps the table and says, Jog, the shard. The bodyguard walks away and, after a minute, returns with a small black-and-yellow shard case, only the size of his palm. Rico takes it from Jog and then hands it to Fingers. Two hundred thousand eurodollars, he says. Hundred grand each. Rico dont cheat. Rico pays in full, baby. Fingers pops the shard out of the case and slots it into her neural port. Her eyes glow blue for a couple seconds, then return to their original pink. She smirks. Wiring your share to your account now, Mono, she says. As she does, I look at Rico, whos still grinning at me, relaxed back on the leather sofa. Can I ask you something? I say. You know, before we leave? He raises an eyebrow and leans forward, locking his fingers together. Please. The least I can do for you. I have a picture, I say. Im wondering if you know something about it. He hums curiously. Well, send it my way. Ill take a look. My numbers 617-555-3726. I pull out my phone, ask him to repeat the number, and input the digits into my contacts list. I unlink my temple cord and plug it into the phone port, navigating to Y1p3r-TX101_G12-8eK5.mz7 in my neural storage. I upload it into the text chat, and he has a look at it. Immediately after, a pop-up appears on my phone, showing a transfer of a hundred thousand eddies from top to bottom. Thats your share sent, says Fingers. Thank you, I say, relieved. Hm, says Rico. Interesting. My eyes light up. What is it? This picture, Rico says, squinting at it like hes trying to read through the smudges of time. This aint just a random shot from The Scrubs. This goes way back, half a century at least. Those faces? Youd think theyre long gone, dead, or buried somewhere nobody cares to look. But theres more to this than a nostalgia trip. I think the middle one is me, I say. With the green mullet. He leans in a little closer, his fingers tapping the side of his drink as he studies the grainy image on his screen. This group here, they was big. Real big. Back in the day, they ran The Scrubs like a damn kingdom. Not the flashy, chrome-capped gang you see now, but more... underground. They controlled the black markets, the illegal mods, and most of the tech trade that got funneled into the outskirts. People thought they was all gone, wiped out in the old war. But this shot? This tells me they didnt just vanish. Some of these faceshell, one of these facesIve seen in old data banks. Ghosts. If Im right, most wasnt just killed; most was erased. I swap seats, moving closer, staring at the picture with him. Its hard to explain, I say. But I was.... I woke up in the circuitery. Ive been dead nearly fifty years. Hm. Rico concentrates on the image. Whoever took this photo, they was close to something big. Maybe bigger than you realise. If youre digging into The Scrubs old ties, be careful. These people, even dead, have a way of pulling you into things you cant get out of. And if they was hiding something, you can bet its worth a lot more than the usual scrap. Like what? Experiments, he says. I look at him, perplexed, and kind of shocked. Experiments? What sort of experiments? He sighs. Its a very long story, and Is a very busy man. Fuck it, I say. Ill pay you if I have to. Please. I need to find my family. I need to find out who I am. Just give me something, anything. Please. He takes a moment, looking at me with concern. You lose your memory? I nod. Yes. He nods back. Yeah, I think I know whats going on here. My voice becomes low, almost a whisper. Tell me. Your memory, he says. So, to explain things as easy as I can, The Scrubs, back before the droughts, had a lot of scientists, chemists. Still do. You ever heard of Shine? Yeah, I say, remembering the yellow liquid Dance had packed away into the boot of his rusty car. Shine. The stuff that messes with your head, makes you feel like youre invincible or... or whatever. People say its got the power to heal, but also to mess you up just as fast. Rico leans in, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial tone, the flicker of old knowledge sparking behind his eyes. Thats the public story. What they dont tell you is that Shine wasnt always what it seems. It was originally called Ghostfirebefore The Scrubs branded it as Shine. Back in the old days, before the real war hit, Ghostfire was a liquid designed to fight something a lot worse than cyberpsychosis. It was supposed to heal the mind, restore balance to those whod cracked under the pressure of too much chrome, too much augmentation. The first of its kind, a cure for the mental side effects of overclocked tech. I blink, trying to process the new information. Wait, so it was meant to help people? Xactly. Rico taps the side of his glass with one finger. But somewhere along the line, things got twisted. Ghostfire wasnt just a solution. Came a weapon. Too powerful for its own good, and The Scrubs realised that, but it was good money, so I heard. And the gang designing it had a name.... He points to the silver case with the snake symbol. Ourovane. The fact hits me hard. I knew, knew, that the name sounded familiar. So, whats this about memory loss? Why cant I remember who I am? Ourovane are a crafty group, Rico says, his voice taking on a knowing edge. Are? I repeat, still trying to wrap my head around the weight of what hes saying. You mean, theyre still around? He nods. Oh yeahs, they still exist. Very much so. The name might be buried deep in the underworld, but trust me, theyre still pulling strings behind the scenes. And the funny thing is, they didnt just stop with Ghostfire. No, they dipped their toes into some other... interesting tech along the way. Memory storage. The kind of stuff that doesnt just hold data. Stores memories. Actual, living memories.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Im almost speechless, the implications washing over me in waves. Memory storage? I echo. Like... how? Rico leans forward, locking his fingers together once again, his voice lowering as he explains. They figured out how to capture and store memories, emotions, and even full experiences, just like they was recording a braindance. Only, they wasnt just playing memories like a show. They was storing them like files on a device. What they did was create this tech, a form of neural storage that could take the memories of anyone who used it and upload them into a device. It wasnt perfect at first, but they kept tweaking it. Before long, they had something that could lock away any experience, hold it like a chip, and even bring it back whenever they wanted. But they didnt stop there. They found a way to extract memories, too. I stare at him, my mind racing. So, they could take memories? Like, steal them? Xactly. Ricos smile is dark, almost grim. They was in the business of manipulating memories. Not just taking them: altering them. Imagine this: youve gots your whole life stored on a device, yeah? Every memory, every moment, in a file. But what if someone decided to swap out just one? Or erase one completely, leaving nothing but a blank space where something important used to be? An uncomfortable lump forms in my throat. So... this is why I cant remember who I am? Rico tilts his head, tapping his finger on the glass again. Could be. If they was involved in your past, or if you got too close to their tech, its possible they erased you, wiped you clean. Maybe they didnt want you to remember something, or maybe you knew too much. People disappear in The Scrubs all the time, but youyoure different. Whoever they was working with, they mightve decided you was a liability. But... why? Why do this? Why take memories? A deep breath. It wasnt supposed to be a memory storage device per se, as far as I know. It was, eh, a memory replacement. So, like, they could replace old memories with artificial ones, cut out particular memories. And dont think they was grabbing people from the streets and hookin em up to wires. He shakes his head. People willingly did this. Sometimes you had people who wanted a fresh start, wanted to forget something traumatic. Some took part in the experiment for money.... You see where Im goin with this? How do you know all of this, Rico? asks Fingers. Maelstrom didnt spit a fuckin word, and its the first Ive heard of it. Familys from The Scrubs, he says. So, connections. A lot. I point at the image on the phone, grabbing Ricos attention again. Where can I find them? This Ourovane? He shrugs, a response Id been dreading. No shot in the dark, no lead. Somethin happened, blues, and theyre hidin. How do you think it was so hard to grab ahold of this case? The material they create and the location.... Well, could be anywhere in N.A. I lean back, looking defeated. But... Rico says. Oh, how the universe has a funny way of wedging the word but into its chaos. ... the woman with the red hair. He points to the picture again, zooming in with a swipe of his thumb and forefinger. Its the woman with the cotton jumpsuit and leather overtop, the crimson quiff. Shes a pretty under-the-radar fixer in Paxson. Paxson? I say. That a place, a gang, or...? Its a district, Fingers juts in. I look at her and shes finishing off the last drops of the whiskey glass. Farther south again, along the borderlands. Dry, rustic. Lot of tech surgeons. Whats her name? I ask. He takes a moment, and then says, Cieris Marlow. Cieris... I say. The name should mean something, especially if that really is me sitting next to her in the photo, but it doesnt. It feels foreign, unfamiliar. Still, Ricos rundown on Ourovane and what happened in The Scrubs gives me more than I had before, even if its not exactly detailed. A memory-storage device. That means somewhere, buried deep in this mess of a city, my life is locked away on a chip or a data shard, maybe sitting on some assholes shelf or buried in a supercomputer. That is, if it hasnt been wiped out, erased after all these years of being forgotten. Its terrifying, but I cant just wait. My lifes out there, somewhere, fragmented and lost. I need to find it, no matter what. Rico grabs the silver case by the handle, slips it over his knees, and snaps his head up so fast his Afro gives a quick, jittery bounce, like a startled puffball trying to take flight. When I look down at his phone, I see a pop-up from an anonymous number that says: Meet you in 15. He stands, brushes his jacket off, even though its fairly clean already, and stuffs the phone in his pocket. Nice chat, but Ive got to meet the client. You two be safe out there. He snaps his fingers and Jog moves aside, giving us space to walk out. Fingers moves first, and I follow her, but not before giving a final turn and, with heart-warming eyes, telling Rico, Thank you. He flips his shades over his eyes. Anytime, baby. He clicks his tongue and flashes a cheeky grin. Just like that, were slipping out of Flux and back into the cold, wet pulse of the city, where the storm over the south unzips itself, peeling back in ragged strips to expose the raw, electric underbelly of the sky: dark, early-morning blue, throbbing with distant flashes, like the citys own nervous system laid bare. Fingers doesnt say much, just pulls up the hood on that rain jacket of hers, tucks her hands into the pockets, and walks like shes got somewhere to be, which, thankfully, she does. We both do. I match her pace, falling in step beside her, the two of us moving like ghosts through the streets, just another pair of nobodies disappearing into the static hum of night, a hundred grand richer. The jeeps parked where we left it, tucked in a tight alley around the back of the club, squeezed between a dumpster spilling over with wet trash and some dented delivery drones that look like theyve been cannibalised for parts. The rains still coming down, slow and lazy, steaming where it hits the heat vents lining the sidewalk. The whole street buzzes with a sickly, industrial glow, like a machine pushed past its limits, running hot, ready to burn out. The heat shimmers off the vents, the distant flicker of signs glitching, restless: like something waiting to break. Fingers beeps the jeep open and slips into the drivers seat. I hesitate to join her, standing there in the half-dark, breathing it all in. The weight of Ricos words still sits heavy in my gut, twisting, pulling. Whoever they was working with, they mightve decided you was a liability. I step into the passenger side of the Fragment Roamer and shut the door. Inside, Fingers is on the holo with someone, Dance, by the voice, speaking through the jeeps dashboard speaker. I dont catch all the details, just fragments of his voice breaking through the static, but the gist of it is clear: hes got a lead, another job, something that could pull all of us in. But Im too tired, drained to care, my skin sticky with sweat and my head spinning. I dont want to hear any of it. All I want is to get back and lose myself in sleep, if only for a few hours. Fingers drives us through the streets once again, back to HQ. When we arrive and head down to Dash Two, the same three faces are thereVander, Cormac, Dancethough this time that asshole Raze is there with them. Must have gotten a call or showed up late. Hes got that same dark jacket on, the one thats seen better days, paired with a pair of faded blue jeans, the cigar clenched between his teeth like its part of his damn DNA. He scratches his fuzzy crewcut, eyeing me with that usual hard, judgmental stare, but to my surprise, it softens, and a slow grin spreads across his face. He leans back on the wall, takes a long drag from his cigar, then flicks the ash onto the floor before saying, Well, look at you. Didnt think you had it in you, but damn, guess I underestimated New Girl. He studies me for a moment longer, the smile lingering, almost approving. Not bad at all. A total head-turner. Id been expecting something rude, but Ill take the compliment, I guess. Vander ordered pizza, Dance says, lifting the lid of a box and revealing the greasy stacks on the coffee table, where the spider bot used to sit. Before I can even reach for a slice, a long steel limb whips over Dances shoulder, taps him lightly, then flips over his head like its been rehearsed. The metallic talon snatches a slice from the box with precision. Cormac, of course. He retracts the limb, then bites into the pizza with those sharp, shark-like teeth of his, barely chewing before he swallows. Youre one scary cunt, know that mate? Dance says, watching him with wide, perplexed eyes. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, portable holo-projector. He clears his throat, snorts up a wad of phlegm, and spits it into a trashcan with a satisfied grunt. Tossing the projector onto the coffee table beside the pizza, he pulls a remote from his other pocket and presses the power button. The device hums to life, and a flickering holographic display bursts upward, shimmering into focus like a mirage. Maps, data streams, and blinking icons start to swirl and settle into a 3D projection above the table, casting pale, flickering light across the cluttered space. Pretty, says Vander. You got all sorts of crap under your belt, dont yer? Yer, says Dance, mimicking his drawl. He leans back, twisting a piece of pizza in his fingers before setting it down. M-Gates, yeah. Been trackin em for a while now. You know those devices, the ones that control androids manually, yeah? The high-end models, not the busted-up dooooooozies you see on the streets. He picks up his remote and flicks through the holo projection, bringing up an image of a convoy. Weve been keepin an eye on a convoy movin through the lower sectors. Word is, theyre transportin a batch of M-Gates: top-tier stuff. And exactly what we need. They aint just for bots. Some of em can sync up with flesh, too. Real dangerous tech. People pay big for em. He taps the holo image, zooming in on the convoy route, the digital map flickering with each movement. Problem is, theyre not bound to leave the station until a month from now. Been trackin the signal for a while, but it keeps gettin scrambled. From what Ive gathered, Techstrum roll out new batches of M-gates for their corporate meetings every six months. Once middle of the year and once end of the year. What are they for? I ask. You listenin? Dance says, his tone sharp and a little snarky. Corporate meetings. Global network. Lets foreign investors sit in on meetings in real-time, no matter where they are. I still dont quite get it, and he sees the confusion in my eyes. Alright, lemme break it down for ya, mate, he says, leaning in. Picture this: an android sittin in on a meeting. You slap a visor on it, and bam, the user can control it from anywhere on the globe. Bigshot in some high-rise, taps into the M-Gate, and suddenly theyre seein and controllin everything through the androids eyes. Theyre sittin at the table, speakin low, makin deals in secret. Its way more secure than chattin over the net. No one can tap into that. Cormacs sharp eyes flicker to the holo as he leans back, steepling his fingers together in that unsettling way of his. Imagine, if you will, he says in his cold, clipped British accent, an actor on stage, but theyre not the one actually performing, yes. Theyre just a puppet, and someone else is pulling the strings from behind the scenes. The android, in this case, is the stage, and the M-Gate? Its the puppeteer, madame, making sure every movement, every glance is in perfect sync with the users will. He smirks, a dark glint in his eye. The investor sits back, takes control, and becomes the invisible presence in the room, pulling all the strings from afar. Its not just a meeting. Its a show, and theyre the star, oh yes. I understand. It makes sense why such a device would exist. I grab a slice of pizza from the table and take a bite. So, I say through chews, you said its a month away? The convoy? Now youre listenin, mate. Dance presses another button, and the hologram flickers before shifting, zooming in to show the convoys exact route. The digital map traces a path along the outskirts of the borderlands, cutting through the grimy veins of the city, and heads on to a tech facility marked District 9. As it zooms in, the map shifts to reveal a highly stylised, heavily decorated version of Neo Arcadia: bright lights, floating banners, and dancers weaving through the crowds. Carnival stands line the streets, their holographic displays flashing with technicolor brilliance. Itll happen during the Luminara festival, Dance continues, pointing to the screen. Whole places gonna be packed: celebrations, distractions. People wont even notice the convoy moving through. But thats where the problem is. He pauses, fingers hovering over the controls. Theyll pass through the north sector first. Tight security around the tech zones. But after that, the convoy heads to District 9 itself. Thats where the M-Gates are being dropped off: underground, of course. All secured in some dark, backroom vault. He zooms in further, highlighting a narrow alleyway just behind the carnival, where the convoy will take a detour. They think theyre safe, slipping in unnoticed. But thats where we come in. Christ, says Raze. Lot of fuckin nuance to this one. Why do they keep the M-Gates so damn secure? Made specially for the Techstrum bots, says Dance. And, fucks sake mate, you know how tight they are with security. Want any chance of breaking in and securing info for Quinton whatever-his-name-is then we need to insert the spoofers into those M-Gates, tap in, control the bots when a meetings happening. That simple. Fingers steps forward and presses the hologram, switching it off. She takes a seat on the edge of the table, legs spread wide, her brow furrowed as she processes the plan. So, if Im understanding you correctly, Dance, she says, her voice steady, we insert the spoofers into these M-Gates, wait for a corporate meeting to go down, then download all the info from that meeting. Thatll get us the access we need? Dance straightens up with a grin, making a little flourish with his hand. Fuckin genius, I am. Things rarely go smoothly, though, I interject. What happens if we, you know, get caught? These are very sophisticated people from what I hear. Every mountain has its crack, Dance says. Doesn''t matter how slick or sophisticated they are, there''s always a chink in the armour. You just have to know where to look. Fingers fiddles with the holo-projector. A month from now, leaving December 31st? Doesnt sound too bad, says Vander, wiping pizza grease from his face with a napkin. Really, all we need to do is slide the sperfers in before delivery. Could even set up a er blockage along the path, sneak in the back, while theyre workin. Cormacs good at that. Fingers, too. And hey, if you need someone to er blow something up.... Fingers chuckles. I like it. But its far from perfect. Ill iron some of the details out with you, Dance. And guys: Id like to say something. She stands, settling the holo-projector on the table. I know weve got a month and everything and I might be sounding a little dramatic, but I really appreciate you all. The work you put in. Im giving you a bonus of ten grand each, cept you, Mono. You got paid enough. She chuckles. Luminara bonus, is it? Raze chuckles, arms folded. Preciate it, Fingers. Hows your sister, Raze? Razes expression tightens for a moment, and he shifts his weight, looking down at his feet. Hangin on. Docs say shes not outta the woods yet, but shes stronger than they thought. Its a battle, but shes fightin it." He looks up with a forced grin, trying to shake off the weight of it. Thanks for askin, though. Means a lot. Cormac steps forward, his movements slow and deliberate, placing a hand on Razes shoulder. His accent thickens as he speaks, a rare seriousness in his tone. May God weave her a path back from the dark. No fight like the one for life, but if anyones got the strength, its her. Christ, says Raze. Dont get all poetic on me, Corn. They laugh. What about you, Monner? a voice says, and it takes me a moment to realise its Vander. Though, in hindsight, I should have known by the mispronunciation. You got a place to stay for the month? Gonna look for one, I say. I know a place in the city, says Cormac, his voice smooth, almost too smooth, like hes offering a secret. Oh yes, a subtle, squared-away sanctuary, if you will. Cheap, though full of... character. Not many bother to ask questions once youre inside, which can be convenient. Fitting, even. You see, its got a bit of history to it, old bones creaking in the walls. No one ever stays too long, but I can promise you, its got a certain... charm. Just dont ask why the last tenant left in such a hurry. The air around him feels thicker, like a shadow clinging just out of sight. Ill, uh, Ill keep that in mind. Thanks, Cormac. You are ever-so-welcome. Fingers steps up from the table, leaving her half-eaten slice of pizza on a napkin. Alright, she says. Im gonna go grab a shower. You comin, Mono? Sure thing, I say. God knows I need one. She heads into the red room to grab a pair of towels. She tosses me one. Like I said, leave this to me and Dance and well fine-tune it. Ill keep you posted. With that, we make our way back to elevator, ready to catch it up for a wash. Ill be shopping for an apartment soon. Better smell nice for the landlord. i walk the circuit, leave no echo - 5.1 5.1 November 2100
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BUY. OBEY. REPEAT MARIONETTE // NeuroOverride v3.9 PIED PIPER // Swarm Induction Protocol SIREN SONG // Cognitive Sync Override DEADEYE // Combat Autopilot Hijack THREADCUTTER // Link Severance Protocol FEEDBACK LOOP // Neural Pain Amplifier OROBOROS // Mind Merge Corruption SHADOWLOCK // Forced Paralysis Protocol i walk the circuit, leave no echo - 5.2 5.2 If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. Cyberpsycho Attack Reduces Beloved Stagework The Whale to Ruin