《Neon Skyfall》


 Prologue

    It was already noon, and there were still so many bodies to burn. The morgue was overflowing again, and Winston hated his job. He sat outside on hard concrete smoking, the loading dock a brief escape, and watched a meat wagon unloading a fresh batch of dead bastards. Winston inhaled nicotine to calm frayed nerves. The door behind him screeched at being propped open, but he¡¯d been there since the morning before and couldn¡¯t be bothered. Corporate mandated overtime. Fuck his boss, and fuck the door alarm. Hard to get real tobacco anymore, but he paid an obscene amount for his vices. Home-rolled menthol tickled his lungs, he sighed smoke. The ex-wife likened him to a hedonist, and he certainly agreed pleasure was much preferable to the constant dull drone of his life. He almost laughed at the two porters unloading bodies: they were solemn, eyes reverent as they handled taut body bags. Must be new. Not yet ground down by the reality of being glorified taxi drivers for the dead, a cheap imitation of the ferryman delivering more of the poor dead for him to scavenge out shiny bits crow-like for his corporate overlord¡¯s precious bottom line. When they were finished unloading, Winston stubbed his cigarette and went in, kicking the block of wood from the door.


    Inside, the corridor was dimly lit. Maintenance delayed again, probably citing budget constraints. His footsteps thudded softly on concrete and he wondered which club he should head to after his shift, neural interface cycling through his favorites as he walked to the locker room. The place carried the stench of sweat and overworked bodies like it was built from them, each ceramic tile faded the dull yellow of used gym socks. Winston knew the auto-cleaner bot could easily scour the whole place, but corporate wasn¡¯t willing to pay the subscription fee for the service anymore, so it collected dust in one of the supply closets like a gaunt effigy of cost-saving cuts to make stock prices go up¡ªfor more shareholder debauchery¡ªand the room suffered for it. Winston couldn¡¯t decide if he was in the mood for dancers, dancing, loud music, fighting, fucking, or getting absolutely sloshed. He knew of places that were great for one or two, but none did them all well. Ideally, he¡¯d just find a memory broker that had something that contained everything, but he knew that kind of memory chip was way out of his normal budget. Daydreaming was free, though, and he was well-practiced.


    He clanged open his locker, noticed he still had a few days before the monthly usage fee, and pulled a syringe and dark green ampoule from under his spare uniform. He told himself it was only to get through the rest of his shift, to have time to live a life after it was over, but the truth was he loved it. Ten cubic centimeters, a needle slid with practiced ease between soft flesh and optical implant, and he was off. Adrenal glands pumped, digital pupils dilated, heartbeat an erratic symphony. Winston slammed the locker shut, didn¡¯t bother locking it, and stalked to the sink. The seams of the faucet and the drain were crusted with years of mineral deposits and looked as tired as he felt. He spent a few credits to turn on the tap and scrubbed his hands, and tried to ignore the tan line where his ring used to be. A pair of cheap latex gloves hung out of his trouser pockets, and he slid them on. He took several deep breaths, reveled in the drug running its course and how awake he felt. Resigned, he headed into the morgue, prepared to wrench implants from the remains of a dead flesh mall.


    He clocked back in through his neural interface so the boss couldn¡¯t cheat him out of pay, and shoved open the double doors. There were five new corpses there on dissecting tables, next to the three he¡¯d been working on before break. One had its chest split open, flesh peeled back in a bone rainbow perched on the precipice, ribs splayed as rotten angel wings wide for the scavenger. Nestled between the grim offerings was the bloodied chrome of a Hayashida ¡®Hercules¡¯ Mk.2 artificial heart implant, valves half-connected. Winston grabbed a scalpel and set to severing the rest of the links that held it there. They didn¡¯t perform autopsies, those weren¡¯t for the poor. No profit in it. They were harvesters, no more or less. The dead wouldn¡¯t rest if there was money to be made, and the incinerators weren¡¯t built to handle metal, so Winston¡¯s job was to remove it. The pieces were resold at ¡®new¡¯ prices if the company could get away with it, ¡®lightly used¡¯ at minimum. No need to waste good chrome, good money. The last connection undone, Winston lifted the metal heart from the chest cavity with a wet squelch. He rinsed it with an overhead adjustable nozzle and set it in the autoclave to clean.


    Back to work on the body, he was sad no trace remained of their former life. Winston wondered if they¡¯d been an artist or musician with calluses on some of their fingers, if they¡¯d had any talent, what in the god-forsaken city had sent them on to the afterlife, and what their family thought of what was happening to their remains. He sighed. There were more implants to remove: a jawbone, the optics, the ZenTech neural link system, a left leg that looked like it might have been discounted veteran chrome. An elbow joint, some superficial skin implants, a reinforced tendon, all of them went into the autoclave. Winston knew he¡¯d wind up on a table just like this when he died, no saved wealth for a funeral or any remaining family to cover the cost. He wondered what the harvester that worked on his body would daydream about him and it excited him to think of the life they¡¯d imagine he lived, the stimulant still raging in his bloodstream. While he worked, he stashed the occasional piece in one of the body-free mortuary drawers to sell later. As long as he met the expected quota, no one ever noticed. He suspected the interior security cameras didn¡¯t even work.


    When he was done working on the mangled cadaver, he peeled off bloody gloves and dropped them in a can, a few more credits coming out of his account for hazardous disposal, and deposited the newly delivered bodies in drawers for the next shift. He glanced at the two he still had to finish, and knew it was going to be a long day, but he had a trip to make. He put on fresh gloves, transferred the finished one to a mobile cart and wheeled it into the dark. He hadn¡¯t bothered to close everything back up, so the sight he had heading down the hall was ghastly. He hadn¡¯t been gentle, favoring expedience, so the whole thing looked like it had been subjected to an industrial blender. No need to waste time suturing it all closed, no need to be presentable when the meat was going to burn. Thankfully, the drainage system on the embalming table worked and there wasn¡¯t any fluid to slough off in the corridor. Winston crossed a boundary in the middle of the building, wheels click-clacking on the divider, flesh jiggling on the cart. Nothing fell. Small blessings. Didn¡¯t need another charge coming out of his account.


    The air grew warm, pungent. The acrid taste when he breathed almost caused him to retch. Ventilation malfunctioning again. Have to deal with it for weeks while corporate dragged their heels. There were wheel tracks worn along the route from heavy traffic. Winston knew he could look up how many bodies had passed through since the place started operating on his optics, but he didn¡¯t give a damn. He wondered about the lives they lived that led them here, not how many tons of ash they amounted to, how many discrete plastic containers made their way to the expansive scrapheap outside the city. He used the cart to bang the crematorium doors open.


    ¡°Merde!¡± Richard spoke with a heavy French accent. ¡°Winston. Look at what they¡¯ve done to me, it¡¯s unforgivable.¡± He gestured one hand to the furnace door that refused to shut properly, leaking heat and smog and stench into the room. His other hand held a large hoagie with a few bites taken. ¡°I put in a ticket, and they tell me they¡¯ll bring it up at the budget meeting next month.¡± He had soot on his face, and his eyes sunk into their sockets, dim and gray.


    ¡°You¡¯re eating.¡± Winston couldn¡¯t believe it. The smell. The smoke. The taste of charred corpses couldn¡¯t be good seasoning.


    ¡°Of course!¡± He pretended to be offended. ¡°I¡¯m not some dandy, and I¡¯m definitely not clocking out for lunch when dealing with this,¡± he said. He looked at Winston and raised an eyebrow. ¡°Why, you want some, ch¨¦rie?¡±he laughed.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    ¡°Sure. Just help me get this thing into one of your open ovens first,¡± Winston said. He didn¡¯t take the offer seriously. He eyed the hoagie and cringed.


    Richard set the sandwich down and led him to the far end of the room to an incinerator that just finished its cycle. He pulled the ash capsule out of the tray at the bottom of the machine, a life in totality encased in plastic forever and ever. He took it over to a pallet and tossed it with hundreds of others, forgotten until its shipment to the landfill.


    ¡°You should come out with me tonight,¡± Winston offered. He scratched the mole on his face, and wondered if he had the time to shave.


    ¡°Some other time,¡± Richard said.


    He walked back to the oven and opened the door. He pulled the table out and they transferred the remains from the mobile cart. The table slid back inside at the press of a button. Richard whistled a childhood tune that sounded like a lullaby as he touched the interface and navigated to the standard cremation service, plastic with no urn, and pressed the ignition. Winston knew it could all be done from his optics, but appreciated him making a show out of it anyway. They watched through the window for a while as the body caught fire. Interesting seeing organics liquefy, no matter how many times Winston had seen it. The flames curled and devoured, smoke and ash in its wake. No ceremony.


    ¡°Right,¡± Richard clapped. ¡°I¡¯m starving.¡± The stench still hung in the air. Too many bodies to burn not to use the defective furnace. He led them back to the table and sat, splitting the hoagie in half. No hand washing involved, a few credits saved. He handed it to Winston.


    ¡°Thanks,¡± he said. He contemplated throwing it into one of the furnaces. They ate together in silence. It didn¡¯t taste awful. ¡°Two more before sundown,¡± Winston said, chewing the last bit of food. Too much synth lettuce, not enough spice.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be here,¡± Richard said. ¡°My demesne never stops burning. You know this.¡±


    Winston walked back to the morgue and his two lost guests, a bumper harvest of chrome waiting for his sickle. He got to work. Scalpel for easy access, bone saw when it wasn¡¯t. Rib shears, forceps, enterotome for a rare piece of intestinal chrome. Implant after discount implant removed and autoclaved, blood and loose chunks down the drain; the smell wasn¡¯t strong enough to overcome the burnt hair and skin that seeped into his pores. He stowed whatever he could in his contraband stash. He had an appointment for one of the rare pieces after his shift, and was counting on the payout to finance the evening¡¯s trip: the uppers he¡¯d need to enjoy himself, the strippers, and cheap hardcore memory chips. He carved as fast as he could, rough with the meat but careful with the implants¡ªdamage came out of his own pocket. It took him hours, and he knew the sun was setting when he finished because his pick-me-up was fading. Another change of gloves, another fee. He couldn¡¯t leave them on, they¡¯d charge him for sullying anything he touched. As he wheeled the bodies to the crematorium, he triple-checked the meeting location on his neural net. He was nervous. It was the biggest deal he¡¯d ever done, and fucking it up wasn¡¯t an option.


    ¡°Final delivery,¡± he called out. He slammed the two carts through the doors and wheeled to a stop near the table where they ate lunch together. ¡°I¡¯m out of here.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll call you if I decide to go out tonight,¡± Richard said. He jerked out a salute in the fashion of the French Foreign Legion, despite never having served. ¡°Got another hour in this fetid prison, mon ami.¡±


    Winston left as quick as he came, tripping on loose shoelaces, footsteps smacking down the dark hall. The building was sinister when the sun went down; hungry, like the disposal of countless bodies wasn¡¯t enough and it craved ever more. He ran gloved hands over his face. He was losing it. A few more steps, a turn in the hall, the door, and he was back at his locker. He peeled off his uniform, the gloves, tossed it all in the bottom cubby knowing the thing would smell of death tomorrow, but he refused to pay for the wash or shower¡ªthey were cheaper at home, and he didn¡¯t have the time. He pulled on gray synth-weave pants and a tattered band shirt, his favorite puncture-resistant coat with a dark hand print on the back¡ªhe wasn¡¯t a member of the Black Hands, but repping always kept people from harassing him when he was in a hurry. Dressed, he retrieved a cryo-sealed tube that housed the strangest optical chromeware Winston had ever seen. He regretted selling it, but knew it was too risky to hold onto, and tucked the container in his jacket. He hit the exit and stepped out into the night-noise of the city for the first time in thirty-six hours.


    The sound blasted Winston after the stone-silence of the morgue. Above, the monorail hurtled past carrying people and cargo downtown. Advertisements lit up his optics: Tenno Tech¡¯s new lung implants¡ªthis version guaranteed not to gum up when exposed to heavy amounts of synth smoke, Stanton Arms had a new energy revolver hitting market, the ¡®energy of the future¡¯ brought by Energo Lunar. So. Many. Dick pills. He tuned them out, since deactivating was a subscription he refused on principle, and headed down the walkway past holograms of palm trees¡ªreal palms could never survive in such a northern climate. He heard the chatter of pedestrians walking with their optics lit up, smelled a street-side ramen cart that mixed with the piss of the city, saw an NDPD squad car amble by. The buildings towered over the street, drowning it all in neon¡ªCherenkov radiation, bold red words, vomit yellow. Skyways criss-crossed between megabuildings and aerial vehicles hovered out of the reach of the masses. The meeting place was within walking distance, and Winston hurried. He lamented not taking another ten cc¡¯s before leaving, but knew there was going to be plenty later. He crossed the street between two parked military-surplus humvees, still armored, and headed down an alleyway.


    The contact stood halfway down the path with arms clasped behind his back admiring digital graffiti of a melting green demon skull and a bouquet of deep purple prince¡¯s-feather. The ground was wet with drain run-off. The air carried mildew and rotten shoe leather that wrinkled Winston¡¯s nose. He decided he¡¯d had enough raunchy fragrance for at least a week and knew he¡¯d spend the evening immersed in an expensive memory chip, something that tuned up pleasure to a careless degree and eliminated any negatives. Pure, unadulterated fun to cap a shitty day. His old boots splashed to a stop a few paces from the tall man.


    ¡°Hey,¡± Winston called. It was getting harder to keep his eyes open. Uppers before the memory broker, then, or he¡¯d waste money sleeping in the booth. A short stop at home. Simple.


    ¡°Present the merchandise,¡± the man replied. His voice was smooth, high-pitched, made for a men¡¯s choir. He didn¡¯t turn from the hologram. His fingers tapped monotonously on his wrist and they clinked in perfect tempo, synth skin stretched over metal arms. Expensive work. ¡°Credits will come through the net.¡±


    ¡°Sure,¡± Winston said. He reached in his jacket pocket, gripped the container, and every hair on his body stood on end. The General Sciences Peripheral ¡®Fossa¡¯ Mk.1 that smoothed his nervous system short-circuited and he stumbled to his knees, eyes wide and unblinking. The metal slipped from his fingers and rolled on puddles and concrete. A sharp crack, the smell of spent gunpowder, and he was splayed on the ground. His chest became an orchestra of pain, cortisol and adrenaline flooding his tired system. Another crack of thunder, and the contact¡¯s face exploded on the shimmering wall, fading the hologram. Slow, measured steps approached from behind, and Winston strained his neck to witness the guilty party: machine, more than man; military chrome linked to unrecognizable metal. A black revolver smoked at the attacker¡¯s side. He bent, grasped the container in his free hand, and turned to face Winston, who realized he¡¯d been whimpering. There was warmth in his pants, and the stench of piss mixed with his blood. The attacker hadn¡¯t even bothered with synth skin. His implants were raw, powerful, and fully visible. There was no face to speak of, no shred of cosmetic humanity. Malevolent eyes witnessed the sum total of Winston¡¯s life, and judged it lacking. Another retort, and only darkness remained with two more bodies for the harvest, two more to burn.

 Chapter 1A

    Chapter One-A


    The gods were dead, but the orphans playing in the shadow of the wall didn¡¯t care. Corporations were the only gods left in New Detroit, the toxic air and collected filth their sacrament to the masses. Malory sat on worn stairs with her twin sister and racked out a large chunk of phlegm, no blood. They were too poor for hospitals, or implants, or a neural net, so they watched six others in the distance bounce through luminescent chalk hopscotch lines etched into cracked blacktop. It was early autumn, the evening chilled and bitter, and only one of them had anything that could pass for a jacket. Their grime-caked faces were red with exertion and cold and one kid chanted an off-tune nursery rhyme the director used to sing them. Mal let her eyes wander to the orphanage that squatted beneath a semi-defunct apartment tower. The paint was yellow, faded, peeling away in vast sheets, and she wondered if anyone would care if the whole place exploded in resentful flames. She knew they hadn¡¯t had a meaningful donation in months, forced to adapt to sleeping hungry or stealing what they could. Malory would light the fuse herself if they had anywhere else they could go.


    ¡°It¡¯s good the blood¡¯s gone,¡± her sister said. They were identical twins, but her sister had a small mole under her left eye that made her lazy smile mischievous.


    ¡°I guess,¡± Malory said. It didn¡¯t matter much because there was nothing clean for them to breathe¡ªher lungs would rupture again, it wasn¡¯t worth celebrating.


    ¡°I dreamt about mom last night,¡± Maya said. Silence of the grave settled between them. An aerial vehicle passed by high overhead, tilting toward city center, the muted retort of a gunshot from blocks away announced the end of a life, and one of the kids gave a high-pitched cheer as someone made it through the squares with their eyes closed. ¡°I always forget you don¡¯t remember them,¡± she said.


    ¡°Nope.¡± The only thing Malory remembered were flashes, disjointed sounds, the essence of violence. There was dull metal, a broken mirror, toys strewn across hardwood. There was the chime of a clock from down the hall, a twisted sheet with cartoon cats, blood pooled against baseboards. Screaming, low and guttural, from her own dried throat. A strange fragrance of spring flowers. Trying to stitch the mess together into a memory when she went to sleep left her a headache and panic-sweat. She wished she could remember their parents; the way Maya spoke of them was wistful and left her guilty.


    ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± Maya said. She reached out and wrapped a malnourished arm around Malory, leaned her head on her shoulder. The warmth was welcome. Her hair smelled of dust, dandruff, and synth apples. ¡°We¡¯re still alive. We¡¯re still here, and someday you can make the world pay for it, if that¡¯s what you need.¡± The same kid made it through all the squares with his eyes closed a second time and they all booed because they knew he cheated.


    ¡°Maybe.¡±


    The entire city blared, red warning signs overriding holograms and digital displays. Advertisements for gravy flavored synth-soy paste and the newest episode of Tianwei International¡¯s kiddie show about skeleton grave robbers were blotted out by exclamation points, evacuation pleas, and codes that navigated neural nets to shelter directions. Klaxons wailed murder on concrete edifices. The air traffic swerved to land at the nearest AV lot and stores dropped shutters on panicked pedestrians. It was only noise to the orphans. Mal and Maya jolted and covered their ears. The rest stopped playing and milled about as a group, faces twisted in distaste. One girl crouched to play with a dead worm. They didn¡¯t have anything to do. A shelter would never take in those that couldn¡¯t pay¡ªAeon Automotive¡¯s ¡®Shark Teeth¡¯ autonomous enforcement drones, a half-step away from military hardware and designed for riot suppression, made certain that unsavory elements were cast aside as refuse. The kids would wait it out, or they wouldn¡¯t. Only a handful of things could trigger a full lockdown, smaller emergencies not worth the expense. It only mattered which culprit: terrorist attack, sudden onset weather event, war, chemical or radiation leak, epidemic, solar flare¡ªthe city had seen all and still remained.This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    ¡°Skyfall¡¯s coming,¡± a distant voice called.


    Oscar Karna, the only kid with a surname besides the twins, the ninth and oldest of them, ambled up to everyone from down the street. He looked mature enough that he could trick smaller businesses into letting him work under the table for a couple credits and never really hung around the rest of them. They only considered him part of the group when he brought them food. Malory knew it was only a matter of time before he joined one of the gangs and never came back. She¡¯d seen it happen, so many churned through the doors of the orphanage into crime or obscurity. That was just the way of things: join a gang when you were old enough, slowly die, or disappear. No one ever got adopted. Adoption was a myth like Lacey Lantern or Ozone Cordova, a beautiful fiction to foster hope. Oscar was tall, had the whispers of a beard, and carried himself with a certainty in his shoulders, in the firmness of the eyes none of the others could claim. He had a bag overstuffed with bootleg merchandise he¡¯d been hawking on the corners before lockdown, the strap close to breaking.


    ¡°You wanna watch,¡± he asked. His left eye twitched¡ªa withdrawal symptom, probably slinging more than just bootlegs. Maybe he¡¯d joined up already and only came back out of habit.


    ¡°How,¡± Nadia asked. She was the shortest, the only one with a jacket Mal had given her for a birthday the year before, and she still shivered when she spoke. ¡°You¡¯re not dumb enough to make us climb the wall.¡± Her voice was a haunted children¡¯s doll: soft, eerie, and mechanical, affected by a memory chip she¡¯d dug from trash outside an uptown bordello.


    ¡°I know a different way,¡± he said. ¡°No security bots, no cameras. No one will even know we¡¯re there.¡± He smirked, disdain leaking through. He was cocky. That got people killed, would kill him too, someday. ¡°Follow,¡± he said, and walked away.


    Malory looked at her sister, tangled hair falling in her eyes, and smiled.  They stood and chased after him. Their legs were short, and he was in a hurry. The rest tagged along, Nadia having to run full-speed, desperate not to trip. There was no traffic on the roads, cars and armored vehicles left abandoned, and streetlights pulsed like the breath of a dying beast. Where tree holos stood, only massive exclamation points remained. The world was stained red, the monorail quiet. Nine sets of footfalls slapped the pavement. Other rejects loitered in alleyways and inlets they passed along the way, and there were enough of them to build a small mountain if they banded together to storm a shelter, but none of them wanted to be a doomed hero. Malory had never been so far from the orphanage and wondered if she¡¯d ever go back. A chunk of dead moon could land on her head any moment¡ªit would be easier that way, she knew, but kept jogging after Oscar hand-in-hand with her sister. Far above, she saw a daredevil dancing in the middle of a skyway, waiting for the show. Always an anarchist at the end of the world. Paying to be packed in sardine safety didn¡¯t sound appetizing to her, either.


    ¡°We¡¯re here,¡± Oscar said. He stopped in front of a busted gate, analog prosecution sign spray painted with a black hand print. The rusted chain failed to hold and shrieked offense as he put weight against it. It opened enough for them to squeeze through. ¡°Get in, quick.¡± Impatience, the attitude of a babysitter, too many uppers.


    The old tower was dark and in complete disarray. Trash and broken things littered the square, more than a few used needles jutting from piles of detritus. The roof, their destination, housed the Tianwei International satellite uplink from before they built the massive array circling downtown, beaming cheap overproduced drivel directly into the city¡¯s optics. The faded purple neon bulbs that lined the facade were shattered and lifeless, a monument to excess and decay. There were no red warnings of imminent disaster here, no power grid. The doors and windows were shuttered with thick steel¡ªthey had never bothered to rent out the vacant floors, and Malory wondered if the person responsible had been downsized without letting anyone know, a last middle finger to the company. Some enterprising individuals tried to strip what they could from the exterior, unable to carve their way inside, but it was fruitless. None of the gangs wanted to fight the Black Hands in the depths of their territory for access to scraps and the copper wiring of a defunct corporate property. There was no way for the kids to enter; scaling the outside was dangerous, but possible. There were ample handholds, scaffolding, ledges, ladders, and cables. Some window washing platforms none of them could hack. Getting to the top in time was an exercise in endurance.


    Oscar started with a leap, feet slammed into metal grates. He didn¡¯t slow down for them.


    He ambled up at a brisk pace, backpack swinging, boots sure in cracks and crevices. He was up and over the side of the entrance and out of view in seconds.

 Chapter 1B

    ¡°I don¡¯t think I can do that,¡± Nadia said. She looked down at her tiny frame when she had everyone¡¯s attention to illustrate her point. The rest of the kids looked hesitant. Helping was beyond them.


    ¡°I¡¯ll help you,¡± Malory said. She turned to her sister and squeezed her hand. ¡°Lead the others. We¡¯ll be right behind you.¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± Maya said. She flashed her lazy smile, gathered the rest, and headed up. ¡°Follow me, it¡¯s easy,¡± she shouted. She scaled the building as fast as Oscar, proving the point. The rest shuffled after her, slow and slipping on the ridges and grips. They disappeared above the entrance on shaky legs.


    ¡°How are you gonna help,¡± Nadia asked. She raised an eyebrow in suspicion. They were the same age, but she was the perpetual burden, and wasn¡¯t used to anyone showing concern.


    ¡°Easily,¡± Malory said. She turned around and kneeled down. ¡°I¡¯ll carry you. Maya and I are much stronger than we look,¡± she lied. Her knee shifted in the gravel, far too close to a used needle. She channeled unmatched confidence to hide that she hated heights and had a crush and wanted the excuse.


    ¡°Don¡¯t be stupid, you¡¯re almost as small as me,¡± Nadia said. She crossed her arms. She didn¡¯t buy it. She knew kind lies, it seemed.


    ¡°I¡¯ll get you to the top with the others,¡± Malory said. Her legs ached at the prospect, the self-inflicted torture to distract from fear and attraction. ¡°Promise.¡±


    ¡°If you say so,¡± Nadia shrugged. She climbed onto Mal¡¯s back and squeezed tight enough to restrict blood flow.


    The first step was an aborted stumble, calves and lower back caterwauling in protest. In the fragments of her memories, she suffered far worse, and she refused to stop. She swallowed the pain and took a second step. Numb hands gripped at metal, feet shoved to lift two girls up the wall. A frame of signage, glass crushed to dust under their weight, and Malory was thankful she wasn¡¯t barefoot. She hoisted them over the entrance, breathing heavy, and didn¡¯t look down. Nothing mattered to her except the next surface to seize, the strange taste of copper in her mouth, steady breathing without triggering a coughing fit, and the warm vice-grip Nadia had around her neck and waist. A metal girder; an oversized bolt protruding from dull steel; a section of abandoned scaffolding from window shutter installation; an exterior ladder to replace problematic sections of neon tubing; an industrial air conditioning unit; miniature roof sections that existed as a signature quirk of the architect; seams in sheets of siding peeled back by weather and scavengers; it all passed below her mistreated body hauling her friend into the terrifying sky. She could see others high above them, but acknowledging them left her horror-struck with vertigo.


    Malory was drenched, and expected to be a dried out synth-raisin husk by the end. More handholds, taut suspension cables, a discarded window washing bot, and she started to fantasize about letting go. The beautiful splat of a gore angel they¡¯d make, the wind of the fall, no more torn muscles. She knew Nadia would resent her as a ghost. Calmed, another step, another. Sweat rolled from her chin, stung her eyes. Her heartbeat drummed in her ears, against her ribs. Last year, she found Nadia in the closet crafting stilts out of rotted synth-wood and plastic. She told Mal she wanted to be taller. Overshadow Oscar, the director, the people that looked down on her, and so Mal sat in the cramped closet and inhaled mothballs and mold to help finish the stilts. They broke after a dozen steps, but they laughed and laughed and she¡¯d help her get to the top to look down on everyone even if it killed her. When she crested the next ledge, she was face to face with the others loitering, staring at her. They were resting below the massive black uplink satellite that capped the building. Nadia dismounted and Malory collapsed to her back, devouring oxygen. Her fingers bled, and she thought her toe was broken.


    The frosty air dried her tormented body as the others chattered. She sat up on her elbows to watch Nadia walk to the side they¡¯d climbed and look out over the city and had to admit she was the largest person in her heart. She¡¯d never say it out loud, though. Too mortifying. Out there was New Detroit in all its unfortunate majesty: ZenTech headquarters loomed over downtown and the other, lesser, skyscrapers, the dozen hab megabuildings¡ªthe last which remained indefinitely under construction, the ugly dome of Luna Paradise theme park and doomsday global seed vault, the wall that caged it all, the river filled with cancer, the hypertrain tracks stretching beyond to Chicago, to the raw material port in Traverse City, across the lake to Toronto and further into New Montreal. It was motionless, illuminated in dire warning, millions bracing in anticipation.Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    ¡°It¡¯s beautiful,¡± Nadia said, eyes a carnival of stars.


    ¡°Very,¡± Malory said. She wasn¡¯t looking at the same thing. Brief moments of stolen love made the rest bearable.


    ¡°Hey, you two,¡± Maya called. ¡°You should come sign!¡±


    Nadia turned around, caught Mal staring, and smiled like a pale specter. She trudged up in oversized shoes and held out a delicate hand. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t fall so hard for me,¡± she said. She was too small to help lift, but made the gesture anyway to complete the tease.


    ¡°Maybe,¡± Malory said. She pushed the hand aside and used her spent legs, glad her face was still flushed from exertion and wouldn¡¯t betray her.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± Nadia said.


    ¡°Anytime,¡± Mal said. ¡°A little less climbing, though.¡±


    They laughed and walked to the rest of the group who busied themselves around a flat section at the base of the array. One of the kids pulled out a wicked combat knife and carved into the black, uncaring metal. The surface screeched as it gave way, one letter after another, until it spelled out a name. He admired it for a few moments while muted hurrahs sounded behind and handed the blade to another. Each orphan etched proof of their existence into an unfeeling structure, into a piece of the city that rejected the very idea of them. Another fished broken chunks of luminescent chalk from a cargo pocket they¡¯d used for the game and forgot and smeared bright colors around the carvings, ornamenting the monument they¡¯d made themselves. It would wash away at first rain, but it was enough for memories none could take away. Malory was the last to engrave her name into history:


    SPENCER


    LILAH


    MARTIN


    OSCAR


    KHALIDAH


    AUGUST


    NADIA   MAYA


    MALORY


    ¡°We can get higher for the show,¡± Oscar said. He pointed to an unlocked maintenance door. Inside, a ladder connected to darkness and a hatch to the reflective surface of the dish.


    The climb was gentle, the halo of light from the entrance grew distant as Malory ascended. She couldn¡¯t see anyone above, and listened for footsteps to avoid a boot to the forehead. Rung after rung, the smell of sweat and heavy breathing clogged the shaft. Someone thrust the hatch open and flooded the passage with dim skylight and fresh air. They filed out and sat on the edge, feet dangled over the abyss. The ravaged land hidden by the wall, the abandoned suburbs, the phantom farmland sprawled like a siren call to what could have been. They knew nomadic tribes roamed in the remains of a world that no longer was, and that it¡¯d all been picked clean that close to the wall, but when they tried to imagine living that way, they found it wanting, even with bellies concave in hunger.


    ¡°I always wanted to go out on an adventure to bring life back to the land,¡± Maya said. Her tone said it had been outgrown, a discarded children¡¯s fantasy.


    ¡°I just wanted to make enough money to fund the orphanage,¡± Oscar said. He shifted, and pulled at the strap of his bag.


    ¡°I want to build a ship! See the stars,¡± Nadia said. She was obsessed with the legend of Allison Cerny, who stole from corporations to fund a colony ship to a new home.


    There was a low rumble on the horizon, no louder than the buzz of a refrigerator, but insistent. It grew, slow build to crescendo, decibel by decibel; an apocalyptic scream. It tore through the sky, cradled in flames and inanimate savagery, and passed over their heads with a concussive thunderclap. Their bodies jerked in the sonic boom and late evening turned to summer solstice at noon. The projected impact zone included the city limits, and Mal wondered if they¡¯d witness the end of the world. Time seemed to stop, then violently accelerate, and then it went over the opposite horizon faster than it came. The structure shook under them as the meteor came to rest, a piece of dead and broken moon bonding with dying earth. Perdition existed in the north where it landed. The shock wave and debris didn¡¯t pass the wall. It halted mid-air, suspended by the energy field cast over the cursed metropolis like an aborted haboob. The hypertrain route north needed to be rebuilt, but the wall held¡ªit was designed for it. Malory realized the most unrealistic wish of the orphans wasn¡¯t eliminating the needs of the poor, or an adventure among out-of-reach stars. It was her own dream of putting the moon back together.

 Chapter 2A

    Chapter Two-A


    Malory woke with a blood-curdling scream to the sensation of being murdered. She was in her childhood room collapsed next to a broken mirror listening to the metronome of an antique grandfather clock down the hall. She gagged on the taste of iron as the shadow moved through the space, eyes hazy and unfocused. She knew the shadow meant death, the loss of parents, her home, years in an orphanage discarded by society with only the love of her sister and she couldn''t breathe, couldn¡¯t fight back, couldn¡¯t stop the man and she would be the next to die and finally know what it felt like for a blade to caress her intestines. She howled again, all wounded animal and inviolable proof of her existence. It was a will to remain even when the only thing left was spite, or a girl who wanted more than anything to remain whole and loved and couldn¡¯t. Then she was back, tangled in sheets, drenched in a fountain of terror-sweat, her sister¡¯s foot lodged against her face in their upstairs broom closet just big enough for a bed. She unraveled herself from the sleep-clutches of her twin, who drooled on a ratty pillow, and slipped into the hall. She needed to wash and there was no more sleep to be had.


    The bathroom on the second floor was cold, spartan, and barely functional, the window showed a couple inches to dreary brick and the apartment tower next door. She peeled off her clothes and left them on the sill to dry and tried to get the tap to spit out anything that wasn¡¯t fresh from the arctic. It took several minutes, but she was practiced, and knew how to turn it in slow metronome bursts until it dribbled hot water. It wouldn¡¯t last long, so she hurried to rinse herself of trauma, the vestiges of sleep, and collected grime. She kneaded knuckles into her scalp and used the pleasure to distract from hunger that gnawed on her ribs. The mirage of dream-gore on her tongue threatened to send her into another panic, so she visualized the nightmare of half-stitched memories slopping down the drain. She hoped it would leave her clean, warm, and stress-free, and it almost worked¡ªthe shadow sinner wasn¡¯t easy to ignore. When she was done, she wiped off with a towel she shared with her sister. It was still damp and she cringed at the texture. She dressed, left the room, and tiptoed down the stairs to the first floor.


    Everything was dark and deceptively peaceful. If Mal closed her eyes, she could imagine being anywhere else: a highrise corporate condo with a curtain wall overlooking the expanse of the city, the massive rooftop holograms, all that neon. She could walk into Purgatory to work a gig, just as much badass mercenary as Mover Marlow or Redtail Martinez. She could remember the false safety of her childhood home, the scent of baking and synth-limes, a mother¡¯s smile, but she wouldn¡¯t¡ªthe familiar texture of a well-traveled linoleum kept her grounded and on track to her destination. The front window of the orphanage was positioned so that laying down in the perfect spot let the kids gaze up between the embrace of the wall and the crowd of skyscrapers at the moon¡ªthe large survivor trailed through the sky by wayward fragments and Energo Lunar¡¯s catastrophic mistake, heavenly body reduced to comet chased eternally by disintegrating tail. Malory had never seen it whole outside old photos, holos, and discarded memory chips and wondered if standing on its surface in a fogged helmet before disaster was as peaceful as she hoped, a distilled approximation of freedom from the trappings of her life. When she leaned back in the spot to look at the moon, she lifted her hand and envisioned expansive mechanical digits threading patchwork into defunct amalgamation¡ªher impossible dream of putting the moon back together complete, if only in her imagination.


    A glint from the closet in the hall to the left caught her eye, light bleeding from the crack underneath. She knew who it was, and decided to have some fun. She crept to the door, slowed her breathing, and felt the cool of the handle. She waited a few moments, then wrenched the door ajar with a snarl, deep and primal, to scare her fellow insomniac¡ªNadia didn¡¯t even flinch. She sat cross-legged in a pile of alloy parts and frayed wires, dark bags under her eyes and hair a mess, every bit an abandoned doll in the scraps of a techie¡¯s makeshift workshop. She set down the gear in her hands and looked up.


    ¡°Three out of ten,¡± she said. She smirked and brushed the errant strands of yellow from her face. ¡°You need some new material.¡±


    ¡°Bite me,¡± Mal said. She closed the door behind her to keep from waking the director.


    ¡°Maybe, after I¡¯m finished,¡± Nadia said. She clicked her teeth together playfully.


    ¡°What are you making?¡± Malory asked. She didn¡¯t see anything that could equate to extra height among the offal.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    ¡°You¡¯ll love it,¡± she beamed. She lifted a couple disconnected pieces and waved them around. ¡°None of us have any implants or optics, so my little baby will be marvelous. If I can get it working.¡± Her face fell in frustration.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what that is,¡± Malory said. It was an eldritch of coiled metal, tangled wires, and bright chalk face winking on its surface.


    ¡°Oh. Right,¡± she said. ¡°It¡¯s a home-brew EMP. Should shut down implants and cameras. And reusable, unlike a grenade.¡± She went back to tinkering with junk.


    ¡°Where did you even learn to make something like that,¡± Mal asked. She sat down and picked through scrap, looking at the variety. She didn¡¯t recognize most of it, and wondered how Nadia had gathered so much.


    ¡°Memory chip,¡± she said, as if that explained anything. When she noticed Malory¡¯s silence, she sighed and continued. ¡°Rich people throw chips out all the time, and I look for them whenever I leave. I have a whole library in my room you could watch if you ever came to visit.¡± She turned back to the pieces in her hand, threaded a wire through old neon tubing, connected to another, twisted. ¡°Found this one yesterday, and couldn¡¯t sleep without building it.¡±


    ¡°Why crabs, though?¡± Malory asked. It was kind of cute, if not haunting the uncanny valley. It would have looked at home stalking the labyrinthine sewage system hunting rodents.


    ¡°No reason,¡± she said. She looked up and flashed crooked teeth. ¡°I just like them.¡± Carcinization in action, and even tech bent to the evolutionary imperative at the whims of a tiny tinkerer. She added another bent plastic cap to one of the claws.


    ¡°Need any help?¡± Malory asked. She didn¡¯t know the blueprint, but she could at least shape components.


    ¡°Always,¡± she said. ¡°I can¡¯t figure out how to fit the magnifiers in the core. Definitely not my own fault for modifying the design, though.¡± The sea creature was still missing legs and a pincer, its body cavity plucked open to be filled in a slow autopsy in reverse¡ªmetal, tubes, and determination crammed into a steely corpse.


    ¡°You could use the limbs,¡± Malory suggested. It seemed like plenty of unused space to solve the problem.


    ¡°That could do the trick,¡± Nadia said. She blinked and tilted her head to the side, chewed the inside of her lip, and took a deep breath. ¡°Yeah, I think it¡¯ll be great. Put the rest of the legs together, and I¡¯ll handle the insides.¡±


    The fabrication progressed like clockwork¡ªcircles of recycled neon glass, junkyard magnets, coils of metal and wire and plastic fused into lifeless automaton just before sunrise because two orphans complemented each other in symbiotic familiarity. Pancake torso topped with scavenged solar panels, each leg molded, stuffed, and assembled into chalk-faced crustacean. A pinched finger, a few drops of blood, another blemish on a tattered dress. Mal pictured an army of them crawling through the ventilation of ZenTech tower, situating themselves at critical infrastructure junctions, and bringing the entire corporation to its knees. The place had been assaulted before, but never with autonomous EMP drones, and she thought it was novel enough to succeed. Nadia might be able to get them moving like she imagined with access to a proper atelier, but that was for the future, and if they lived that long. They stole glances at each other as they worked, but neither noticed the other bewitched, and then it was done. A treasured moment of peace consigned to the trash heap of oblivion and reminiscence.


    ¡°I wish we could test it,¡± Nadia said.


    ¡°The director will kill us if you set it off in the orphanage,¡± Mal cautioned. It was the perfect kind of recklessness she¡¯d come to expect; Nadia had no regard for consequence or side effects, just the desire to know the creation performed as anticipated.


    ¡°I guess we¡¯ll just have to go in blind,¡± Nadia said. She picked up the completed device, spun it around, and looked in its luminous eyes.


    ¡°What do you want to use it for?¡± Malory asked.


    ¡°A heist,¡± she said. ¡°I want to hit Bagley Market.¡± The place was a fortress of unabashed consumerism: three tiers of stalls overflowed with synthetic meat, fish, eggs, and raw vegetables, street carts hawked savory fried food, and the brilliant colors of textiles waited for new owners. Clothes, shoes, bags, perfume, bedding, books, stationary, toys, electronic scrap, holograms, memory chips, gray-market programs, second-hand chromeware, and surplus civilian robot models all crowded the walkways with vivid signage and cameras pointed in all directions.


    ¡°That¡¯s insane,¡± Mal said. There was no hesitation. ¡°We¡¯ll need some of the others.¡± More help meant more to eat, less hand-me-down rags and dumpster dives, technology that was made the same decade. A chance the orphanage hadn¡¯t been able to give them.


    ¡°Martin and Spencer always tag along,¡± Nadia said. There was a lot of risk, but they never shied from adventure.


    ¡°I¡¯ll talk to them before class,¡± Malory said. She stood, stretched her back until it cracked, and scraped at the dried blood on the tip of her fingernail. ¡°Do you have a plan?¡±


    ¡°Sure,¡± she said. ¡°Set the crab off near the stalls we want to hit to knock out cameras and optics, grab what we can, and run.¡± It was matter-of-fact, and left no room for error, for dreaded consequence. ¡°Should last a minute or two.¡±


    ¡°Winging it, then,¡± Mal said. She laughed and left the room.

 Chapter 2B

    The hall was filled with the distressed noise of waking others¡ªthe director hummed a melancholic tune from behind their closed door that promised a strange lesson, August and Lilah wailed at each other over a grungy sweatshirt they both wanted to wear, and the ominous thumping of Oscar rattled the thin walls to shut them up. Others scurried to the kitchen to devour whatever crumbs they could find. Malory didn¡¯t bother. Instead, she walked to the bathroom and washed the crusty scab on her fingertip and tried not to think of her parents being murdered as the sink ran red. It was going to be a long day. She sighed, wiped her hand on her dress, and headed for the classroom. She found Martin and Spencer on the way bent over a gray object in the living room whispering in short bursts and her curiosity exploded: illicit porn chip, an ampoule of uppers, stolen jewelry, the command codes to an Aeon Automotive combat drone. She stymied her thoughts and headed for them. Martin was titanic, primordial genetics not even a childhood of poverty and malnourishment could staunch, while Spencer was stringy bone and sinew held together by skin like paper. They hid their mystery object when she approached.


    ¡°Job for you, if you¡¯re interested,¡± she said. She thought it resembled the bleak steel of a black-market revolver, but couldn¡¯t be certain.


    ¡°Absolutely,¡± Martin said, his voice was high-pitched and didn¡¯t match his size. Next to him, Spencer shook his head up and down as fast as he could.


    ¡°Sneak out with me this afternoon,¡± she said. She could tell they were afraid of her prying, so she swallowed her curiosity.


    She spun on her heel and went to the classroom. It was full of dirty mats for the orphans. None of them had implants, so instead of scrolling through memory chips on their optics while being monitored through the net, they had to use antique VR goggles the director had procured from an old tech salvager after a rare donation. The lessons were rudimentary: arithmetic, basic English, French, Japanese, and Mandarin, the geography of the city within the walls and the gangs and corporations that controlled its territory, some science and technological primers that Nadia obsessed over, history modules with heavy doses of propaganda, a single file on music theory, and a bizarre course the director had created that focused on creativity and acting with an abundance of short films and plays and improv performances. Mal¡¯s favorite was the guidebook on programming¡ªthere was no interactivity, but she could dive deep into the languages and memorize whatever she could. She dropped to her usual mat, slid on the visor, and ignored how much she felt like a corpse in a morgue. She let the code cascade across her retinas as she waited for class to start.


    The others came in and took their places, chattering until the director navigated them to a saturated blue screen and a narration of an ill man who lived in Old London. Malory tuned it all out and floated on syntax for forty minutes until she was certain the director wouldn¡¯t notice her leaving. She took off the ancient visor, stood, glanced at her sister on the mat next to her, and decided to leave her behind. It was too dangerous to risk them both. She crept to Nadia, shoved a wet finger in her ear, and then moved on to Spencer. She grabbed Martin last, afraid the giant would have trouble shuffling out without making noise. They were out in the crisp, dirty air in less than a minute. Malory coughed. She looked up at the wall that meant hope and safety for so many and knew it was the teeth of a colossal monster that had long swallowed her whole and would never let go. It was early morning, and they¡¯d be in the shadows until almost noon.


    ¡°Where to?¡± Martin asked. He flexed his arms, ready for a fight.


    ¡°Bagley,¡± Nadia called. She hoisted the rechargeable crab to her shoulder and attempted to showboat. ¡°Gonna set off beautiful Ms. Clawdia here and snatch whatever we can.¡±A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    ¡°Awesome,¡± Spencer said. He was practically vibrating in and out of existence from excitement and low blood sugar, and had something tucked in the waistband of his basketball shorts. There were no more questions.


    They headed to the market, and billboards, holograms, and glass storefronts lined the way. Traffic was congested even far from city center as the throngs bustled in the morning commute. Pedestrians multiplied as they reached the monorail stop outside the entrance of the shopping district. One of the holo trees flickered and dropped dainty digital leaves in Malory¡¯s face that splattered into light when she touched them. The sound of the masses was overwhelming, and she had to grit her teeth. She missed the quiet of the closet, the gentle closeness of her friend, the urge to touch. The group of orphans walked through the signed archway, past countless transactions and goods they¡¯d only seen in their dreams, and headed down, down, into the depths of the open-air emporium.


    ¡°Here,¡± Nadia said. She¡¯d stopped at a four-corner junction that had a selection of synth meats, fruits, and breads in one direction, racks and stacks of clothing and animatronic mannequins that displayed fresh designer outfits in another, and tech display cases, code laptops, various sizes of printed circuit boards, mounds of miscellaneous memory chips, and illustrated diagrams of assembly instructions in the third. The final path led to a staircase that ascended directly to street level.


    ¡°Showtime,¡± Malory said. She leaned against a stone pillar to observe the crowd, the way it pulsed, and looked forward to the chaos. Adrenaline pumped. The air was sticky and smelled of autumn and sweat and so many people.


    ¡°Focus on food and anything we can actually use,¡± Nadia said. Her eyes were dilated, wild with manic glee. The exhaustion that haunted her face like a death mask was condemned to the abyss. ¡°If it needs a fence, grab something else!¡± She slammed the button on the belly of the crab and lobbed it into the center walkway. Seconds passed. A drop of sweat rolled down the nape of her neck, and she clenched and unclenched her left fist over and over.  Nothing happened. The murmur continued, buying and selling, buying and selling, a shout, a laugh, and then someone¡¯s boot knocked the machine on the way to somewhere else.


    Reality teetered to a halt¡ªa woman in an orange sweater carried a large box against her chest, a hooded man stalked past with his hands stuffed in his jacket, a couple made out on a stone bench, obscuring graffiti. An aggressive Stanton Arms advertisement twirled in bright reds and yellows overhead and demanded attention. With a sharp click, the wave spread invisible electric current that terminated optics, cameras, holograms, ads, robots, space heaters, the fluorescent streetlights, servos on a few arm implants, and one old-school digital watch, but it didn¡¯t stop at the intersection like Malory expected. Instead, it continued to devour the entire market, one shop at a time, until it reached equilibrium at the monorail and fizzled to an end. Her three conspirators moved immediately. They snatched large duffel bags from the clothing area to fill, but Mal didn¡¯t budge. It was too much¡ªthey might have gotten away taking out a small corner, but disrupting the business of all of Bagley was beyond the pale. The crowd was disoriented, blind, and on the verge of panic. Mal had to do something, anything to change their fate, but no answer came. She had no power, no way to change the fate they¡¯d set in motion.


    Martin, Spencer, and Nadia weaved in and out of the paralyzed throng, their bags near bursting. Grubby palms reached out to secure their gains. More, and more, and more still: packages of dried meat, pasta, assorted tubers, and hard bread, jeans and shorts and sweaters and winter coats and shirts without moth-rotten holes in them, so many sets of current-gen VR goggles to replace the junk they used in class, three compact laptops built for coding and memory design, and entire boxes of high-end educational and entertainment memory chips disappeared into their bags. One by one, they ventured further into the boutiques to search for mandatory treasures, and disappeared from Malory¡¯s view. She was motionless, cold stone at her back, scanning over the sightless. Her body shook with every heartbeat, and each thud drowned out the bedlam of terrified rabble they¡¯d robbed like miracle workers in reverse. It was too smooth, too neat. She could feel the specter of catastrophe coiling around her spine, ever craving, ever keen. Spencer stumbled back into view as it opened its jaws wide for the feast¡ª a security guard reached out with a vice-grip on a skinny arm. Spencer hesitated, a moment where his rational mind still existed, then pulled the revolver from his waistband and fired.

 Chapter 3A

    Chapter Three-A


    Pandemonium ensued while the gunshot echoed off tightly-packed bodies and out into the morning air. Most ducked while a dozen others tried to run stone-blind and collided with walls and displays and deactivated patrol bots, while security drew their own weapons, ready to return fire. The victim slumped to the ground and released his hold on Spencer. His breath was heavy with a fresh hole punched just below the ribs. Spencer dropped the revolver, adjusted the bag on his shoulder, and fled up the steps. His feet slapped on concrete while shouts from the crowd blended into cacophony, and he was gone. A few seconds later, Nadia skipped from the rows of tech displays. She balanced three different bags on her tiny body, each more full than the last, an insane little Atlas holding up the future of the orphans. She hummed her usual off-tune nursery rhyme as she fled. An alarm warbled to life at the edge of the affected zone, and Malory had her answer¡ªone of them needed to stay behind or NDPD would bring Containment down on them all. Martin was next, and had trouble working through the people because of his large frame.


    Malory watched them go. She wondered if they¡¯d only ever amount to desperate kids trying to claw back an existence from the rotten maw of the city. The mercenaries that worked from Purgatory said there were consequences for those who dared to live, and Mal believed. She headed for the discarded revolver, one foot in front of the other. Detention Center or forced labor, maybe a bullet and alleyway dumpster if the corpo in charge of the market was in a bad mood. It was easy. On the way, she focused on a pair of black cat earrings on display, and fantasized about a reality where she went to the store and paid with honest-to-god credits, the awkward small talk with a bored cashier, owning something with no real purpose other than to make her feel better. Her ears weren¡¯t pierced. She slipped the cats from the display and into her small dress pocket anyway, stifled a laugh, and continued on. The bleeding guard flinched as she bent and picked up the gun. She was surprised by the weight, the cold metal on her skin, how dangerous it felt, and worried her fingers into the gray steel as she waited for everyone¡¯s optics to reboot.


    She heard the metronome caw of a crow mocking, the wind rattling a loose panel above her head, and the trembling of the crowd. She knew this was the moment she¡¯d save if she had her own neural net, a snapshot in time before everything changed, before the bill came due. Another moment, another, and then electronics flared to life¡ªbackup routines and fail-safes restored sight to the blind. Awareness rippled and followed the same pace as the attack. By the time it reached the outskirts, the first glares were on her ruined dress and disheveled hair, the weapon in her small hand. So many eyes, so many examinations of her life. Disgust, fear, curiosity, disdain, anger, doubt, frustration washed over her like an endless cascade, and Malory decided she hated them: for their horror, the scrutiny, their willing participation in a system that created people like her, like Nadia, the rest of the orphans¡ªfor the audacity to be unsettled by a person stealing from a corporation¡ªbecause they were thoroughly brainwashed into celebrating them like sports teams. Good little capitalists, righteous fucking consumers. Condemned, the lot of them. She raised the gun, tasted the anger between her teeth, and then something struck her. Everything went dark.


    There was nothing. Nothing, and then loud ringing in the emptiness, a concierge bell in the waiting room for a dream. Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding. No pain existed in that other place, only a lifetime boiled down to the persistent thought of this is bad this is bad this is bad this is bad this is bad this is bad this is bad. And then an array of what went wrong exploded in time with the bell¡ªwas it a stroke, a brain aneurysm, a seizure? Or was she dead, heart stopped, struck by lightning or the wrath of an uncaring god, the final devouring of a city she despised? And with the thoughts the pain seeped in. With it, an attempt at awareness, and figures moved in quivered Rorschach test, the low bass drum of distorted voices, and the stench of piss. Meaning reinfused the shapes around her, into shoes dragged on industrial tile, the stains of well-used abattoir walls, the ache in her face. She blinked, thought of her mother¡¯s forgotten smile, how they used to hold hands and run when it rained, and then she was in a steel chair, arms and legs bound tight, uncertain if the light of the room flickered or if she was on the verge of losing consciousness again. She was not alone.Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.


    ¡°You shot my brother,¡± the other said. He had close-cut hair, an unkempt beard, the disposition of a man that beat his son whenever he had a few too many rum and cokes on the weekends. He cracked the swollen knuckles on his left hand, the calm delivery betrayed by shark-dead eyes.


    Malory tried to answer in a haze, and her world shattered at her jaw. Agony and swollen words strangled in her throat. She wanted to feel the damage, the fractured flesh of her cheek, but rope dug into her wrists and kept her still. Consciousness bloomed back full-force, and she was in the basement of Bagley Market¡¯s exclusive real-meat boutique, the slaughter floor drain between her feet. She yanked against her bindings and screamed.


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t bother,¡± the man said. ¡°This place is built to bury the death calls of cattle.  Your little lungs don¡¯t stand a chance.¡± He took a few steps forward until he loomed like euthanasia, his face split wide in a mannequin grin. ¡°Gutter rats always carry rabies and plague when they crawl from the sewer covered in shit, tainting everything they touch like a tribulation from God.¡± He tilted his head. ¡°And here you are.¡± He hocked a loogie in her face and laughed, deep and throaty, but it rang hollow.


    ¡°Fuck off, synth-pig!¡± she screamed. Her heart, still congested with the smoldering wreckage of a desire to shoot the bystanders, ignited in a conflagration of rage. She wanted to sink her teeth into his jugular, tear out the artery, and drink deep.


    ¡°A little fight,¡± he said. ¡°I like that.¡± He walked over to a cart filled with assorted instruments, complicated contraptions, and knives designed to slaughter livestock. ¡°Makes it much more fun when you start to squeal.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t tell you a damn thing,¡± Malory said.


    ¡°You will,¡± the man said. He gave a half-hearted shrug. ¡°Even if you don¡¯t, I will thoroughly enjoy myself.¡± He moved the cart next to Malory and sighed. ¡°You will tell me about your friends.¡± He turned his back and started to unwrap tools. Metal clinked against metal, the silent work of a mortuary.


    ¡°I hope your brother dies,¡± she said. She resented his broad back, the shoulders unbent by a life of cruelty, the aroma of days-old cologne.


    The man set down a half-unwrapped tool, plastic packaging fresh from the autoclave, and turned toward her. His face was impassive, malice woven into each hazel iris. Concrete eyes, ivory smile.


    ¡°You know,¡± he said. ¡°We¡¯re lucky, you and I. It¡¯s such a rare thing to be implant-free these days. ZenTech practically gives their older neural net models away.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not by choice,¡± Mal said.


    ¡°Yes, yes,¡± he waved. ¡°You don¡¯t have to remind me when you smell that way.¡± He rolled up his sleeves, and exposed a tattoo of an all-seeing eye in an hourglass, surrounded by a snake eating its tail.


    ¡°You¡¯re part of a gang,¡± she said.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you dare compare me to those bumbling dipshits from les Fant?mes or the cowards in the Black Hands, girl,¡± he sneered. ¡°The Sons of the Prophet aren¡¯t a gang. We are a dedicated brotherhood that seeks to free the world from its oppressive shackles.¡±


    ¡°Right,¡± Malory said. She rolled her eyes. ¡°Cult with a god complex. Got it.¡±


    ¡°It is fated,¡± the man said. He lifted a needle from the tray. ¡°Our founder used to work with the Prophet. Information extraction. He was pretty damn good. Got to the point he could get anything from a subject just by talking to them. Some threats, here and there, the hanging sword of danger.¡± He brought the needle to her fingernail, set the point just underneath. A little pressure, the slight sting. ¡°His favorite method was a self-immolation program¡ªa few drops of gasoline, ignition to completion to ash a thousand times a minute. Star-bright dying and the total conquest of the soul. I¡¯m not as good as him.¡±


    ¡°Fuck you!¡± she screamed. The needle inched deeper. Blood welled from the wound.


    ¡°I¡¯ve always found more pleasure in the slow break, anyway,¡± he said. Deeper, deeper in. ¡°The expressions, the trembling as a private symphony with me as the conductor. Tell me where your friends are.¡±