《Bitstream》 the ghost in the machine - 1.1 Bitstream By Rowdha Al Sol
1.1 ¡°Cardiac system restored.¡± A voice. Female. Digital. Cold. But who is it? What is it? Maybe I¡¯d know if I could open my eyes. But I can¡¯t. All I feel are the hollow craters where they used to be. And beyond that¡ªnothing. Darkness. Cold, meaningless darkness. No up, no down. No body, no breath. Just remnants of a consciousness that once was and no longer seems to be. Data. Echoes. A mind without a home. Emptiness. ¡°Vitals low. Activating emergency protocols.¡± There it is again. Robotic, without presence, without soul. And something else, something sharp. I feel it in my bones, a bolt, a pulse, a... a... OUTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT! My voice. A distorted scream that whirs and whirs, and it hurts. Everything hurts. Where am I? Who am I? ¡°Optics online.¡± Those numbers, those ghostly red ones and zeroes, warping, whipping up and down, back and around, shifting, shifting, steady now, along the edges, carving parallel lines that face off and connect. They surge, throb, reel again and again. Back now, up to the corners. Holding. Stable. Squared off, flat. It¡¯s... it¡¯s... a dumpster, sketched out of nothing but code, and I¡¯m covered in something thick and heavy. Not sure what. Too hazy, too empty. But I need to move. I need to get up. I need to push. Come on. Push, damn it. Push. Push! The lid: it smashes open, and a swirl of numbers comes swooping down, pressing against me, trying to force me back, but I won¡¯t have it. I¡¯ll keep pushing, I¡¯ll keep clawing, I¡¯ll dig myself out of this nightmare one way or another. I try to bring my right arm up and clear the stream, but it hangs loose, unresponsive, nothing but dead weight. Still, I push on, cleaving my way through the numbers, the clumps, the masses. Out of my way. Pull, come on. Get over it. But my foot: it¡¯s stuck, and before I have time to readjust it slips and I go helplessly tumbling down a mountain of code. I hit the bottom. Hard. And I stay there for a moment, trying to draw air, trying to think, trying to make sense of this digital realm. My pulse whams in my ears, too loud, too fast, as if my body still believes it''s flesh and bone rather than numbers. The world is a shifting thing. Data streams, coiling, unraveling. I feel weightless and yet somehow heavy, untethered, my thoughts stretching and snapping like a corrupted signal. Then something. Subtle. Rah¡­ Roh¡­ A whisper. No, not a voice exactly, but the shape of one. A breath of static curling at the edge of my perception, teasing at my consciousness like the ghost of a memory I can''t quite grasp. It slithers through the nerve endings, slipping past firewalls, threading through the fractures in my thoughts. It¡¯s not her voice. It¡¯s different this time. A name. I don¡¯t know how I know, but I do. It¡¯s lodged somewhere deep, in that part of the brain where language goes soft around the edges, where half-buried memories play hopscotch on broken pavement. I can hear them: kids long gone, their laughter rusted and brittle, rising and falling with the unsteady groan of a swingset missing a chain. The name is there, teetering, right at the tipping point, but it won¡¯t fall. Not yet. And is it mine? I don¡¯t know that either. I don¡¯t know anything. Not one, damn thing. But I have to find a way out. I can¡¯t stay here. I force myself to my knees, feeling the landscape dig into my palm. The surface is uneven, strange. I drag myself through the digital murk, crawling, tugging. I look ahead, hoping to see something different, something other than these damn numbers. Eventually, in the distance: a splotch of green. A blinking track. I move quickly, not stopping. I reach down to the green numbers, grab a round yet jagged object, and hoist it up. The code takes form, revealing a head with optics plugged into the sockets, and I get an idea. Please, let this work. I set the head down and pry out the optics, slotting them into my sockets one by one, careful not to nick the circuitry. At first, nothing. Not even a shudder. Then a jolt, a glitch in the neural interface. Static. Distortion. Red digits scrolling. I blink, and the world stutters like an old slide projector: first a blur, then the image snaps into place, sharp, vivid. Is that... water? It is. A canal, in fact, snaking through the wasteland, rippling, sloshing, wobbling with rain. A massive bridge looms over it, stitching two halves of a city: sleek towers, chromatic spires, a place still breathing, every micron beating. I feel it thrumming through my bones. Bump. Bump. Bump. No¡ªnot the city. My heart. Slamming. Hammering. Threatening to tear loose from its cage. I look down at myself: cyberware, tracer markings glowing faintly along my shoulders, chest, stomach. Dried blood on old wounds. Some from bullets. Some from blades. And yet, somehow, I¡¯m still here. How? All around me are bodies. Not humans, but androids, mixed in with garbage, oil, and rust. It¡¯s a graveyard, a dump leading out into the water. Was I... dead? I glance back at the severed head and see that the neural jack glows softly, which gives me another idea. I drive my fingers into the port, detach the chip, and swap it with my own, the fractured, sparking mess inside my skull. A jolt. Then, finally, sound. Muffled at first, sharpening: the distant scream of a siren, the rush of city traffic, the cry of seagulls, and rain. It feels... familiar. How long have I been here? And more importantly, how long do I have left? I blink, checking my neural HUD. Nothing. The vitals display has melted into unreadable digital smear. My OS is failing, held together by sheer luck and broken code. I need a new system. But here, in this graveyard of obsolete machines, that kind of luck is in short supply. Some voices from behind. Laughter. In the distance. Not sure how far exactly. I turn to see two men and a woman picking their way down one of the towering android heaps. The pile slopes up to an opening, one I can only assume conceals a ladder or stairway, a passage that must lead to the city. They have no eyes, only blue visors that glow with unnatural, animated screens: cubes that rise and fall and travel, as if bumping to the sound of music. Those cheap leather jackets, kuttes, are marred together with all sorts of symbols, everything from clowns to spiders to snakes to rabbits. And their necks are engraved with sharp inclines, containing circuit boards and external ports. It all looks so advanced, so bizarre, yet, at the same time, they don¡¯t seem very rich. They¡¯re... poor. What do they want? Are they here to help me? I don¡¯t know. The way they walk, the way they talk with those weird, countrified accents.... They¡¯re not here to help. They¡¯re here to¡ª ¡°There¡¯s a live one. Over there, look,¡± the woman shouts, pointing a thickly gloved finger at me. My heart races and electricity surges through my body. I try to step back, run, but my legs buckle. Before I can react, I¡¯m seized by uncontrollable trembling and collapse onto the ground. The people laugh. First the woman comes over, then the two men. She bends down and pulls my head towards her. ¡°Ah.... It¡¯s 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 it¡¯s 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. I¡¯d imagine back in her time she was a fan of implants. Probably spent more time on a tech surgeon''s chair than your average cyberjunkie, that¡¯s for sure.¡± A tech surgeon. The taller man gets down on one knee and blows a puff of smoke in my face. ¡°Anything valuable? What¡¯s that pretty eye of yours see?¡± ¡°Hard to tell,¡± she says. ¡°It¡¯s beat up pretty bad and some parts of the body are unscannable.¡± ¡°Cheap fuckin¡¯ optics, that¡¯s why,¡± says the shorter man. ¡°I suppose you could strap it ¡¯round your back and carry it to the truck, look at it later,¡± the woman says. ¡°It¡¯d be much easier than trying to rip it apart here with all these bodies.¡± The taller man reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a stout and bulky object. It takes me a second to realise that it¡¯s 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 we¡¯ll get nothin¡¯ out of it.¡± This can¡¯t happen. I can¡¯t die, not like this, not after I¡¯ve been given a second chance. He kneels closer to my face and presses the barrel of the pistol against my skull. ¡°Adios, dustbucket.¡± The air grows heavy and it¡¯s 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 I¡¯ll get to witness what it¡¯s like having my existence ripped from my being, what it¡¯s like to die in cold blood. Then what? Is it just an empty meaningless void? Is there a hell? A heaven? I¡¯m too young to find out. Now is not my time. ¡°No,¡± a voice says, weak and strained. ¡°The fuck?¡± the man snarls. ¡°Not now,¡± the same voice says, only I realise something that I hadn¡¯t before: the voice, soft, feminine, belongs to me. ¡°You can talk, even after all these years?¡± the woman says, laughing. ¡°Well, isn¡¯t that crazy? Fifty years old, probably dumped here at least a decade ago, and she speaks. There¡¯s some human left in you after all.¡± ¡°Poor bitch,¡± the shorter man says. ¡°Ought to put her out of her misery. It¡¯s 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 say¡ªshout, actually. ¡°I can¡¯t die!¡± ¡°The fuck you can¡¯t.¡± The tall man rams his thick palm into my forehead with the hope of slamming me back into the ground, but to his shock¡ªand to my own¡ªmy neck doesn¡¯t give. Before he has time to prop the barrel against my skull, I grab his wrist with my cybernetic arm and squeeze as hard as I can. His ulna and radius crunch beneath my grasp. He screams. The gun fires and a flash illuminates the blood staining my body. ¡°Kill her!¡± the man squeaks. The woman stumbles backwards, reaching for her pistol. My arm, with strength even I don¡¯t expect, jolts forward and becomes a ball-bearing as the body of the tall man goes helplessly sprawling across it. The woman takes aim. Before she can fire, an object springs from my forearm: a long, raptorial blade. It pierces through the man¡¯s chest and slices through the woman¡¯s neck. She stands there shaking, just as I had moments ago, while the life drains from her face. The shorter man steps away, slackjawed. He doesn¡¯t say a word, only watches. The woman¡¯s body hits the ground and the man on my raptorial blade drops his gun. They¡¯re dead. That much is for certain. I move the man¡¯s 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 android pile, nearly tripping along the way. I don¡¯t bother chasing after him. He¡¯s 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 woman¡¯s 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 don¡¯t replace my operating system quick enough after taking it out, my heart will stop. 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 grab the switchblade left over from the short man and, using the tip, pry the chip free. It isn¡¯t long before my vision blurs and all the air empties from my lungs. For a second I feel as though I¡¯ve been launched into outer space. I quickly but carefully secure the woman¡¯s operating system beneath my heart. To my shock, I¡¯m still unable to breathe, I still can¡¯t see my vitals, and slowly the world around me begins to blur before going dark. The darkness is different. I don¡¯t see any red ones and zeroes. It''s... nothing. Rah... Roh... Again, that name, and the laughter; the children''s laughter. Come on. What is it? Tell me... Tell.... ¡°Operating system online.¡± I gasp, eyes flying open. I¡¯m lying flat on the ground, but there''s a difference: I¡¯m able to move smoothly. No shakes, no pounding heart, and my vitals pop up on my neural display. Everything is green. Everything is okay. 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 that¡¯s my name. This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. Rhea Steele. Familiar, yet distant. But so are many things. Many, many things. I pick myself up, slowly, and stretch my limbs. The mantisblade embedded in my forearm is a surprise, a shock actually. It''s so large, heavy, yet I can hold it up with ease. My level of strength must be extreme, especially for someone my size. I must have been like these people, these... scavengers. Or maybe I was the opposite. Maybe I had to protect myself, and this mantisblade was what kept me safe. Either way, it''s a scary amount of technology to have contained in a single arm. I ought to be careful and use it wisely, less I want to accidentally slice my head in two. I look at the scavengers'' bodies, focusing on the woman, her clothes in particular. 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 an eerie-looking clown. I unbutton the woman¡¯s leather kutte and peel it off, followed by her white shirt, cargo jeans, and combat boots. I leave her panties untouched¡ªwearing someone else¡¯s underwear is too disgusting to consider. I wrestle my way into her shirt, the fabric sliding over my head. The jeans cling stubbornly as I shimmy them up with one hand, and the kutte dangles until I manage to shrug it into place. The boots put up a fight, the right one requiring a clumsy kick and shuffle before it finally settles. Every movement feels like a dance, my lifeless right arm hanging uselessly at my side. It must have been fried pretty bad to be completely dead. If I want to get it replaced or removed, I¡¯ll probably need to visit a tech surgeon, like that woman said, but it¡¯ll come at a cost. I¡¯m sure. That and, well, maybe they can figure out what happened to me, what''s happening to me. I run my hand through the man¡¯s corpse, seeing if he has anything valuable. Other than the pistol, there isn¡¯t much. I take it anyway. I take the woman¡¯s pistol, too. Maybe I can sell it and make a bit of cash on the side, if it¡¯s worth anything. I pop the man¡¯s 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 android pile from which these scavengers came, expecting to see a ladder or walkway. To my surprise there¡¯s neither. From the bottom of the wall to the top there¡¯s a mesh of rusty pipes, worn and leaking from the chambers. Part of it is held together only by carbon-fibre tape. That¡¯s funny to me. Nevertheless, I clamber up the android pile, knocking bits aside. It''s taxing but not impossible. It doesn¡¯t 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 they¡¯re farther up. I¡¯ll have to use my legs to do most of the work, and I do¡ªwell, try¡ªbut inevitably fail as I find no way to hoist myself up onto the next available grip. I slip but don¡¯t fall off. 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. There¡¯s 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 I¡¯m 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. 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. They 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 don¡¯t reach the bottom; they¡¯re quickly carried away by a gust tunnelling through the intersection preceding the bridge. It¡¯s cool, icy even. But that¡¯s okay. I prefer the cold. But how do I navigate this place? How do I find out where the nearest tech surgeon is? It¡¯s not like there¡¯s a map flashing on every available corner of this place. I start walking, seeing if there are any signs indicating a repair unit or medical centre or whatever field tech surgeries would fall under in this era. It¡¯s hard to tell, and I can¡¯t exactly remember what such buildings look like. Even if I could, they may very well look entirely different now. 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¡¯, there¡¯s 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 overflowing trashcans, rats that scurry from one hole to the other, and... a man, sitting on a doorstep built into a red-brick building. He¡¯s enclosed in shadow, to the right of the alley, smoking a cigarette. He glances up at me. It¡¯s 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 shouldn¡¯t be here.¡± I furrow my brow. ¡°I.... Well, I¡¯m not entirely sure where I¡¯m supposed to be, or where I¡¯m¡ª¡± ¡°No.¡± The man shakes his head. ¡°You¡¯re not supposed to be here. Here.¡± He gestures to the ground with open hands. ¡°In this alleyway. It¡¯s 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, ¡°What¡¯s 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. What¡¯s it like in the afterlife?¡± ¡°I... I¡¯m sorry?¡± He chuckles again. ¡°So, what is this? You install someone else¡¯s neural chip? I just can¡¯t figure out why someone would do that, unless of course, they¡¯re looking to commit identity fraud, but you have different motives, don¡¯t you? Hard to commit fraud when any actuary can see you¡¯re supposed to be dead.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not trying to commit fraud,¡± I say. ¡°Then why does it say you¡¯re dead?¡± he asks, his shrewd eyes flickering from my damaged arm to my bloody jacket. I look him in the eye. ¡°I don¡¯t 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?¡± ¡°That¡¯s 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. ¡°I¡¯m 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 God¡¯s sake fix this broken arm.¡± ¡°Your non-functional arm is entirely mechanical,¡± the man says, sliding his cigarette package into his chest pouch. ¡°Your left arm though.... That¡¯s cybernetic. Nice implant, by the way. Though it¡¯s 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 isn¡¯t exactly clear with directions, and all the adverts.... Are people really that concerned with getting it up?¡± The man laughs this time¡ªa nice sound straight from the belly. ¡°Well, I can take a look at you, even though I am technically on my fifteen.¡± ¡°You¡¯re a tech surgeon?¡± He nods. ¡°Didn¡¯t 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. MAELSTROM¡¯S NEUROTECH SURGERY.¡± Yeah, because that¡¯s 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 there¡¯s 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 don¡¯t have much.... Don¡¯t have any creds, actually....¡± He waves a dismissive hand and opens the alleyway door. ¡°Because I¡¯m so curious as to why a living corpse showed up at my doorstep, I¡¯ll do this one for free, but I can¡¯t guarantee I can fix that arm. It looks like it needs to be replaced entirely, or, you know¡ª¡± He makes a buzzsaw sound and motion. ¡°¡ªcut off.¡± I guess that wouldn¡¯t be so bad. It¡¯s not like this arm is doing me any favours. Before I follow him in through the door, I pause and ask, ¡°So you¡¯re Dr. Maelstrom? Just to clarify?¡± ¡°I¡¯m Vance. But yeah, that¡¯s me. Technically you¡¯re older than I am. I¡¯ll have to get used to that one.¡± ¡°Thanks for your help,¡± I say. ¡°I haven¡¯t helped you yet,¡± Vance says. I follow him in the door, brushing beads aside. The interior isn¡¯t so bad. I was expecting something a little more white and intrusive, like a dentist¡¯s, but instead this place has delicate lightstrips cruising through different shades: pinks, blues, greens. It¡¯s a foyer, and there¡¯s 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. ¡°This¡¯ll 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. They¡¯re 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 can¡¯t even begin to name. There are two monitors: one for his computer and one showing security footage of the foyer. Seems he¡¯s had some problems in the past. Unsurprising. He starts typing. ¡°Relax. You don¡¯t 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. ¡°That¡¯s when I¡ª¡± ¡°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 up¡ªor 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 didn¡¯t know it was mine until that voice¡ª¡± He nods. ¡°The neural AI.¡± ¡°¡ªspoke to me. I also remember this city. It looks familiar. Feels familiar. Although I can¡¯t 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 that¡¯s probably because the scavengers brought them up first. I also remember these streets, the cars, hell even the people. It¡¯s an awful feeling. Time doesn¡¯t feel right. I don¡¯t feel right.¡± ¡°Old. Outdated. Is that what you feel?¡± he asks. ¡°Yes,¡± I say. ¡°Outdated, definitely. Like I¡¯m in the wrong era. And if you don¡¯t 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 they¡¯re only slightly yellow, well-shaped, though my gums are certainly more red than they should be. I look as though I¡¯m still in my early twenties, with a full life ahead of me. ¡°Seems your body¡¯s been kept perfectly preserved all these years,¡± Vance says with a glint of amusement in his eye. ¡°Nanobots, I¡¯d say. Looks like they¡¯re the reason you haven¡¯t died. You must have been in some sort of comalike state. There is a problem, though.¡± ¡°Problem?¡± I say. ¡°Which one? The fact I can¡¯t remember a thing or the fact I¡¯m hanging on by a thread?¡± ¡°Well,¡± he says, ¡°you¡¯re not hanging on by a thread. Actually, you¡¯re 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. You¡¯ve been shot quite a few times, and stabbed, you know?¡± ¡°But the nanobots.... Do they not repair the damages? I mean, I don¡¯t feel any pain.¡± ¡°That¡¯s the problem.¡± Vance turns the monitor towards himself and starts tapping it again. ¡°You don¡¯t feel any pain because your sensory nerve processor is damaged. Your dorsal posterior insula¡¯s disconnected from your primary operating system.¡± I cock an eyebrow. ¡°You gotta remember not everyone¡¯s 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 there¡¯s some internal damage done to you, you won¡¯t know, but you¡¯ll 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, I¡¯m okay? I¡¯ll live?¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t 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, ¡°it¡¯s not every day you meet someone with a mantisblade. Especially not one from your era, but that¡¯s 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 wouldn¡¯t be surprised if someone shot you and stole the blade off you.¡± ¡°So, you¡¯re saying I was....¡± ¡°Any one of those things,¡± he says, typing at the computer. ¡°I¡¯m running your name through the city database here.... Can¡¯t find a single thing on you, so I¡¯m 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. ¡°That¡¯s 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. I¡¯m afraid that¡¯s where my knowledge stops.¡± I sigh. The information has been more than helpful regardless. The rest I¡¯ll have to figure out on my own, and that¡¯s 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 isn¡¯t everything it¡¯s chalked up to be. Trust me. I¡¯m a doctor. I¡¯d know. One day you¡¯re cruisin¡¯ the streets of Neo Arcadia, lookin¡¯ for an easy target, or whatever the hell you¡¯ll 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 won¡¯t 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. Can¡¯t help anyone out with expensive procedures like this without expecting something in return. But I¡¯m willin¡¯ to cut you some slack, give you a percentage discount just because I like you so much, but I¡¯ll 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. How¡¯d 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. ¡°I¡¯m 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. They¡¯re 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, ¡°That¡¯s 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. ¡°You¡¯ll have to prove yourself, of course,¡± he says. ¡°But at the end of the day, Fingers owes me one. I¡¯ll let the gang know you¡¯re comin¡¯.¡± Then, as if suddenly remembering, he adds, ¡°Oh, and the procedure¡¯s gonna cost you five bags. Normally I¡¯d 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. It¡¯s embedded with a tracking device so it¡¯s easier to figure out where you are, and more importantly, where you¡¯re goin¡¯.¡± the ghost in the machine - 1.2 1.2 There¡¯s another person waiting in the alleyway when I go outside. A young, timid woman who doesn¡¯t 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. It¡¯s 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 Carter¡¯s Street. Across the bridge there¡¯s a series of buildings, one of which is circled in orange marker; it¡¯s a good distance away yet. That must be it. Once I get this sensory issue fixed, I¡¯ll 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 I¡¯m supposed to have been a part of a gang. What if I committed some unspeakable act and someone I¡¯ve wronged spots me on the street, ices me there and then? A person who thinks I¡¯m 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 isn¡¯t as heavy on this side of the city, and the wind is softer, nothing more than a seabreeze coasting up from the river. 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 don¡¯t 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. 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¡¯. That¡¯s 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. It¡¯s 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 it¡¯s attached to looks nothing like a mill, and neither does it look old. It¡¯s comprised of metal with some red bricks wedged between cracked cement. The front door looks like the sort of airlock you¡¯d 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 doesn¡¯t 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, I¡¯m a bit nervous. Has Dr. Maelstrom spoken to that man.... What¡¯s his name? Fingers. Has he spoken to Fingers yet to let him know I¡¯m 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.¡± I¡¯m technically not lying. ¡°Besides, I¡¯m not unequipped. I have¡ª¡± ¡°Yeah, we know,¡± the voice says. ¡°Ain¡¯t a very special strap to have, but it¡¯s better than nothing. Name¡¯s Rhea, yeah?¡± I nod. ¡°Yeah. Rhea Steele. I was told to ask for Fingers.¡± There¡¯s 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. There¡¯s an old washing machine next to some oxygen canisters up ahead, outside someone¡¯s 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. It¡¯s 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 who¡¯d rather take the government down than work a simple nine-to-five. Was I like that at one point? I certainly don¡¯t 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 I¡¯m having second thoughts about stepping into it. The thing might collapse under any sort of pressure, even from a scrawny 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 he¡¯s not looking for a workout. He says, ¡°Watch it,¡± then brushes me aside and heads for the exit. I didn¡¯t even realise I was standing in his way. Stupid me. That¡¯s 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 snail¡¯s 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. It¡¯s stiff and doesn¡¯t dangle, thank God, but I really should look into getting it chopped off, just for conveniency¡¯s sake. There¡¯s so much on my bucket list right now that it¡¯s nearly overwhelming. For the time being, I should focus on getting enough creds to make sure I¡¯m healthy. I can figure the rest out as I go along. The elevator comes to a screeching halt and the doors jerk open slowly. There¡¯s another corridor, only this time there aren¡¯t any apartment doors, and it¡¯s not so bright; there¡¯s only a single bulb hanging from a string. That¡¯s it. There¡¯s 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. They¡¯re 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. It¡¯s 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 you¡¯d 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, 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. She¡¯s 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, smoker¡¯s voice. Sure enough, he also has a cigar in his mouth. He takes it out, drops his feet, and dips his head. ¡°You¡¯ve got to be fuckin¡¯ kiddin¡¯ me.¡± ¡°You¡¯d 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 dunner,¡± 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 is bolted to either side of his skull. 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 er at least like to see yer on a list by now. Or''re you that good?¡± He grins, 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 can¡¯t 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 bull¡¯s-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, ¡°don¡¯t get what you see in this girl. But it¡¯s your loss if she ends up fuckin¡¯ us. I say we throw her out.¡± ¡°I think he can think for himself,¡± I say bravely. ¡°He?¡± The man chuckles, stands up straight, and then sits back down on the sofa chair. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. I look at the man in the middle with the long fingers. He¡¯s shaking his head. ¡°He¡¯s not Fingers,¡± the woman says, pulling the knife out from the dartboard. ¡°I am.¡± ¡°Oh,¡± I say. ¡°I know exactly what you were thinking,¡± she says coolly. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it.¡± She pats my shoulder. ¡°Nice to see another woman, so I won¡¯t be too harsh on you. Won¡¯t be too nice either. You wanna work with us then I¡¯ll have so see some credentials.¡± ¡°Credentials?¡± I say, confused. This isn¡¯t 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 I¡¯m like in action? Is that it?¡± Another nod. ¡°Bingo. Right on, Rhea. That is your name, right? I¡¯m talkin¡¯ to the right girl?¡± ¡°Yeah,¡± I say, not even bothering to mention my surname. It¡¯s 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. You¡¯ll figure out who¡¯s who with time.¡± ¡°Got it,¡± I say. ¡°Cormac, Vander, Raze, and you¡¯re 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 won¡¯t be needed. ¡°Don¡¯t care.¡± Raze quenches the cigar bud on his jacket and tosses it into the ashtray on the table. ¡°I¡¯m 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.¡± ¡°I¡¯m more for the air.¡± Cormac coughs, stretching his rotator cuff. ¡°Raze and his bastard cigar stinkin¡¯ up the place really does a number on me.¡± ¡°Pretty sure you just haven¡¯t had a shower in a while, Corn,¡± Raze replies quickly. ¡°Where¡¯s 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 isn¡¯t feelin¡¯ well. Said he¡¯s 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 I¡¯ve 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 isn¡¯t what I expected when she mentioned credentials, but to be honest, I¡¯m not entirely sure what she meant by that. ¡°Smell the gunpowder?¡± Raze says, scratching his fuzzy crewcut. I don¡¯t, obviously, but responding to that asshole isn¡¯t worth my time. ¡°So, you want me to shoot the targets? I¡¯m guessing.¡± ¡°Not just that.¡± Fingers pats my back and points to a large holographic screen behind. There¡¯s 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 you¡¯re new.¡± He chuckles. ¡°That fuckin¡¯ guy,¡± he says quietly. Fingers juts in: ¡°We¡¯ve been at this for the better part of seven years,¡± she says. ¡°Lost some people, gained some people. Grand scheme of things, we¡¯re 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. There¡¯s some silence, and Fingers continues from where she left off. ¡°Back to what I was saying: I don¡¯t just want you to hit the targets and call it a day. I want you to beat that asshole Raze¡¯s score. Two women in the lead sounds far better than one, don¡¯t you think?¡± ¡°You.... I¡¯m 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 Raze¡¯s score is 1748. There¡¯s no chance I¡¯m going to be able to beat that, not with one arm, and not after being inactive for so long. I don¡¯t even remember how to shoot a pistol, if I ever used one at all. ¡°If you¡¯re as good as you say you are then this shouldn¡¯t be an issue, right?¡± Fingers says. Raze steps up behind me and pats my head. ¡°Ms. Experience, ay? Let¡¯s find out how experienced you really are.¡± His voice is cold with an undercurrent of sarcasm. He grins widely. ¡°Oh, and what¡¯s the other rule, Fingers? No outside weapons?¡± She nods. ¡°Just to make sure you don¡¯t have some smart-lock software installed. You have to use one of our pistols. Understood?¡± Like it¡¯ll change anything. I hand her my pistols and she tucks them away in her pockets, but not before making sure the safeties are on. Can¡¯t be too careful. I approach the target range and grab one of the pistols from the shelf underneath. It¡¯s a basic A-22B Pulse, not much different than your standard Glock, only there¡¯s a bronze finish along the slide and the grip feels rubbery. ¡°If you wanna maximise your chances,¡± says Fingers, ¡°I¡¯d recommend aiming for the head. I¡¯ll let you know when to start.¡± I aim the pistol at the target range, feeling a strange sense of d¨¦j¨¤ vu, like I¡¯ve 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 isn¡¯t 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 hand¡¯s 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 target¡¯s head and pulls the trigger. I felt disconnected from the movement, like my body executed it on impulse. I¡¯m shocked to see that the bullet lands clean between the target¡¯s eyes. ¡°Well, I¡¯ll 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 take the shot but also land it perfectly on the target¡¯s 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¡ª 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 it¡¯s 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. What¡¯s going on? ¡°You sure she ain¡¯t 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 they¡¯re not smooth movements either; they¡¯re 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¡ª 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. Not even two seconds later the gun clicks again, for a different reason. There are still twenty bullets in the magazine¡ªI can tell because the exact number shows up on a miniature holographic screen below the sight¡ªbut the timer¡¯s gone, 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 yet above Raze. It¡¯s 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 doesn¡¯t. Doesn¡¯t even look at me. Cormac and Vander do, however, albeit grim-faced. Fingers approaches me. She¡¯s not smiling anymore. ¡°When Maelstrom said he had experienced talent looking for a job, I didn¡¯t 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 can¡¯t remember. That¡¯s sort of the problem. I lost my memory.¡± She snorts. ¡°You really expect me to believe that?¡± ¡°Scan me. It says I¡¯m supposed to be dead, right?¡± She smirks. ¡°I don¡¯t have doc-ocs. If everyone could see each other¡¯s identity, then we¡¯d 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 it¡¯s 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. I¡¯d pay to watch that again. We¡¯re talkin¡¯ professional-hitman level here, Fingers. It¡¯d 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 hasn¡¯t let up on checking the weapons for any signs of cheating software. ¡°She¡¯s clean, Raze. I would have seen it if she put a chip in.¡± ¡°Even if she did have a cherp,¡± says Vander, ¡°only experience can er make you shoot with that much confidence. ¡¯Sides it¡¯d want to be some pretty expensive software to hit right between der eyes, and you gotta ask why she¡¯d want a job with us if she can erfford that sort of crap.¡± 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. ¡°She¡¯s 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 can¡¯t lie to you, at first, I didn¡¯t 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, I¡¯m 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, that¡¯s clever. Definitely helped you break the two-thousand mark on the leaderboard.¡± Fingers¡¯ voice is soft and intense. She hands me the pistols. I didn¡¯t notice this before because it was so dark in the office room, but there¡¯s 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, ain¡¯t 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, wouldn¡¯t 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, that¡¯s all.¡± She doesn¡¯t take long responding. ¡°Oh, you¡¯re in,¡± she says. ¡°Like Cormac said, I¡¯d be stupid to let you go. Guess you can join us for a job tonight. See what you¡¯re really made of.¡± I smile with childlike glee. ¡°Thank you,¡± I say breathlessly. ¡°And yes. That¡¯d be perfect. What sort of job is it?¡± ¡°You¡¯ll find out soon enough,¡± she says. That¡¯s about as much information that she or anyone else will give me, and that¡¯s okay. the ghost in the machine - 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 wouldn¡¯t have been able to beat any of the members¡¯ scores, much less Raze¡¯s. 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 can¡¯t remember learning any of these skills? Shooting? Using the mantisblade? Understanding details about the city that anyone with a wiped brain would surely forget? It¡¯s like my memory¡¯s 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. That¡¯s 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. It¡¯s not large by any means¡ªin fact it¡¯s about the size of a call-centre floor, only without the chairs and corporate ringtones. It¡¯s 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 it¡¯s a security outpost, and when you jack your neural wire into the terminal, provided you have the right opticwear, you¡¯ll 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, it¡¯s also known as ¡®Dance¡¯s spot¡¯, because he¡¯s the team¡¯s only chemical expert, modifying existing compounds to enhance mental focus, strength, recovery, stamina, so on. He¡¯s 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 I¡¯m not quite sure what they used to manufacture here, and frankly, I don¡¯t care enough to ask. I do, however, care enough to ask about the job tonight. After all, I probably won¡¯t be of much use if I don¡¯t know anything about what we¡¯re supposed to do before we get there. I probably won¡¯t 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. It¡¯s 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. I¡¯m unsure as to what I¡¯m looking at, but Fingers promptly explains. It¡¯s a tech facility operated by the company Techstrum. I remember that name. I saw it on the billboard not too long ago. They¡¯re 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 who¡¯s been making the rounds for the better half of a decade now. He¡¯s 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 he¡¯s looking for is a data chip containing information about Techstrum¡¯s 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 that¡¯s 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. It¡¯s the sort of chuckle you¡¯d expect to hear after saying something very foolish. Did I? ¡°You can¡¯t 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, you¡¯re talking cyberware?¡± I say. She¡¯d 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 that¡¯s 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 doesn¡¯t 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 tonight¡¯s job is simple, something to really test my ability to perform. ¡°Your shooting is good, downright impressive, I give you that, but I¡¯m more interested in seeing how you deal with people. Not everything is gung-ho. ¡¯Fact it ain¡¯t much to what we do at all. We¡¯re 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, don¡¯t you, Mono?¡± Now I¡¯m 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 doesn¡¯t 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, I¡¯d put her age somewhere in the thirty-to-forty bracket. It¡¯s 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 I¡¯d like to think that she¡¯s wiser than she looks. How else would she have gotten here, running a team of criminals? ¡°Point is,¡± Fingers says, ¡°the person we¡¯re 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 don¡¯t think I¡¯m much for talking. The whole show I managed to pull off in the shooting range was a fluke, something even I didn¡¯t expect. There was no control. It was instinctual. Talking, negotiating.... That¡¯s 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, I¡¯ll let you come along, watch, see how we do things. It¡¯s important you learn for yourself how to negotiate deals because nine times out of ten we won¡¯t be with you. We all gotta do our part and, unless it¡¯s big money we¡¯re talking, you¡¯ll be doing it alone.¡± That¡¯s relieving. ¡°That said,¡± she adds, almost as if there¡¯s a caveat to the whole thing, ¡°you¡¯re not gonna be a stray dog either. Things get hectic, you and that sister-assassin arm will have to draw blood. It¡¯s rare, but some sellers don¡¯t intend to give you anything once the creds are transferred. Business for you.¡± Although the prospect of things getting violent isn¡¯t something I or any person in the right mind would want, emphasis on the right mind, I¡¯m sure I can handle myself, provided the last encounter wasn¡¯t just luck. Later, Fingers asks all sorts of questions about what I can and can¡¯t 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 don¡¯t know that either. One moment I was alive and the next I wasn¡¯t. As far as I¡¯m aware, my life started there, in that circuitery, as Vance calls it, because everything before that point isn¡¯t just a blur¡ªit¡¯s a black spot. Something cut straight from my brain, leaving only the ring-shaped edge. My theory is that I¡¯d been shot in the head, but if that¡¯s 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. It¡¯s 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. ¡°It¡¯s 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. I¡¯m the one that secures leads with fixers. Though I¡¯m 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. That¡¯s 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 couldn¡¯t wait to show up and see what the new chromie was all about. They¡¯re used to seeing failures, so you were a sweet surprise, I¡¯d 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, we¡¯re not good people. We kill when we have to. We steal. We hack into private businesses. It¡¯s not a life any of us particularly opted for, but it¡¯s what we do. Raze doesn¡¯t like to think of us as a gang because he sees something good about all of this. But we¡¯re criminals. There¡¯s no changing that.¡± I look guiltily at my glass of water and shuffle my feet. I can¡¯t imagine myself being involved in that line of work, but everyone has to survive. With forced gaiety, I say, ¡°I¡¯m sure you¡¯re not bad people. If there¡¯s anything I remember from my past, it¡¯s that this city is overcooked with inequality.¡± It¡¯s not really something I remember, but in lieu of remaining silent, I find it¡¯s 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¡¯, it¡¯s going on six o¡¯clock.¡± Then, as if suddenly remembering, she adds, ¡°You have a phone? Should¡¯ve asked this earlier but you really need a phone, and a new set of clothes. I can lend you some. It¡¯s no problem.¡± I was hoping she would offer something like that. Frankly, these clothes aren¡¯t my style anyway, less the possibility of every known disease in Neo Arcadia being prevalent in this lady¡¯s blood. I hope she¡¯ll 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 weren¡¯t 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 I¡¯ll 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 it¡¯s 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. ¡°You¡¯ll 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 I¡¯m an unexpected visitor. ¡°Something wrong with here?¡± I¡¯m not sure what to say. I¡¯m not entirely comfortable getting naked in front of someone I just met. Maybe I¡¯m overthinking. Maybe that¡¯s the least of my worries. ¡°It¡¯s not that. I just thought you wouldn¡¯t want me to¡ª¡± ¡°You really think I¡¯ve never seen a woman naked before? Get dressed.¡± There¡¯s that breathy laugh through the nose again, only this time it¡¯s more amused. I¡¯m sure she¡¯s seen plenty of naked bodies in her time. A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. A couple minutes later, I¡¯m out of the scavenger¡¯s get-up and into the jacket, shirt, and jeans. They¡¯re a little tighter than I thought they would be, but for now they¡¯ll 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. She¡¯s 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 it¡¯s 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 it¡¯s not for me, but for the private seller. Statistically, there¡¯s more haggle-room if you have a nice scent to you¡ªso 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; it¡¯s 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 he¡¯s 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 discovered what had happened the next morning when, while taking out the trash, she was startled to hear the garbage 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 I¡¯m 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. It¡¯s 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. There¡¯s 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 you¡¯re goin¡¯?¡± she says, waving a questioning hand. ¡°This is your ride, right?¡± I point, thinking I¡¯ve made a fool of myself. ¡°It is,¡± she says, ¡°but I¡¯m not driving. You are.¡± She opens the driver¡¯s-side door. ¡°C¡¯mon. Inside, now. It¡¯s auto, so don¡¯t worry that aimless little arm about shifting, know?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t understand,¡± I say. She pulls something small out from her front pocket. A key. ¡°This¡±¡ªshe tosses it straight into my hand¡ª¡°goes on the centre console. You don¡¯t even have to put it in the ignition. She¡¯ll start right up as soon as you¡¯re in the driver seat.¡± I stare. She can¡¯t honestly expect me to drive with one hand. Never mind that; I¡¯m not even sure I remember how to drive. ¡°You¡¯re sure about this?¡± She walks around to me, opens the passenger-side door, and sits in. ¡°Hurry up.¡± She shuts the door. The rain¡¯s starting to drizzle down now. I get a move on and make my way around to the driver¡¯s side. Once inside and I feel the seat warm up, I immediately get that familiar sensation again, as if I¡¯ve been behind the wheel far too many times to count. I don¡¯t even have to adjust the seat or mirrors because as soon as I press the ¡°start¡± button the AI embedded in the vehicle¡¯s 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. It¡¯s an alleyway outside a nightclub called Catalyst. Thirty minutes from here. Fair distance. ¡°I¡¯ll be your driving examiner today, Ms. Monorail Moester. Let¡¯s see how much of your past life you really remember, ay?¡± Fingers speaks in a squeaky, nagging voice. Let¡¯s 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, I¡¯m flooded with flashing lights: signals, halogen billboards, holograms, kiosks. I remember this, too. Pedestrians hop out onto the street, between the cars in the queue¡ªmen in kits ranging from fur hats to long coats to neon-coloured kuttes with punkish boots, women with tightly cut hair and form-fitting girl¡¯s-night-out dresses¡ªnot a care in the world. It¡¯s all so restless for a night drive, like there¡¯s some special event we¡¯re all lining up for, but Fingers tells me there hasn¡¯t been a single quiet moment in Neo Arcadia for fifteen years, since Techstrum took over. Everyone¡¯s 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. It¡¯s all a little overwhelming but I can handle it without too much of a problem. I actually find it a little exciting that I¡¯m able to hold my own. Fingers, on the other hand, doesn¡¯t seem all that impressed, which is likely because driving isn¡¯t 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 I¡¯ve 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 a wide steel door guarded by a freakishly muscled bouncer. 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. I lock the doors, but the jeep doesn¡¯t beep as I had expected it to; instead, the sidemirrors fold inwards, like the ears of a dog who realises through its limited understanding of human emotion that it shouldn¡¯t 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, approaching 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. ¡°You¡¯re full of surprises, aren¡¯t 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?¡± ¡°Who¡¯s they?¡± ¡°This person, this seller.¡± She puts the phone back in her pocket and stares at me dumbly. ¡°In this rain? No, it¡¯s 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. Maelstrom¡¯s medical unit, but I¡¯m surprised, not scared, to see a large shadow of man standing over me. It¡¯s Raze¡ªI can make out that resting bitchface even through his upturned hood. He has another cigar in his mouth. He¡¯s hunched so the rain doesn¡¯t quench it. ¡°Boo,¡± he says, his voice deep and imposing. I back away, wondering how he¡¯d managed to creep up on me without making a single sound. Someone that big and heavy, with the sort of boots that make resounding thumps, would surely be hard to miss. Fingers¡¯ grin finally cracks open into wheezy laughter. She¡¯s been holding it all along. ¡°Like a tiger, isn¡¯t he?¡± I nod. ¡°Yeah. I mean, I wasn¡¯t expecting that.¡± ¡°She¡¯s 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 haven¡¯t 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 ¡®e¡¯s¡¯ as ¡®eh¡¯s¡¯ makes me think so, and the way he rolls his tongue at the end of his sentences sometimes. It¡¯s odd. Another voice comes from behind him. It¡¯s Cormac, calling with an overly loud ¡°Hello!¡±, and Vander, who comes strapped with a small fanny pack. So he¡¯s that sort of guy. His lips are done up with robin¡¯s-egg-blue lipstick, and he¡¯s dressed smart casual, save for the raincoat. His slacks won¡¯t hold up, not in this weather. ¡°Wasn¡¯t 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 wasn¡¯t either,¡± says Fingers. ¡°Suppose she¡¯s shern herself then?¡± ¡°She¡¯s 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. ¡°I¡¯m 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 he¡¯s playing a joke, and in a moment I¡¯ll feel a bolt of electricity shoot through my body, but to my relief he lets go and stands up straight again. There¡¯s an uneasiness about his presence that I can¡¯t quite explain. I¡¯m sure it¡¯s 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. ¡°Where¡¯s 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?¡± She¡¯s 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; it¡¯s 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 it¡¯s fairly sparce. It¡¯s not hard to understand why. He can¡¯t sing¡ªhe sounds like a dying horse, to be perfectly honest¡ªbut 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. It¡¯s 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 mustn¡¯t 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. It¡¯s 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 you¡¯re 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, 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. It¡¯s 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. It¡¯s 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 he¡¯s of Japanese descent, although it¡¯s quite possible his roots could stem from anywhere in the Asian region. He wears a white button-up shirt, slacks, and suspenders, though he¡¯s got the sort of skinny-fat where only a belt would suffice. Around him are four bodyguards who all look identical. They¡¯re wearing black suits with red shirts, hands entirely cybernetic, eyes and mouths hidden by three-piece visors that start from their chins. They¡¯re sort of like masks, 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 they¡¯re 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 doesn¡¯t. 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 there¡¯s 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 it¡¯s 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 engravings¡ªserial 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 vibrate 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, it¡¯s a spoofing device of some sort, if I¡¯m understanding that clipped accent correctly. Sounds interesting, although I¡¯m not entirely sure I understand the function behind it or how it applies to Fingers¡¯ goal of snatching data from Techstrum. ¡°I take it you¡¯re Chinese yourself?¡± says Cormac, smiling. The man draws back, shuts the case, startled. ¡°My name¡¯s Li Wei. What you think? You trying to be funny? You¡¯re 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. There¡¯s no question about it. This man doesn¡¯t seem willing to negotiate in the slightest. Raze chuckles. ¡°No leeway, Li Wei?¡± Again, there¡¯s that cold voice, but I suspect the older gentleman isn¡¯t fazed. He probably deals with people like us all the time. His face flushes brightly¡ªthe colour goes all the way down to his bullish neck. He isn¡¯t 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, ¡°I¡¯m¡ªwe are¡ªvery interested in purchasing your product, Mr. Wei. And we understand you¡¯re a very busy busy man, so I want to make this quick. So.¡± She whips the cred chip out like a magician¡¯s hidden ace. I nearly expect her to ask him if it¡¯s his card. ¡°Four and a half thousand, just as agreed, all in this chip.¡± Li Wei¡¯s iris turns red again, scanning the chip. He doesn¡¯t 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 isn¡¯t really my place to speak. My heart pounds with adrenaline. I get the feeling things aren¡¯t 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, Vander, and Fingers. I¡¯m the only one standing out in the draw; I didn¡¯t expect any of this. ¡°You try to scam me? You fuckers. You make big mistake!¡± He¡¯s screaming now. Fingers scoffs. ¡°What are you talking about? You saw the chip. It¡¯s good.¡± ¡°I re-scanned it, you bastard,¡± Li Wei says, pointing the gun at her now. ¡°You swapped chips when I wasn¡¯t looking. You fast, I give you that, but you fucked with the wrong merchant.¡± Suddenly another voice joins the scene; it¡¯s 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. They¡¯re 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. ¡°They¡¯re looking for you. And they don''t sound too happy.¡± the ghost in the machine - 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 can¡¯t 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 he¡¯s 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 won¡¯t have to spend your last seconds realisin¡¯ you¡¯ll 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¡¯ you¡¯d say that,¡± Raze says, sounding as though he¡¯s 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 didn¡¯t 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 we¡¯ll 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 Raze¡¯s temple, and¡ª My arm jolts forward with breakneck speed, and before I know it the bodyguard¡¯s 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 Wei¡¯s 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 doesn¡¯t 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 another¡¯s from his grasp. In a fluid, almost serpentine motion, the steel limb retracts. My eyes follow it as it sinks into Cormac¡¯s arm, seamlessly morphing into place. He now wields two pistols instead of one. He fires both; one bullet pierces the rightmost bodyguard¡¯s 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 I¡¯d sliced, putting him out of his misery, if he¡¯d felt any misery to begin with. ¡°Bastards,¡± Li Wei yells. ¡°All of you. You fuck with wrong man!¡± He struggles in Raze¡¯s 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 they¡¯re so angry at me. Maybe my theory was correct, that I¡¯d been spotted on the street and someone from my past life who I¡¯ve wronged is hellbent on tracking me down, making sure I¡¯m dead for good. Raze grabs Li Wei¡¯s 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. ¡°Don¡¯t be stupid,¡± she says. ¡°Not like you to spare businessfolk,¡± he says. She pulls Raze towards the doorway, with more strength than I¡¯d 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 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 I¡¯d 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 they¡¯re 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 man¡¯s 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 doesn¡¯t 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 Cormac¡¯s steel arm, yank myself upwards, and slash at the man¡¯s 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 hasn¡¯t 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. It¡¯s the shorter guy from the circuitery. Shit. The pistons in the muscular man¡¯s 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 isn¡¯t any music. Only eerie silence, and the sound of my hot breath as cold air presses against my stomach. Blood oozes from the man¡¯s bulging quad, where my blade broke his skin, but there¡¯s something off about the colour. It¡¯s a strange yellowish green. Is this person human, or am I dealing with a bot running on hydrocells? ¡°That¡¯s 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. He¡¯s not like the others. ¡°If just anyone say a word I dun take their eyes off da body. I want you¡ªya 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, I¡¯m not sure there¡¯s 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 that¡¯s 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, ain¡¯t you? Big guy like you.¡± The muscular black man looks at him, still hunched in that boxer¡¯s 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, I¡¯ll kill ya, too. All you. Ya bastards don¡¯t 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. C¡¯mere ya green demon. Show me dah special arm, won¡¯t 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. ¡°Vitals low,¡± my neural AI says¡ªthat same feminine voice I¡¯d almost forgotten. ¡°Activating emergency protocols.¡± Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. 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. I fall, thudding something solid and flat. For a moment I feel the same as I had when waking up in the circuitery¡ªalone, 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 eye¡ªa blue glow. I ignore it for a moment and look up at the muscular black man. He¡¯s gazing down on me. He steps forward, and I see the shadow of Cormac¡¯s 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 I¡¯m lying on the hard case containing the RFID spoofers. The muscular man breaks free from Cormac¡¯s hold, removing his arms as though they¡¯re 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; it¡¯s replaced with rage¡ªpure, 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 man¡¯s 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 help¡ªif I do or do not have a suitable degree of cyberware capable of processing any integrated requests¡ªI 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; it¡¯s a smile that says he wants me to watch Cormac die. To watch him suffer. Cormac whips his steel arm up once again, blocking Nyah¡¯s 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 something¡ªnot 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. It¡¯s not. It¡¯s 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 bull¡¯s-eye, and it lands, with sanguinary grace, in the back of Nyah¡¯s fat head. He freezes. The joints and pistons in his metal arms spark and lock; it¡¯s as if he¡¯s 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 Cormac¡¯s 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 he¡¯s 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, I¡¯m 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 doesn¡¯t even manage to strike the gravel when it ticks off and¡ª 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. It¡¯s 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: it¡¯s 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. I¡¯m still not sure I¡¯ve 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, I¡¯m glad I¡¯m 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. They¡¯re 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, who¡¯s 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 don¡¯t know which of these weapons in particular is mine, but I go for the first one I can see, near Red¡¯s body. I go to pick it up but find that he¡¯s 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. But I notice something: the underside of the weapon has a tiny blue-blinking dot. In fact, as I look around, I realise all of their weapons do. Tracking devices. That''s how they found me. It''s best I leave them here, just in case that''s not the last of them. After killing off a guy that dangerous and perhaps high up in their own little criminal ladder, they would likely want revenge, as I''m sure many people would in this city. 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 don¡¯t move quickly, we¡¯ll 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 car¡ªit¡¯s too dark to make out the exact make or model, but it¡¯s clean and mafiaesque¡ªwhile 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 we¡¯re 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? It¡¯s 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 that¡¯s the last I see of Steel Moon. I really shouldn''t have let that short man go. Stupid. I¡¯ll have to think more clearly next time. The ride is painfully quiet for five minutes, but once things begin to settle down and we¡¯re a fair distance from the blues, Fingers turns to me, offering a smile. ¡°So, you¡¯re something of a netrunner then?¡± My heart skips a beat. I¡¯m not sure why but it does. The sudden question must have caught me off guard. ¡°The... spoofer? That¡¯s what you¡¯re 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, aren¡¯t 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. That¡¯s why they were after me. Because I... killed them.¡± ¡°You let the fat guy live,¡± she says. I never thought of him as fat¡ªstockier than anything¡ªbut I suppose he was on the larger size. I see the concern in Fingers'' face upon making this statement. It¡¯s a careful, thoughtful expression, and it¡¯s not for focusing on the road. She doesn¡¯t even indicate when taking turns. I¡¯m expecting her to ask if I¡¯m stupid. Straight answer, yes¡ªsimple yet full of complex judgements, somewhat ominous. But she doesn¡¯t. She lets out a deep breath, one that she¡¯d been holding for some time. ¡°You almost got my team killed, Rhea,¡± she says. The statement hits me like a truck. I¡¯m not sure what to say except: ¡°I know. I¡¯m sorry. I didn¡¯t expect¡ª¡± ¡°But,¡± she says¡ªthere¡¯s always a but in the grand scheme of things¡ª¡°you also saved us, saved that asshole Raze, too, goddamn you.¡± She chuckles. ¡°That throw.... I''m impressed. Your only problem is that you¡¯re 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? Can¡¯t 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 years¡ªyou pick up a thing or two.¡± ¡°You look much younger,¡± I say. ¡°Everyone does.¡± She shrugs. After the next turn, we¡¯re 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, I¡¯m sure. Trying to keep the conversation going¡ªsilence frankly disturbs me to no end¡ªI ask, ¡°Now that you have the spoofers, what¡¯s next?¡± She pouts her lips thoughtfully. ¡°Have something in mind, a way of securing more assets, and you¡¯re going to help me.¡± ¡°Me? Just me?¡± ¡°¡¯Course not,¡± she says, tapping her foot on the case poking out under her seat. ¡°You¡¯ll have these to help you.¡± I don¡¯t know where she¡¯s going with this, but one thing¡¯s for certain: I like the sound of it. code of consciousness - 2.1 2.1 It¡¯s still dark when we make it back to the parking lot outside the Old Mill apartment complex. Raze¡¯s 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. It¡¯s pretty much certain that my face is out there now. For someone like Fingers, it isn¡¯t a problem; she¡¯s accustomed to being wanted. But me.... Well, I can¡¯t 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. I¡¯ll 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. It¡¯s Vander¡¯s 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 we¡¯re back to the front entrance with the 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 mud¡ªand perhaps blood¡ªalong 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 man¡¯s 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 doesn¡¯t even look at us. And we don¡¯t say a word. Come to think it, most of the trip back had been completely quiet. Awkward, unnerving silence. There¡¯s 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 there¡¯s something different about the ambience. Down along the righthand side of the foyer, towards Dance¡¯s 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. It¡¯s 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 it¡¯s clear it¡¯s heard no talk of stocks or corporate lingo. It¡¯s 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 side¡ªRaze smoking a cigar while Vander balms his lips¡ªCormac, who¡¯s 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 red liquid. He tips it up to just below Cormac¡¯s neck, inserts it into his upper chest, and thumbs the plunger. Cormac groans. The man shushes him. ¡°Easy, big fella. Just a pinch. That¡¯s 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, y¡¯know that?¡± He rises suddenly, taking the syringe out. ¡°Alive, aren¡¯tcha?¡± ¡°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. I¡¯d stay off alcohol for the meantime, less you want your blood to thin out too much. On you, mate. I don¡¯t 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 widow¡¯s peak, the sort that doesn¡¯t 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. ¡°You¡¯re still here?¡± It takes me a second to realise he¡¯s looking at me. Then I recognise the voice. It¡¯s 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? You¡¯re 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, ¡°I¡¯m 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. Dance focuses his attention on Fingers. ¡°I hope all those chips didn¡¯t blow up with you. Vander says he had to lob one. Waste of a grenade, if you ask me.¡± ¡°Yer¡¯d have to be there to understand,¡± says Vander. ¡°Too much going on, quite too fast,¡± says Cormac, rubbing his chest. 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 what¡¯s next? We move on to the M-Gates like I said?¡± I twist my head. ¡°M-Gates?¡± ¡°Hearing¡¯s 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.¡± ¡°Why¡¯s 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. There¡¯s no response from Fingers, so I suspect he¡¯s asking me. ¡°Well, I¡¯m not sure.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t 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. There¡¯s a bit of shamefulness to his tone. How dare I not know such commonly known information? ¡°She stole it off a scav,¡± Fingers says. ¡°She¡¯s like the Frankenstein of chromies. Great shot, too.¡± He hums again, turning to the table and taking a knee. ¡°Aren¡¯t 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. ¡°I¡¯ll have to do up a new batch of meds. I sold some off to junkies. Bastards were hounding me. Had you guys told me you¡¯d intended on having a shootout I might have kept more around. For now, the old-fashioned stuff will have to dooooooo.¡± ¡°Can¡¯t you cook up a new batch?¡± asks Cormac. ¡°I¡¯d much rather not have to carry syringes around instead.¡± ¡°Well, hey, I¡¯m 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. It¡¯s got to go.¡± I look at it briefly, agreeing, then say, ¡°I know, but I don¡¯t have the creds to¡ª¡± ¡°I¡¯ll pay for it,¡± she says, waving a dismissive hand. ¡°I¡¯ll also pay you for tonight. Did good out there. That goes for all of you. ¡¯Cept you, Dance. I don¡¯t 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 don¡¯t 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 wouldn¡¯t be of much use on these jobs, anyway,¡± she says. ¡°Like I said, it¡¯s a change of plan, but we¡¯re still gonna hit the big league¡ªtogether. That¡¯s where the money is.¡± He scoffs. ¡°Why don¡¯t you get the rest of us to get the M-Gates? Kill two birds at the same time.¡± She shakes her head. ¡°No, it¡¯s not safe.¡± ¡°Because you¡¯re 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 with¡ªcheatin¡¯ that guy?¡ªfailed. Thought you¡¯d 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. ¡°You¡¯re right. But I¡¯m tryin¡¯ to cut costs here. The more we cut, the more you get paid. Can¡¯t blame me for trying.¡± He narrows his eyes. ¡°Right. Not tryin¡¯ to give you a hard time. You¡¯re smart, you¡¯re quick, you¡¯re skilled. But this¡ªwell, fuck, it¡¯s a good thing New Girl had her eyes open.¡± Cormac groans disapprovingly. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t 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 she¡¯s 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. That¡¯s what nearly got us killed. I knew there was somethin¡¯ off about her. Aim that good? Someone¡¯s after you, kid. I know it. Someone wants you dead.¡± ¡°Jesus Christ, can we just shut the fuck up for a second?¡± Fingers says. There¡¯s an instant of silence, finally. She takes a relieved breath, then pops the spoofers back into the hard case. She closes it and stands. ¡°I¡¯m gonna transfer the creds to your account in the next ten minutes. I¡¯m sorry I can¡¯t get jobs for you guys all the time, but I¡¯m trying my best. Keep busy in the city like you¡¯re doing, doing your sidebits. I¡¯ll 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 we¡¯re 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, ¡°It¡¯s getting late. Rhea, come with me. The rest of you.... Yeah, leave it with me. I¡¯ll 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 don¡¯t feel right,¡± he says. I might just do that if it comes to it. I¡¯ll keep an eye out for any fluctuations in my vitals. For now, things look okay. Only time will tell how long that¡¯ll last. The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story 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 Raze¡¯s ashtray. ¡°You... okay?¡± I ask. She shrugs, running a finger through her drifting eyes. There¡¯s a glimmer in there that looks like the beginning of a tear, but it¡¯s probably just water caused by the intense fluorescent bulb. ¡°Tomorrow we¡¯re gonna get your arm removed at Maelstrom¡¯s, then we¡¯re 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 there¡¯s a high demand for it in the black market.¡± ¡°So why don¡¯t 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 they¡¯re 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. A cyberjunkie. Like that muscular man, Nyah. His blood was different. Maybe there¡¯s a link. A genetic modification that allowed him to handle more operating systems than would normally be deemed safe. ¡°I¡¯m really grateful, for everything, Fingers. Truly. I also hope I¡¯m not, well, taking jobs from the others. You have a really talented team.¡± ¡°If you¡¯re 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. It¡¯ll 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 she¡¯d grabbed the spare clothes earlier. ¡°You can use my towel, the big blue one. ¡¯Less you care about germs? I promise you I¡¯m all clean.¡± She chuckles briefly. ¡°No, it¡¯s fine,¡± I lie. I certainly would prefer my own, but I¡¯ll have to make do with what¡¯s 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. I¡¯m 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 she¡¯s with another member of staff. They''re speaking a language I can¡¯t quite discern, Portuguese perhaps, and they¡¯re 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. It¡¯s 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 water¡¯s refreshing when I make it into the stall, shut the curtains, and hang my clothes up over the top. There¡¯s 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. It¡¯s 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 it¡¯s 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.¡± It¡¯s not enough to afford the sensory procedure, but it¡¯s a start, a good start at that. It¡¯s not long before we¡¯re 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 they¡¯re 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 I¡¯m 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 we¡¯re after.... Wow.... It¡¯s going to be a while yet before this team gathers enough intelligence to even remotely attempt to access their building. They¡¯re 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. It¡¯s a worrisome thought, but I do my best to ignore it. We cross the bridge, over the circuitery, and soon we¡¯re rolling through the street where Dr. Maelstrom¡¯s 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 isn¡¯t 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: ¡°I¡¯m sorry, the clinic is only open to bookings. You can visit our website to¡ª¡± ¡°Tell Maelstrom Fingers is outside,¡± Fingers says, resting her arm on the red-brick wall. There¡¯s 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 she¡¯s 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. It¡¯s 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 I¡¯d 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. ¡°I¡¯d 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 doesn¡¯t end up getting too stiff on ya, and you won¡¯t have to see me again.¡± A quick ¡°understood¡±, and then she leaves the building. ¡°I¡¯ve 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, I¡¯m 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 you¡¯re on your fiftieth smoke break?¡± ¡°Can¡¯t let people think I¡¯m delayin¡¯ them for somethin¡¯ small,¡± he says. ¡°Not that you¡¯d 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. She¡¯s thinking. The surgery is the same as it had been yesterday, though there¡¯s 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 anything¡±¡ªhe pushes himself away from the desk and slides back on the swivel¡ª¡°Rhea, you may sit. Fingers, I don¡¯t 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 I¡¯m 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. I¡¯ll pay.¡± ¡°That¡¯ll 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. ¡°I¡¯ll wire you the money now. That¡¯s not too bad, actually. That include a friend¡¯s 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 you¡¯re saying?¡± He nods. ¡°It¡¯s 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 who¡¯s good at findin¡¯ stuff out. I will say, though, it wasn¡¯t easy, and there isn¡¯t 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 that¡¯s more home than vehicle. The roof of the freight container is packed with satellite dishes, and the interior holds a bar of some sort. They¡¯re drinking beers, lined up as if for a school photo, but they¡¯re relaxed, smiling. Farthest to the left, there¡¯s 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, there¡¯s 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. Something¡¯s 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 shoulder. ¡°Look familiar?¡± The picture zooms out again, but not so far as to cover the entirety of the truck¡ªinstead, 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. It¡¯s 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 isn¡¯t 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 don¡¯t 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. It¡¯s 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 it¡¯s just a jumble of letters, and open it. It pops up on my neural display, but there¡¯s something different about the image; it¡¯s 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 doesn¡¯t answer my question. I ask him again, ¡°Who are they?¡± He shakes his head. ¡°Aside from this picture, there isn¡¯t 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 wasn¡¯t 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 city¡¯s infrastructure couldn¡¯t 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. It¡¯s all a bunch of abandoned infrastructure now.¡± Fingers shakes her head, taking another sip of her water. When she swallows, she says, ¡°It¡¯s 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 don¡¯t you reject them?¡± I ask, curious. ¡°Trust me, if I could kick them out and save them the pain, I would,¡± he says. ¡°But they¡¯re 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 can¡¯t have enough. They¡¯ll trade blood for scratch and wind up at my doorstep for the next fix. It¡¯s 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. It¡¯s 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 you¡¯d want to head out there.¡± ¡°Now hold on,¡± says Fingers, slightly panicked, though it¡¯s more assertiveness than anything. She dumps her empty water bottle in Dr. Maelstrom¡¯s trashcan but it¡¯s 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 I¡¯m willing to keep paying you just like any other member. Doesn¡¯t matter that you¡¯re new, know?¡± I nod again. ¡°I understand. I¡¯m not leaving, not for a long while yet. But I¡¯m 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.¡± She¡¯s right. There are still creds to be made. Only when I¡¯m financially stable and fully recovered can I even attempt to head out there, and even then, I¡¯m not sure how safe it will be. Dr. Maelstrom heads back to his computer and starts typing. ¡°As for your arm, Rhea, how¡¯s tomorrow at three?¡± My eyes flicker. I¡¯d almost forgotten about that. ¡°Yeah, sure,¡± I say softly. ¡°If that¡¯s alright with you, Fingers.¡± ¡°I ain¡¯t your mom, kid,¡± she says, laughing. Just like that, I¡¯m 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 didn¡¯t 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. I¡¯m hoping this job won¡¯t be anything too physical, or too violent. We¡¯ve already drawn enough attention to ourselves and to be perfectly straight the effects of last night¡¯s run are starting to dwell on me. Fingers notices my discomfort¡ªis it that obvious?¡ªand reassures me that we¡¯ll 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. It¡¯s beyond my comprehension, and there¡¯s probably a scientific explanation for it¡ªof course there is¡ªand once I get my priorities right, I might dig a little further. I¡¯m interested in figuring out who the people in that photograph are, sure, but I¡¯m even more intrigued to find out what exactly led to me ending up with all those cyborgs. Those bots. Those corpses. It¡¯s 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. It¡¯s 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 doesn¡¯t happen. ¡°You¡¯re looking at the picture, aren¡¯t you?¡± Fingers says. I raise an eyebrow, closing the photo. ¡°Can¡¯t stop thinking about it.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t 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. It¡¯s 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 Wei¡¯s 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. ¡°He¡¯d want to buy more than just a batch to make that believable.¡± ¡°You¡¯d think so, but almost everyone in Neo Arcadia knows the Chinese don¡¯t 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 hood¡ªher head must have been getting cold. ¡°If I knew, it wouldn¡¯t be very off-grid. Wherever it is, I¡¯m sure it¡¯s guarded and encrypted with enough netrunning software to protect an armada.¡± ¡°Yeah,¡± I say. ¡°Anyway, it looks like we¡¯re wanted. Our faces are out there.¡± ¡°Maybe briefly,¡± she says, ¡°but I guarantee you the feds aren¡¯t 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 there¡¯s dead bodies everywhere, goons dressed in suits, gangmembers outside? They¡¯ll be asking a lot more questions. Reeks more of a blackmarket deal gone wrong than a visit from thieves.¡± ¡°But surely they¡¯ll be looking for us anyway,¡± I say. Of course, it probably wouldn¡¯t 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, ¡°they¡¯d 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 it¡¯s 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 won¡¯t do diddly squat. Welcome to the real world, Mono. It¡¯s 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, it¡¯s 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 city¡¯s 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 isn¡¯t as busy out front, though it does have two bouncers instead of one. They don¡¯t 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 isn¡¯t 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. He¡¯s 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. What¡¯s your fuckin¡¯ name?¡± ¡°Rhea,¡± I say. ¡°It says you¡¯re fuckin¡¯ dead. You a goddamn ghost?¡± For a brief moment, none of us say anything, then Fingers pipes up. ¡°We¡¯re here to see Rico Prostov.¡± She folds her arms. ¡°I fuckin¡¯ know that, too, but that doesn¡¯t explain why your friend is showin¡¯ up as dead on the optic cloud. Fake ID, no entry. Don¡¯t 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 hasn¡¯t 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, doesn¡¯t say anything. ¡°You got a fuckin¡¯ starin¡¯ problem?¡± the big, black man says. ¡°Your friend¡¯s 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. It¡¯s a little eerie. ¡°That ain¡¯t no friend; that¡¯s me.¡± ¡°You?¡± I say. Fingers sighs. ¡°He installed a dual-chip in another cyborg¡¯s body, because apparently there wasn¡¯t 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.¡± ¡°You¡¯re the same person?¡± I say, speaking in hushed confusion. He¡ªthey, whatever¡ªshrugs me off. ¡°You want in, I better see some eddies.¡± ¡°You¡¯re 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 I¡¯ll 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. He¡¯s waiting.¡± The doors to the dayclub open, and a wave of pulsating colours and music floods out. It¡¯s 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 isn¡¯t 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. It¡¯s so smooth, so blended, that if you were to look at it for long enough you might think you¡¯re standing in an outdoor concert. The animation shows a vapourcraft flying overhead, along with birds, drones, moving steadily off into the city skyline. It¡¯s been a long time since I¡¯ve seen a sky that clear. I bet it¡¯s been a while since anyone has. Figures they¡¯d have to artificially cough one up for the sake of atmosphere. This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. 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 didn¡¯t 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. It¡¯s probably a bit early, because there¡¯s only a handful around, though I¡¯m 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 I¡¯m 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. There¡¯s another bar. This time it¡¯s 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. I¡¯m 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. There¡¯s an argument ongoing in one of the booths. It¡¯s the one Fingers approaches. I look over the bodyguard¡¯s 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 doesn¡¯t 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. ¡°We¡¯re talking a couple hundred thousand ¡¯least. All we needs is a bit of polish, and we¡¯re golden.¡± The gentleman across from him, who no doubt is a corporate suit, too, leans in. He¡¯s chewing on something, a piece of gum, I think. ¡°Polish? With what? Steel wool? If you think anyone¡¯s getting on board that ship, you¡¯re out of your damn mind, and it¡¯s not just your head, it¡¯s mine. Don¡¯t 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 you¡¯re iced, Rico. My men will come for you. Fuck with my money, fuck with my life. You¡¯re 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 doesn¡¯t say anything. Doesn¡¯t seem like the nicest guy, but that¡¯s 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. ¡°¡¯S¡¯all 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. ¡°I¡¯m hopin¡¯ I¡¯ll get the chance to tell you,¡± he says, then looks at me for a moment. ¡°That is... if you have what I¡¯m 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 it¡¯s 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 isn¡¯t 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 I¡¯m not exactly headhunting as is. I need money¡ªI don¡¯t 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. Can¡¯t let him think I¡¯m afraid, that I¡¯m the wrong person for the job. ¡°As to why I¡¯m here, I don¡¯t know how, but I¡¯m still damaged. I need some fixes. Some tweaking to make sure I¡¯m all good again. That¡¯s 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 don¡¯t 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 embedded 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 shouldn¡¯t 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 girl¡¯s 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 doesn¡¯t ask if I wish to allow it access; it does it automatically. I don¡¯t, 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. I¡¯m 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 you¡¯re 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 it¡¯s 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, Rico¡¯s eyes turn yellow, and he grins. ¡°I feel it,¡± he says. ¡°It¡¯s strong, too. You pulled the right sort of netrunning software. Packs a punch.¡± Fingers looks confused, as do I. ¡°That¡¯s it? Can hardly be that strong if you didn¡¯t 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. Can¡¯t 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 didn¡¯t 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 it¡¯s a hundred-eurodollar bill. ¡°Some extras I thought I¡¯d install for the road,¡± he says, ¡°because for this job, you¡¯re gonna need ¡¯em.¡± ¡°What is it?¡± I ask. ¡°Please, I¡¯m 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. It¡¯s called ¡®SomethingSpecial.mpz¡¯. I open it and hit the play button. It shows drone footage of a cargo ship entering a loading dock; it¡¯s 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 ship¡¯s stern, displaying encrypted messages that only the right eyes can decode. And they certainly are not mine. The ship¡¯s 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 top of one container, a jagged, abstract symbol that looks like a cross between a snake and a circuit board. This is no ordinary cargo; it¡¯s something special, alright¡ªsomething valuable, something dangerous. The kind of cargo that people kill for. ¡°She¡¯s a dead drop for high-risk cargo¡ªstuff that needs to disappear off the grid. Weapons, black-market cyberware, experimental bio-matter¡ªif it¡¯s dangerous and profitable, it¡¯s 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 don¡¯t need to worry about any of that. You just need to get into that container with the snake symbol.¡± ¡°What¡¯s 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, he¡¯s 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 doesn¡¯t answer the question,¡± Fingers says. ¡°What¡¯s 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 you¡¯ll never see what¡¯s inside the package. You don¡¯t need to. You just need to grab it, and leave. That simple. But don¡¯t be fooled by that video. When that was recorded, they¡¯d only landed it on the ship. It¡¯s likely to be lower down, in the depths, but I¡¯ll sort all that for you. I¡¯ll find out whether it''s on the deck or in the centre hold and make the job smooth as a baby¡¯s face. Questions?¡± ¡°Uh, yeah, I have one,¡± says Fingers. I didn¡¯t even realise she had already finished my glass of whiskey. ¡°You really think something like that won¡¯t be crawling with security? You think we can just sneak by?¡± ¡°Au contraire, my dear friend,¡± he says. ¡°You won¡¯t 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. I¡¯m 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 seventy-five thousand each.¡± ¡°Hundred,¡± says Fingers. He leans back, eyes wide. He cogitates, looks at her sternly, as if insulted, but says, ¡°Hundred 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 they¡¯re about to take off in that video.¡± ¡°Shipment isn¡¯t due to leave the bay until three days from now, early morning, which means you need to be there the night before. We can¡¯t give them too much time to do a stock count. They¡¯ll 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 doesn¡¯t really outweigh the reward, but it¡¯s 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 I¡¯ve 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. It¡¯s a strange, tingly sensation¡ªgoosebumps, 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. It¡¯s time to go. We¡¯ve had our discussion. Now all that¡¯s left is preparation. I can¡¯t help but shake the feeling that we¡¯d need more people to carry out this fix successfully, but given the inconspicuous nature of Rico¡¯s job description, it¡¯d 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 we¡¯ll 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. I¡¯ll 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. I¡¯d 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 doesn¡¯t get up¡ªor move¡ªafter 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 she¡¯s starved and we should grab a bite to eat before brainstorming ideas on the job. I wouldn¡¯t mind that. I feel like I haven¡¯t 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 doesn¡¯t bring anything back. It¡¯s a feeling deep in my subconscious, buried, layered with cement and reinforced with alloy steel. I can hear the voices screaming out, but they¡¯re so distant, so minute, that they may as well be silent. We stop at a small, corner-shop restaurant sometime later. I don¡¯t bother to take note of the name. All I can think about is food and water. I¡¯d 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 haven¡¯t known her long at all, but I feel if I¡¯m going to do a mission alone with her, then it''s only right that I know who I¡¯m working with, even if it¡¯s not particularly applicable to the job. Besides, I feel I¡¯ve been quiet all this time. I don¡¯t 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 aren¡¯t 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. ¡°What¡¯s 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 I¡¯d 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, ¡°You¡¯re 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, I¡¯d wager she¡¯s 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 that¡¯s a little personal. I¡¯m hoping your explanations can help me, well, remember something about my past.¡± It¡¯s a lie, and I¡¯m 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 I¡¯ll say is I grew up in one of the poorest complexes in the city. And where there¡¯s poverty, there¡¯s, 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 it¡¯s in pain, though I can tell there¡¯s a level of emotional discomfort. ¡°It¡¯s complicated. My parents, well, to put things simply, they¡¯re dead. Killed innocently when I was a kid. 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?¡± This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. I shake my head. ¡°No, I haven¡¯t. How so?¡± ¡°The people on the South aren¡¯t as, well, prosperous. Sure, there¡¯s estates with plenty of money and business capital, but most of the time, deep in the city, it¡¯s 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. That¡¯s where we all grew up. Not so sure about you. My parents didn¡¯t want any part of it, the riot. They weren¡¯t activists or radicals. They just wanted to survive. To keep me and my¡ª¡± She pauses. ¡°To keep me safe. But when the uprising started, corporations didn¡¯t care about any of that shit. They sent in their private security, their mercenaries. And they didn¡¯t care who got caught in the crossfire.¡± ¡°Those bastards,¡± I say. ¡°This world is so messed up, and for what? Wealth?¡± Fingers nods. ¡°Everything is cha-ching.¡± She makes a money gesture with her hand. ¡°Doesn''t matter where you go or what you do: end of the day, money comes first. Greed comes second.¡± ¡°Did anything happen to them?¡± I ask. She shakes her head. ¡°Rich faced no consequences. Know, I didn¡¯t even cry when I found out my parents were dead. I was moved to an orphanage until I ran away at seventeen with my sister. By then, I¡¯d already learned what survival really meant¡ªgetting my hands dirty, taking what I needed. Every con, every broken rule comes with a vow: one day, I¡¯ll make them pay. All of them. Someone will rip their precious economy out from under their feet, show them what it¡¯s like to lose everything. Someone who¡¯s had enough. Trust me when I say that.¡± ¡°So what''s stopping us?¡± I say. ¡°What''s stopping the people?¡± ¡°That¡¯s the thing about monsters like them. They don¡¯t just have wealth¡ªthey have systems, weapons, armies. The poor fight with empty hands, while they fight with everything they stole from us.¡± She pauses, her voice tightening like a clenched fist. ¡°Look, the past doesn¡¯t 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.¡± ¡°That¡¯s.... 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 didn¡¯t even know existed, stirring memories I couldn¡¯t place and emotions I couldn¡¯t name. It was like she was speaking to a past I couldn¡¯t 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. I¡¯m 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, I¡¯m going to research the area. The area that the drone didn¡¯t catch. Just in case there¡¯s some security outside of view. I¡¯ll 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. It¡¯s safest with just the two of us. Any outside interference, even from our own, well, it could end pretty badly for us. Even if it¡¯s 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 you¡¯ve seen this happen before?¡± She sighs. Crunch. Sip. ¡°All I¡¯ll say is, there used to be more of us.¡± ¡°Oh,¡± I say. "Sorry." ¡°You don¡¯t need to apologise for every damn thing, Rhea.¡± It was more obvious this time¡ªshe was mad. Not completely but partially. ¡°I¡¯ve 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 don¡¯t 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. ¡°They¡¯re special because, for one, they¡¯re 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 I¡¯m 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. It¡¯s 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. ¡°It¡¯s powered by a compact energy core, but the core isn¡¯t like your typical core. It¡¯s sort of spread out. Look, I don¡¯t know the ins and out of the things. Don¡¯t really care either, but it works, and that¡¯s 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. ¡°I¡¯m 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 didn¡¯t recognise the face of the man until he took a seat. It¡¯s Raze, and for once he doesn¡¯t have such a cold, soulless look on his face. He¡¯s 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. She¡¯s completely bald, shaved down to nothing but skin. I notice that she has no eyebrows either. ¡°Oh,¡± I say. Fingers nods, chuckling. ¡°Every payday it¡¯s the same. He takes her here. They live in a pretty run-down apartment around the block. Food isn¡¯t always great or consistent, he says. Skips meals so she can eat sometimes, he says.¡± ¡°And the government doesn¡¯t help?¡± She scoffs. ¡°Those pigs? They¡¯re the reason we¡¯re all up in this shit to begin with.¡± Raze reaches across the table and takes the little girl¡¯s 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. It¡¯s 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. 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 streetfolk who don¡¯t even so much as glance, too preoccupied with their strides, their commutes, their hustles, to give a damn. It¡¯s Dance, and he¡¯s got something tucked under his arm like a football. When he closes the distance, I realise, with curious eyes, that it¡¯s a cardboard box. It¡¯s difficult to make out what he¡¯s saying at first, but as we step out of the jeep, it becomes apparent that he¡¯s 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 layman¡¯s terms means he¡¯s done some chemistry and someone wants a taste. He pops open the boot of a nearby Reverie¡ªa boxy, rust-bitten relic of a car that looks like it¡¯s 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 aren¡¯t even secured; they could have very well shattered from the drop, and all Dance¡¯s 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 he¡¯s 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 doesn¡¯t 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 true¡ªsacrificing 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 he¡¯d cooked up a batch of virothene, which I presume is the medicine from the other night, the one he¡¯d 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 I¡¯ve 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 ibos¡¯ll sort it. Wastin¡¯ money tryin¡¯ to cure it completely, mate.¡± ¡°If you say so,¡± I respond. ¡°What¡¯s in the boxes anyway? They look... interesting.¡± ¡°You¡¯re 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 don¡¯t mean to intrude,¡± I say. ¡°Be nice to the girl,¡± says Fingers. ¡°One day she¡¯ll 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 I¡¯d love to learn.¡± ¡°Well,¡± he says, smirk deepening, ¡°this stuff¡ªcalls itself Lumina in the shops, but we just call it Shine¡ªain¡¯t like your usual junk. It¡¯s a neurotransmitter booster, yeah? Makes your brain light up like a Christmas tree. You¡¯re sharper, quicker, think you¡¯re 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, that¡¯s 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 city¡¯s laws are just guidelines for the rich. Shine¡¯s the golden ticket for anyone who thinks they¡¯re too clever for the gutter. Problem is, it¡¯s cooking the city from the inside out. One dose at a time. You¡¯ll see what I mean eventually, mate.¡± ¡°I think I already have,¡± I say, thinking of the faces outside Dr. Maelstrom¡¯s office, and of the story he told me about the scrublands. Dance heads around the front, hops into the driver seat, and says, ¡°Don¡¯t touch my doooooozies while I¡¯m gone.¡± He slams the door. I nearly think it¡¯s 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 he¡¯s been doing this for years, creating and selling drugs, well before she ever met him. He¡¯s 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. I¡¯m not sure if he¡¯s 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 Raze¡¯s sister, people like that vomiting man, people like me. Maybe that¡¯s a bit of a stretch, but the point remains: he¡¯s wasting away to nothing when he could be working on something greater, although I suppose he wouldn¡¯t 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 don¡¯t move at all; there¡¯s a little nook off to the side just before the entrance to the apartment complex. A tarp is sprung across it, and underneath there¡¯s a man shouting something, though it¡¯s impossible to tell exactly what until we get closer. He looks old, probably early seventies, with a receding hairline, and he¡¯s 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. There¡¯s a little hat which one might assume is a collection bowl at first, but oddly it¡¯s turned over, with eddies lying around it. ¡°Change?¡± the man yells, his voice worn and stitched. ¡°Change?¡± He repeats this. It¡¯s all he really has to say. Just another panhandler. Fingers tells me he¡¯s 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. Can¡¯t 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. It¡¯s just simple drone footage showing a cargo ship with dockworkers on board. However, after a while, I begin to notice things that I hadn¡¯t before. Cameras, particularly located at the back, centre, and front of the ship. There¡¯s 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. There¡¯s 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, it¡¯s 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, it¡¯s important for us to establish a path that would minimise the risk of exposure, but given the footage, there aren¡¯t many options. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. 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 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. There¡¯s 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. ¡°It¡¯s 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 they¡¯re 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.¡± She¡¯s right. I hadn¡¯t considered that before. Even in the video, it looks like most of the cargo is being hauled off. That plan¡¯s 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 they¡¯d be less effective and more prone to error. Navigation would be simpler. Chroma-Skin would be less detectable. ¡°Second to that, they¡¯re 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 can¡¯t 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 don¡¯t need to worry about rushing. We just need to wait for the right crate to come along.¡± ¡°Ding ding,¡± says Fingers. ¡°Tell me that won¡¯t work.¡± I contemplate it. It quickly becomes apparent that she¡¯s 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, it¡¯s likely there are no practical fail-safes in place. They can¡¯t 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 they¡¯ve overlooked one detail: they¡¯re too focused on getting the job done quickly, while we¡¯ve got time on our side. We don¡¯t 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. ¡°You can sniff the data from 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, exit, and make our way towards the tag containing the snake device, know?¡± ¡°Do you know what the tag of the device is?¡± I ask. ¡°5-22-9-12,¡± she says. ¡°Rico sent me the deats. You¡¯ll 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 I¡¯ll have to insert my neural wire into the spoofing device and then take it out at several points. That¡¯ll likely slow us down¡ªa lot. ¡°The Chroma-Skin will hold it,¡± Fingers says, as if reading my mind. She seems to have an answer for everything. ¡°We¡¯ll strap it around your shoulder. There¡¯s 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 people¡¯s 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. It¡¯s all so.... What¡¯s the word?¡± ¡°Unstable,¡± Fingers says. I shake my head. ¡°Nah, that¡¯s not it. It¡¯s more like... it¡¯s pretending to be perfect, but it¡¯s not, like it¡¯s 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, it¡¯s so much. You don¡¯t 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 they¡¯re manufactured somewhere in a lab or a sweaty workshop.... It¡¯s bizarre. I¡¯m sure it was like this back in my time¡ªI¡¯d be surprised if it wasn¡¯t¡ªthough 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? I¡¯m not sure. I¡¯ve 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 I¡¯m 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. I¡¯m drenched in sweat and the hairs on my legs are standing, prickling away at my skin like tiny needles. It¡¯s 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 the NACP.¡± Fingers looks at me sternly. ¡°Worked for them for ten years or so, part of a fast-response unit dealing with crazies, but when they partnered with Techstrum to develop a device that would¡ª¡± She hesitates, her gaze flickering to the ground before meeting mine again. ¡°¡ªcontrol people, he walked away.¡± ¡°In what way?¡± ¡°Controlling people? Well, it¡¯s disturbing. Supposedly the government wanted to use Techstrum¡¯s 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. ¡°That¡¯s sick.¡± She sighs. ¡°From what I understand, Techstrum didn¡¯t 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. Don¡¯t think we¡¯re at that stage where it¡¯s possible, but yeah, Cormac walked away after he saw the papers.¡± ¡°How did he get access to them?¡± She shrugs. ¡°Didn¡¯t 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 I¡¯m hearing. ¡°Do you think they¡¯re 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.¡± She¡¯s trying to be humorous. I can tell by her tone. ¡°The whole fix with Quillon Bennett, about retrieving the schematics...¡± I say slowly. ¡°... It¡¯s not just about making a lot of money, is it? Not just about getting schematics for this man, about taking a huge risk. It¡¯s about finding out the truth for you, isn¡¯t it?¡± Silence impresses itself upon us. It¡¯s so heavy I can feel the weight bear down on my shoulders. ¡°Good question,¡± she answers. ¡°Let¡¯s wait and see.¡± A smirk crosses her face. I decide to cut the conversation there. I already know enough. It¡¯s certainly concerning to hear that something like that was ongoing within the walls of the city¡¯s 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 it¡¯s 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 didn¡¯t, although the chances of that are unlikely as things stand. For one, I¡¯m sure he¡¯s 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 don¡¯t 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. It¡¯s 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. It¡¯s 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 November 2085
Isolde Crane promised her daughter they would go to the Luminara festival downtown and buy a stuffed bunny the size of a street vendor¡¯s cart, but promises were easy to make when they were months away, and when there wasn¡¯t 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 who¡¯d graduated with a masters in pharmaceutical chemistry, she couldn¡¯t believe that no one would hire her, that no one would give her a chance. She wasn¡¯t looking for anything special. Even a waitress or food-serving position would do, but the economy wasn¡¯t 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 a flickering neon sign which shone through the window. The apartment was small, yet cramped with mismatched furniture: an 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 he¡¯d 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 seven years old, and to Isolde, she was the most beautiful person in the world, even if she didn¡¯t speak or listen all that well; she was uniquely perfect. A knock from the door snapped her attention away. She thought it was the landlord at first, but after a couple seconds, a voice came from the other side, and she relaxed. ¡°I hope you¡¯re 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 didn¡¯t look too hot. He dropped the boxes near the sagging bedframe, and Elysia¡¯s 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 aren¡¯t lookin¡¯ too great, Silas.¡± He took a seat on the bed and scratched his head. Much of his brown 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. It¡¯s 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 rabbit¡¯s 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 didn¡¯t 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 wasn¡¯t often he got to do stuff like this. ¡°I really appreciate you, Silas,¡± Isolde said. ¡°I¡¯ve been applying everywhere and the landlord is still up my¡ª¡± 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 don¡¯t 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 I¡¯m 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 won¡¯t like what The Current said this morning.¡± He tossed her the paper but she didn¡¯t 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 had no choice but to sit down. This couldn¡¯t be real. No way. ¡°They¡¯re 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 they¡¯re down. 2086 is about to be one hell of a year.¡± She shook her head, got up, and walked restlessly around the room. ¡°No, no this can¡¯t happen, Silas. I¡¯m already knee-deep in shit. Does it say how much they¡¯re cutting?¡± ¡°It¡¯s 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 they¡¯re reallocating subsidies to Techstrum and military programmes.¡± ¡°Those fuckers.¡± He nodded and hummed. ¡°You¡¯re not the only one. People are outraged. Wouldn¡¯t be surprised if a riot breaks out.¡± ¡°Is this going to happen? Or is it just, you know, theorised? I really don¡¯t need this.¡± He sleeved a sheen of sweat from his brow, looking torn. ¡°The chances are high it¡¯ll take place. It pretty much always does. All really people can do is pray it won¡¯t 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 don¡¯t know what I¡¯m gonna do. This is.... Jesus Christ. Can¡¯t they let us just have one thing? Can¡¯t 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 there¡¯ll 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 they¡¯d 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 on in the city, the chronic inflation, the market drop-offs and large corporate layoffs, it was only a matter of time before they¡¯d hire outside help to keep the rich rich and the poor even poorer. Maybe if they¡¯d work on civilising the two sides of society they wouldn¡¯t have to do such things, thought Isolde, but of course, the government would seize any excuse to avoid digging that deep into their pockets, especially 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 didn¡¯t 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 he¡¯d pick up at markets, shops, and sometimes even junkyards. He didn¡¯t have to worry about missing bills or having a crazy landlord paint humiliating messages on his door. He was something of an engineer, although he¡¯d told her on numerous occasions that he didn¡¯t possess any formal training or education. She¡¯d known him for some years now, met him at a kiosk. He sold a lot of books but didn¡¯t read much, if at all, but Isolde loved to read, both fiction and non-fiction. Stuff like this, however¡ªstuff about welfare cuts, layoffs, and rising costs¡ªmade her wish she was illiterate. ¡°I don¡¯t 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 didn¡¯t 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 in his interior jacket pocket. He patted Isolde¡¯s knee. ¡°Whatever happens, I won¡¯t just let you end up on the streets. I¡¯ll think of something. I¡¯ll 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. I¡¯m not going to drag you down with me. I¡¯ll 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, I¡¯m a phone call away.¡± She turned to face him. ¡°Thanks, Silas.¡± There was silence for a moment. The sound of the fluorescent light strip thrummed in it. Silas stood up, put his beanie on, and said, ¡°I¡¯ll 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. This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. The door slid closed. Isolde rubbed her eyes. She wasn¡¯t crying; only tired. She grabbed the crumpled job applications and started piling them away into the wastebasket. She paused once she heard her daughter¡¯s 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 acknowledged that a girl like her wouldn¡¯t understand such injustice. Not that it mattered. 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 Isolde¡¯s eye. She kissed the top of Elysia¡¯s 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 didn¡¯t 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 emotional and might 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 shook¡ªnot with shock or fear, but with nerves¡ªas 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 didn¡¯t 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 wasn¡¯t 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 didn¡¯t even try to hide it. She was looking for two things: milk and eggs. That was all she could really afford right now; she had a budget to watch, and it wasn¡¯t getting any larger. Temperatures were in the low forties. Colder than she would have liked them to be, but it was late autumn. 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 bothered to clear. She had to watch her feet. This wasn¡¯t the time to add a hospital bill to her already growing list of problems. She cleared her throat, looking for the D&P sign, ¡®Dairy and Poultry¡¯, as it were. It wasn¡¯t a difficult sign to miss, because it was shabbier than most, with a missing ¡®A¡¯ that made it look like Diary and Poultry, but it never seemed to stay in one place, and this was an enormous market. It spanned more than a block, 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 last¡ªand 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. Milk and eggs. 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 of reach than 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 it. 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 was so... rigid and perfect. Inhumane. She wasn¡¯t looking into the faces of people who swore to ¡®protect and serve¡¯ but rather the dark, foreboding, controlling, predatory glares of the devil¡¯s 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 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 strip, and he bore a grin that was nothing more than a yellowing line of receding gums and brown tartar. 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 hadn¡¯t seen this man in years, not since¡ª ¡°Still hanging ¡¯round this shitbox, ehhhhhh?¡± He widened his stance, and she could see, between his legs, the barrel. It was swirling with bottle-green liquid. She was curious. That didn¡¯t 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 didn¡¯t look like any stress reliever she¡¯d ever seen. They normally came in the form of pills. But this... this looked peculiar. Isolde approached him. ¡°You realise there¡¯s a couple of blues right around the corner, right?¡± He and his cronies chuckled. He splayed his arms, as if doing nothing wrong. ¡°I¡¯m selling stress relievers. Totally legal. Nothing they can do about it, and we sure as hell ain¡¯t givin¡¯ them a taste.¡± ¡°That¡¯s liquid,¡± she said. ¡°You¡¯re 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. She¡¯d 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 wasn¡¯t 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. ¡°Also told you I¡¯d 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 is that?¡± Rhyce grinned. ¡°Cool, right?¡± he said. Isolde wouldn¡¯t say cool. More creepy than anything. He cleared 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 to 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 I¡¯m concerned, this is a cash-grab. The primary cause of cyberpsychosis is the neural overload caused by augmentations. Your brain¡¯s natural pathways are flooded with information, and when those signals can¡¯t be properly processed due to an overload or incompatibility with the cybernetics, it fractures the mind.¡± She sounded technical, like she had back in university. It was deliberate. ¡°You¡¯d need something that could not only stabilise the brain¡¯s neurochemical balance but also enhance its plasticity¡ªits ability to adapt to the new augmentations without rejecting them. The brain¡¯s 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, aren¡¯t you? Still talking like you have all the answers, ehhhhhh?¡± She scoffed and thrust the vial into his chest. He caught it with a lightning-quick reaction. Augmented limbs, of course. The wires glowed beneath his skin like pumped-up, bodybuilder veins. He tightened his grip on her hand. She jerked to break free but couldn¡¯t. She winced. ¡°Let go,¡± Isolde said calmly. ¡°Just relax a lil, al-rooooooight? Haven¡¯t seen you in so long, and yet you¡¯re still being a feisty diva. Little old for that, don¡¯t you think?¡± She laughed sarcastically. Up close, he smelt like he hadn¡¯t showered in days. ¡°I wish 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. ¡°Till you fucked off with my money. And now you¡¯re 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, rashed out with goosebumps, each strand of hair rising like a soldier preparing for war. Her fists balled, and all the sound around her dwindled to a continuous, high-pitched buzz. ¡°What did you just fucking say?¡± ¡°You heard me, vegemom,¡± he said, and his cronies laughed. ¡°You¡¯re angry because you took the hard life that leads nowhere. You could have been someone, but you chose to be no one. You¡¯ll never amount to anything so long as you¡¯re taking care 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 you¡¯ll 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. ¡°On your way,¡± he told Isolde. 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 milk and eggs. They were more expensive than last time, too, but she didn¡¯t care about that. All she cared about was making that asshole suffer. the weight of small hands - 3.2 3.2 Isolde never forgot that day. She tried to, but it lingered, like a bad cough in winter. A month had passed since then, though it felt like much less, and already people were setting up for the Luminara festival downtown. It was initially supposed to take place by the main bridge in the middle of the city, but the organisers must have changed their minds, because, once again, all the decorations, stalls, and projection rigs were situated along the bustling promenade. She noticed on her afternoon walks with Elysia, because sometimes, when the weather was clear and she didn¡¯t have any errands to run, she liked to take her to the nicer side of the district. It wasn¡¯t as clean as the north by any means, but at the very least it wasn¡¯t rampant with criminals, disease, and vermin. There was a park nearby. Locals called it The Glade, though visitors knew it purely by the faded metal sign that read Ashbrook Park. It wasn¡¯t large, only spanned about an acre or two, but it was enough. The grass here, though patchy, seemed to grow higher than the rest of the district, and the old trees¡ªtangled, gnarled, and thick with ivy¡ªcast looming shadows over the benches and cracked tarmacadam path. Birds chirped and seagulls mewed along the passing river. It was like music to Isolde¡¯s ears, because in such a bustling cityscape, this was one of the only places where she had the space to think clearly. No interruptions. Just a simple walk, hands crossed behind her back, kicking plastic cups and wrappers, wondering, hoping that whatever cosmic deity was above the clouds would pull her out of this hellish situation¡ªaway from her suffering¡ªand give a small woman like her a chance. The truth was that the effects of the government¡¯s planned welfare cuts were already starting to take effect on the market. Each day she saw her bank account dwindling further. Her next payment would suffer the same fate. But what could she do? Who out there would save her? No one. The only person she could rely on was herself. Elysia enjoyed coming to The Glade, too. What she loved most were the bunnies. Furballs that hopped between the bushes and across open fields, oblivious to the occasional passersby or the hum of a never-resting city. She¡¯d chase them, laughing softly to herself, her small feet skimming over the grass as she darted like a snow leopard, but it was all in good fun. Isolde had often wondered if they had been placed there deliberately, a small gesture of kindness to people who still saw life and potential in the south. Or maybe it was just that rabbits, like everything else, were a component of the city¡¯s underbelly. Either way, seeing Elysia¡¯s joy as she plodded along the bumps and hollows of the grass made Isolde forget, for just a moment, about the world outside. On this day, Isolde decided to have a little fun herself. She bounded across the grass with her daughter, arms raised and her face contorted into a buck-toothed rictus, mimicking the rabbits they so jubilantly chased. It was a kind of dance, one where Isolde didn¡¯t know all the steps but found herself guided by the rhythm of her daughter¡¯s laughter, letting the joy of the moment control her as they twirled and leapt together under the open sky. She almost caught one of the buggers; they were 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 saw¡ªand felt¡ªthe bunnies scurry under her arm, she listened as Elysia¡¯s pattering footsteps drew closer. Just a moment now, and... ¡°Boo!¡± Isolde sprang up from her hidey-hole and flailed her arms. Elysia bounced back on her bottom, a hint of fear in her eyes, but after a moment it cleared, and what followed was explosive, contagious laughter. Isolde lunged forward, grabbed her, and kicked back in the grass. ¡°Gotcha,¡± she said, grinning broadly. ¡°You might be The Bunny Hunter, but I¡¯m the master of the warren!¡± Elysia kicked her feet, then relaxed. She was still chuckling to herself. They lay in the grass, beneath the tree shade, relaxing, not caring about those who might be watching. When she was with her daughter and having fun, it was like not even God Himself could put her down. Isolde let out a sigh of relief. Slowly, she said, almost to herself, ¡°You¡¯re beautiful, you know that?¡± She glanced at her daughter, who shrugged with a faint, unwavering smile. ¡°Nothing will ever separate us, ¡¯kay?¡± she added, her voice tinged with glee. She could tell Elysia understood. A bunny scurried past. Elysia looked up, reaching for it. ¡°Okaaaaay.¡± Isolde let go of her, and she took off after the rabbit. She stood up, wiped herself off, and made her way over to one of the benches along the tarmac path. She needed a breather, especially after all that exercise. She took a seat, soaking in the sun, then reached into her pocket. She¡¯d brought a book with her today, A Calamity in the Coil by Arthur J. Spinx, a novel she¡¯d been meaning to read for months but hadn¡¯t yet found the time to finish. It wasn¡¯t a work of fiction, though one could certainly draw that conclusion given Spinx¡¯s controversial theories, but rather a dense exploration of human augmentation and the evolving relationship between the mind and technology. His most controversial belief was that a society failing to fully harness human potential by merging biology with machinery was destined for inevitable collapse. She found that funny, because everywhere she looked, with people rigged up to their skulls and down to their toes, she saw social collapse, not growth. But the author also discussed the potential of a new kind of society, where the boundaries between artificial and organic were blurred, and control could be redefined in ways that made the old system obsolete. Isolde didn¡¯t believe it was possible, not with today¡¯s technology. The problem lay in the effects of neural augmentations on the human brain: there was simply no way to stop people from going manic. Rhyce¡¯s proposed ¡®Ghostfire¡¯ was like many other failed products that promised a long-term fix but would eventually devolve into a dopamine booster that made people ill, not healthy¡ªweak, not strong. It was yet another cheap lie. The only way to fix the problem of cyberpsychopathy was to remove augmentations altogether. That would fix everything... well, would have. Looking around her now, it was clearly too late. She flipped a page, looking up from the book. Other children ran along the path, racing each other. A boy and a girl, no more than eight years old from the look of them. They were a good distance away, and behind them a taller lady, perhaps their mother, perhaps their nanny, yelled in a squeaky voice, ¡°Be careful children. You¡¯ll ruin your outfits, and we can¡¯t have that, can we? Look at those trousers¡ªgo easy on the grass please!¡± But the children kept running, chortling as children do. A bunny jumped out onto the path, and Elysia came out after it. The boy, who had been in the lead, didn¡¯t notice. When he did, he tried to stop but inadvertently skidded to the side. Down he went, like a tower of Jenga blocks, crashing to the ground with a startled yelp. Isolde closed her book, stuffed it in the pocket of her winter coat, and approached the child. ¡°Are you okay?¡± she asked, offering a hand. ¡°Don¡¯t touch him!¡± a voice shrieked out. It was the lady. She marched towards them, high-heeled hooves clacking on the tarmac, a heavy scowl drooping down her face. Isolde backed away and approached Elysia, who was still trying to catch the bunny; she¡¯d lost sight of it in the foliage. ¡°Control your child, please,¡± the woman said, picking up the boy. Isolde turned towards her. She breathed a singular laugh out of her nose. ¡°Whatever you say. Come on, Elysia. That¡¯s enough play.¡± ¡°Shouldn¡¯t you be at work, at this hour?¡± the woman asked. More reserved laughter. Isolde shrugged. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t you?¡± The woman held her head high, keeping her back straight. She certainly dressed the part of a pompous ass¡ªher expensive, perfectly pressed suit gleaming in the afternoon light, as if she¡¯d just stepped out of a shooting for the next 101 Dalmatians reimagining. Her perfectly coiled hair was a few shades too blonde, her makeup doing more to ravage the intricacies of her wrinkled skin than enhance them, thick layers of foundation caked in a way that only accentuated the lines around her eyes and mouth. The sharpness of her cheekbones, once natural, now seemed sculpted by years of too many cosmetic procedures. There was something unsettling about the artificial perfection she wore, like a mask that had become too tight for its own good. ¡°This is a job,¡± the lady said. ¡°Nannying spoilt brats. Not to mention, my husband owns a construction facility.¡± ¡°Oh, wow, so your husband makes all the money while you nanny? Great job. You must be so successful.¡± Isolde took Elysia¡¯s hand and guided her back along the tracks. ¡°Bit strange that, you know, you have to earn money on the side if your husband owns a business. Must be failing.¡± ¡°Better than being unemployed, isn¡¯t it?¡± the lady said, chuckling in that annoying, brusque way. Isolde turned, fake-smiling. ¡°Wow, you¡¯re nasty, aren¡¯t you? Isn¡¯t she nasty, kids?¡± They said nothing. ¡°See? Even they don¡¯t like you. Say what you will, but you¡¯re obviously not very good at your job. Now how about you scurry along and leave people be, yeah? Thanks.¡± ¡°Why are you letting your daughter run around in filth, anyway?¡± the nanny said in disgust. ¡°You¡¯re definitely a southsider. Isn¡¯t that right?¡± ¡°Wow,¡± Isolde exclaimed. ¡°I¡¯m going to say yes. Sure. Copy all that! Who woulda thought you¡¯d find southsiders on the south side? Now I understand why you¡¯re the nanny and your husband is the factory owner. Tryin¡¯ to hold on to any little bit of youth you have left with all that makeup to make him happy? Hoping he won¡¯t ditch you once he realises how ugly and downright disgusting you are?¡± People passed. No one seemed to care. The lady bent down towards Elysia and said, ¡°See, Mommy is what we northsiders call a ¡®bum¡¯. A leech, feeding off me and my husband¡¯s money. Don¡¯t be like Mommy when you¡¯re older, mmmmkay?¡± Isolde moved Elysia around to her opposite shoulder, away from the wrinkled witch. ¡°Don¡¯t talk to my daughter like that. You have no idea who I am.¡± Her face went red, but not with embarrassment. ¡°Just buzz off, lady. Out of all the places you could have brought these kids, you decided to bring them here. Don¡¯t act like you don¡¯t know what sort of situation people are in.¡± Her lips moved slowly over each word, as if they pained her. The lady scoffed, pointing to herself. ¡°The parents are only visiting here temporarily, and they asked me to keep them busy¡ª¡± ¡°Yeah? Then why don¡¯t you go do that, you¡ª¡± ¡ªbitch, she wanted to say but stopped herself. She looked back at Elysia. Her smile was gone, replaced with a shivering frown. Watering eyes. Curled brows. Isolde sighed. ¡°Come on,¡± she said. ¡°Off to the dole office, are you?¡± the lady called. ¡°Look, you don¡¯t know if I have a job or not,¡± Isolde said, skating up to the edge of the lie but not quite over it. ¡°And you¡¯re upsetting my daughter. I don¡¯t appreciate that.¡± ¡°And I don¡¯t appreciate what you people are doing for our community.¡± Isolde scoffed. ¡°Us people?¡± The lady waved a dismissive hand and rolled her eyes. ¡°Oh, don¡¯t act like you don¡¯t know.¡± The last few words came out low and threatening. ¡°You cost the city billions in taxes and yet what do you do with it? Spend your afternoons frolicking about? Sitting in parks we built, that we organised, that we funded?¡± Isolde couldn¡¯t believe what she was hearing. The fact that this lady thought the government was doing the southsiders a favour was downright ludicrous. If they were doing them a favour, they wouldn¡¯t be cutting their welfare so much. But the argument simply wasn¡¯t worth it; this witch wouldn¡¯t understand. She was brought up in a rich family, clearly. Isolde turned to leave, keeping Elysia close at her side, but paused to deliver some parting words: ¡°You shouldn¡¯t look down on people you barely know¡ªespecially those who are struggling. One day, it could be you on the streets.¡± She didn¡¯t sound upset anymore, just disappointed. With that, she walked away, her hand gently rubbing her daughter¡¯s shoulder¡ªnot so much to comfort Elysia, but to steady her own nerves. The lady yelled, ¡°Run along now. Back to your rut.¡± Isolde didn¡¯t look back; instead, she raised her hand and gave her the finger. It wasn¡¯t the first time she¡¯d met someone like that, but it was the first time she¡¯d met someone that direct and personal in their disdain. Usually, the northsiders preferred a subtler brand of cruelty, one that came in the form of quiet glances, passive-aggressive charity events, or complaints to the media about ¡°those people¡± on the south side. Not all were bad, though. There were those who genuinely believed in bridging the gap between the districts, people who supported funding for the south and spoke earnestly about fostering a sense of community between the classes. But they were the exceptions, not the rule. And even their well-meaning words often felt hollow when weighed against the daily struggles of the poor, whose lives were shaped by the very inequities those same northsiders rarely experienced firsthand. On the way home, she told her daughter to ignore people like that, that some grew up without ever developing any suitable manners for day-to-day life. And even though the situation was over, it left a hollow pit in her stomach. They retraced their steps along the promenade, intending to head back to the apartment, passing out all the busy kiosks preparing for the Luminara festival, when suddenly Elysia stopped. Isolde looked back at her, about to ask what the problem was, only to see her eyes fixated on something. She turned in the direction she was facing. She had been staring at the pier that stretched out over the sea. It was old, once part of a breakwater, but years of renovations kept it sturdy, with neatly decorated palm trees and those circular peace signs. They each contained the same stencil: a hand holding up two fingers with the thumb tucked underneath. It wasn¡¯t associated with Luminara, which was a New Year¡¯s celebration, but the older folk liked to stick them along the posts with colourful bunting to establish a tangible sort of peace, and it worked, oddly enough. However, Elysia wasn¡¯t fixated on that; no, she was looking at one of the carnival game kiosks that lined the parapet. The booth stood out against the seabreeze and the chatter of the crowd. It was the brightest of the lot, a mix of rainbow-filtering LEDs, and it had a popcorn and cotton-candy stand out front. Children lined up with their parents for a taste. That wasn¡¯t what Elysia was focused on either. Beyond the stands, lined up in the back row of the kiosk, there were plush prizes, large and bulky, each resembling an animal: monkeys, bears, pandas. Isolde couldn''t spot any bunnies¡ªlikely hidden by the angle¡ªbut, from what she could see, things looked magnificent. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. She patted Elysia¡¯s back, feeling a bit disheartened. She¡¯d made a promise, and it hurt that she couldn¡¯t follow up on it. ¡°Tomorrow,¡± Isolde said, smiling faintly. Elysia looked up at her, curious. It was difficult to explain to a child that sometimes money was a problem. Isolde sighed. ¡°You excited?¡± Elysia nodded so rapidly she thought her head might fall off. Isolde smirked. ¡°Well, okay then.¡± They continued on their way back home. When they got to the apartment complex and walked across the busy corners, gyms, shooting ranges, and drugged-up parties settling along the ledges of the squared-in courtyard, Isolde saw the same words, RENT IS DUE, written across her door in red paint, only now it seemed to have sunk into the metal and was beginning to peel off in frayed, jagged edges. She slammed it with her fist. It hurt a lot. Despite this, the mark was fairly stern on staying; there was nothing she could do to get rid of it, and she hated that with every fibre of her being. Her frustration couldn¡¯t change that bloody outcropping any more than a storm could reshape a mountain beneath it. She had to be strong, but life was making that very difficult. Everywhere she looked was a constant reminder of her inevitable fate: that she, too, would end up on the streets, with these crooks, and her daughter, oh sweet Elysia, would be subjected to the same misery. It wasn¡¯t fair. She didn¡¯t want that for her. No mother did. Hell, Isolde wouldn¡¯t wish it upon that asshole Rhyce or that wicked witch in the park. She looked back at the walkway leading up to her apartment door, at the people around her. A few were sprawled on the cracked concrete near the steps, their eyes unfocused, faces slack with the dull haze of whatever substances they¡¯d ingested. Others sat by the low, rusted edges, their heads hanging, like disconnected androids, ruddy faces sinking with the same drowsiness that was suffocating this place. And the smell: it never changed: stale sweat and burned rubber, the kind of stench you¡¯d expect from a workshop, only there was neither work nor shop for ten thousand square feet. She had to get out of here. No, she would get out of here. For her daughter¡¯s sake. The first thing she did when she headed inside her apartment was check her emails. She hoped she might have gotten a response by now, by some company out there, but looking through the list, all she saw were the same generic automated rejection letters from no-reply domains. She checked her phone for any text messages, or perhaps missed calls with voicemails promising interviews, but there was nothing. Not a single thing. She was used to it at this point; it was routine. She cooked herself and Elysia some eggs and chicken for dinner, served with two glasses of milk. She let her daughter have a bath first and then, when she was finished, she hopped in after her. She always let her daughter go first because Elysia didn¡¯t like sharing bathwater, and Isolde preferred to cut costs where she could. After that, she spent the rest of the evening searching for jobs. It seemed like every day there was a new batch of opportunities. The routine was the same: read the job description, customise the resume to match, write a cover letter, and hit ¡®Submit¡¯. The process would repeat itself all night long, until Isolde¡¯s head was sagging and her eyes were getting heavy. She¡¯d stayed up particularly late on this night, well past 10 P.M., until a sharp, whistling text snapped her back to focus. She thought this was finally it. A job interview, an opportunity. However, when she picked up the phone, heart pounding, all she saw was a message from Silas Harbor. She groaned but couldn¡¯t be mad. This was one of the only people who didn¡¯t treat her like garbage. She opened the text. ¡®I have a surprise for u. Swing by the pier tomorrow around 8am. Booth 7 :)¡¯ She was curious enough to ask, but she didn¡¯t. Instead, she smiled, thinking he had likely gotten another batch of books, blankets, or something else she was genuinely grateful for, though it wouldn''t exactly resolve her issue. Still, she typed: ¡®sure thing :P¡¯ and put her phone down. She had a whole list of businesses written on a piece of paper; she¡¯d tried calling them about job openings, but every time they told her to apply on the website. She crumpled the paper and tossed it into the wastebasket, then shut the computer down, causing the room to go completely dark. She noticed, however, light creeping underneath her daughter¡¯s door. It was so late. What was she doing up? It wasn¡¯t like her to stay up much past dark, because she liked to wake up early to work on her drawings. It was funny: God had made up for inability to speak by granting her the sort of artistic rigor that some creators could only dream of, and Isolde had Blu-Tacked her pictures to the fridge, thorough sketches of animals, houses, and gardens. Isolde liked to think the morning time sparked her inner creativity, because that¡¯s when the complex was at its quietest, and she could listen to the dawn chorus guide her small hands. Isolde pressed the scanner and watched as the door slid open. Elysia was awake alright, perched cross-legged on the narrow cot that served as both a bed and a seat. Her drawings were stacked neatly under the rusted metal desk that dominated one corner of the room. The desk¡¯s surface was scratched and dented, its built-in holo-projector flickering in standby mode. The room was tiny, something fitting for her daughter¡¯s size, barely wide enough for Isolde to stretch her arms. Pale, glitching light strips ran along the ceiling, their dim glow casting a cold, sterile hue over the scuffed walls. Elysia¡¯s few belongings were crammed into a recessed storage nook by the cot, its sliding cover perpetually stuck half-open. A single vent above her bed hummed, struggling to pump recycled air that carried the faint tang of rust and ozone. A cracked window with reinforced plexiglass overlooked the megacity, but the grime streaking its surface dulled the vibrant glow to a muted haze. Isolde had offered Elysia to sleep in the foyer with her, and she had tried, but every time she went back to her room. Perhaps it was Isolde¡¯s breathing, perhaps she just didn¡¯t like the company. Isolde had also offered to swap and sleep in the tiny room instead, but Elysia found the size of the foyer to be quite frightening. It was safe to say she had grown accustomed to this little spot. Tonight, however, she buried her head in her arms, pressing against the wall. ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± Isolde said, her voice tender. She sat next to Elysia, massaging her back. Elysia looked up at her. She wasn¡¯t crying, didn¡¯t even have any tear marks. ¡°You¡¯re up so late,¡± Isolde said. Elysia shrugged, looking at her feet. She pulled her arms out, revealing the miniature rabbit doll Silas had gotten her. She flapped its arms with her forefingers. ¡°Is it about today?¡± Isolde asked. ¡°About that lady?¡± Once again, all Elysia could do was shrug. ¡°If you¡¯re nervous about the festival tomorrow, don¡¯t be. I... I¡¯ll figure things out. This is nothing. Really.¡± Nothing now, not even a shrug. That wasn¡¯t it either. There was only one thing she could do. Isolde leaned forward, not needing to step off the bed, and grabbed Elysia¡¯s artbook off the desk. She picked one of her pens up off the carpet, opened the artbook to a clear page, and handed it to her. ¡°Write,¡± she said softly. Elysia, who hadn¡¯t taken her eyes off the rabbit doll the entire time, grabbed the artbook and pen, scribbling something. Isolde waited; she got a nasty little tickle in her throat that was making her cough. It was nothing, just nerves. Each time she covered her mouth, in the slight chance it was something infectious. Elysia finished writing and showed it to her mother. The words, simple yet heavy, read, in her perfect, smooth letters: I love you Isolde stared at the writing for what must have been a minute straight. She broke the silence with a single question: ¡°Can I keep this?¡± Another shrug. Isolde tore the paper out, then pulled her daughter into a hug, kissing her on the head, rubbing it gently. ¡°I love you, too, but I need you to go to sleep now, ¡¯kay?¡± Elysia nodded and pulled the covers towards her before slipping underneath. Isolde switched off the light, wished her goodnight, and headed over to the sagging bed in the foyer, sprawling across it. The frame squeaked despite her light weight. She folded the paper and then pulled out her wallet, placing it inside, making it feel heavy and rich in her palm. She tugged the rough, raggedy blanket across her body. It was scratchy and frayed, one of the few Silas had picked up at the market. It would do. Isolde slept dreamlessly. The next day, she woke up bright and early, right at the crack of dawn. She brushed her teeth, had a glass of orange juice, and sprayed on some cheap Vex perfume. It was her favourite, because it smelled like bergamot and pink pepper. She¡¯d been wearing it for the past five years; the bottle was so large that it still had plenty left. After that, she grabbed her coat, told Elysia not to answer the door to anybody, as she often did, and journeyed into the city, heading for the promenade by the seaside. Normally she would have taken the public tram, but that cost fifteen eddies a trip, money she couldn¡¯t spare, so she opted to walk instead. It took longer, but she told herself the exercise was good for her. Besides, the fresh morning air by the seaside was one of the few luxuries she could enjoy for free. She wasn¡¯t sure how or where the booths were labelled when she got to the early festival preparations. She didn¡¯t have to be, because unlike other vendors, Silas always managed to get the same spot every year. It was on the pier, near the very end, right by The Whale¡ªa large mechanical sculpture that had long since been converted into a stage for the Luminara festivities. Everything from speeches, plays, and firework arts were held here. Its once-sleek, industrial body was now a hulking mass of patchy paintwork and loose screws, a giant, battered beast of twisted steel and corroded plates. Its rusted spine arched into the sky like the bones of an ancient leviathan, bearing a cyclorama that read HAPPY LUMINARA 2086! with balloons scattered from corner to corner. The beast¡¯s hollow eyes acted as stage lights, and while they were turned off for now, she knew they could get bright well past dark, often lighting up the whole pier. It was a hallmark of the district, often inviting tourists, but lately there was an unsettling stillness in the air, as if The Whale held its breath, waiting for someone to come along, an officer perhaps, and ruin the performance. Isolde stuffed her hand deep in her pocket, shivering in the icy morning gust, hurrying along the dock, even though she was in no rush. She was right on time according to her phone. Sure enough, she saw Silas laying down books, while all the other vendors hadn¡¯t even shown up. She slowed down, wanting to surprise him. However, right before she could get the jump on him, he said, without turning, ¡°Bergamot. Like early autumn, like late winter.¡± She looked at him dumbly as he turned, not sure what to say. She smiled. ¡°Can¡¯t get anything past you, can I? You getting an early start on the festival?¡± He stood up and started placing more books into the smaller, neatly squared-together boxes along the kiosk. It was a series of foldable tables set up to run all the way down to The Whale, with a tarp overhead that hung loosely, protecting the merchandise from the occasional drizzle. There was still so much to fill, and he hadn¡¯t even started on the tools. Those were stacked underneath: makeshift hammers, drills, and a handful of battered spanners. It was the kind of messy only Silas could make sense of. ¡°I might have overstocked this year,¡± he said. ¡°But I heard it¡¯s gonna be a busy one, especially given the recent changes.¡± ¡°I¡¯m guessing you¡¯ve had to increase your prices, too?¡± He shook his head, still piling the books away. ¡°Not yet. The good thing about selling books is bundling. I can buy a bunch for reduced prices and resell them at normal, if not slightly lower, rates and still make some profit. Though, heh, sometimes the kids swing by and nick a comic. You know the sort. Kids will be kids.¡± ¡°Not even just kids,¡± she said. ¡°It¡¯s the adults you have to worry about.¡± He chuckled. ¡°Have a run-in?¡± Isolde folded her arms and clicked her teeth. ¡°Just some bitch at the park, nothing new.¡± Another chuckle. He picked up another set of books and organised them into a box. He read the author names, matching them up. ¡°Just remember somethin¡¯.¡± ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± Isolde asked. ¡°No matter how much people try to put you down,¡± he said, ¡°remember you¡¯re a good person. God knows this city could use more of those. Eventually, maybe not 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 doesn¡¯t seem that way, but my gut tells me it¡¯ll happen. Know that?¡± ¡°You¡¯re a hopeful man,¡± Isolde said cheeringly. ¡°People like us, all we can really do is hope, right? Anyway, enough about that. How¡¯re you holdin¡¯ up, Isolde?¡± She let out a long, chilly breath. ¡°Hangin¡¯ on, dear friend. Hangin¡¯ on as hard as I bloody well can. But what¡¯s this about? The text you sent me near midnight?¡± He smiled warmly, filling up another box. He clapped his hands together and walked around the kiosk. He reached under one of the tables, pulled out a drawer, and grabbed something. It was an envelope. He strode over to Isolde with his chin held high, like he was proud, only she didn¡¯t understand what he was so proud of. He handed her the envelope, and she noticed it was addressed to her name. She got a bad feeling. Her eyes flicked to meet his. ¡°Silas, if this is money, then¡ª¡± He raised a finger to his lips, shushing her. ¡°Just open it,¡± he said quietly, and then returned to his books. Confused, but curious, she opened the letter slowly, feeling her heart begin to beat faster. What could it be? Who could it be from? As she unfolded the paper, revealing the handwritten address at the top in blue ink¡ª107 Crevalle Est.¡ªher eyes drifted to the bottom, and a sharp laugh escaped her lips. But this humorous sensation didn¡¯t last very long. Oh no. As she stared at the paper, her eyes watered, her lips quivered, and a warmth began to spread across her skin, replacing the coldness that had taken hold for so long.... Then the tears broke free. No, they didn¡¯t just break¡ªthey swept down her cheeks with all the gush of a busted runnel, while thin globs of snot slipped from her nostrils, as if she was a child scraping her knee in a school playground, but she was a grown woman, and although she felt something sharp, it certainly was not pain. At the bottom of the letter, the words, so elegant and freeing, read: You start Monday, 9am. Best hopes and dreams, Your boss Lucian. Silas dropped all his books and stepped forward, pulling her into a hug. It didn¡¯t take any coercion whatsoever; she sank into his arms, holding on tight, crying into his shoulder and not saying a word. ¡°I thought it would be better to show you in person,¡± he said, ¡°but you¡¯re starting to make me feel bad.¡± He patted her back; she felt so fragile in his grasp, as if she might break. ¡°I promise you,¡± Isolde said, her voice muffled against his shoulder, ¡°I will never forget this.¡± He broke the hug, reached around the back of his kiosk, and pulled out a handful of tissues. He handed them to her and she wiped her eyes and nose. ¡°Made some phone calls, talked to some old friends. One thing led to another. The only catch is that this is a kitchen porter position in the north.¡± She shook, not giving a damn. ¡°I don¡¯t care if it was on Mars! This changes everything. You have no idea how much this means to me. You¡¯ve saved me, Silas, and I¡¯m forever in your debt.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t owe me anything,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯m just glad I can help out where I can. But... there is one thing I¡¯d like you to do for me.¡± Her eyes flew wide. ¡°Yes, anything. What is it?¡± He placed a hand on her shoulder, leaning against the table with the other. ¡°When you show up at the festival tonight, I don¡¯t want you to worry about that damn landlord or those damn budget cuts or those damn rising prices. I want you and your daughter to have fun. This is a new year, a new you, and, hopefully, a new life. That fair?¡± She grinned, pulling him into another hug. ¡°You have my word,¡± she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Above them, a flock of crows took to the sky, their dark shapes cutting across the horizon as they soared over the endless sealine, fading into the golden light of the rising sun. the weight of small hands - 3.3 3.3 It turned out that the rumours Silas heard were true. This year¡¯s Luminara festival was the busiest Isolde had seen since she first arrived in Neo Arcadia in 2076. Navigating through the crowd wasn¡¯t an easy task, especially with her daughter clutching to her side, but she¡¯d been so relieved following her discussion with Silas that she barely noticed. It was a little past five o¡¯clock in the afternoon, but already the sky was getting dark with faint, shimmering specks emerging and blossoming against the encroaching vastness of deep space. 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 gowns, and others juggled torches, though the flames were artificial, creating beautiful cascades of neon that shimmered like liquid rainbow. 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 way¡ªLord knew he would need it on a night like this¡ªbut, 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 vendor¡¯s 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. ¡°Yes¡ªwe do. How did you¡ª¡± 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 didn¡¯t even notice it 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¡ª¡± ¡°Listen, I¡¯m doing you a favour here by pre-selecting the prize,¡± he said. ¡°That¡¯ll cost extra. And cash only, no electronic transfer.¡± He tapped the sign that confirmed the payment method. ¡°Three coins, now hurry up. There¡¯s a line behind you.¡± Isolde didn¡¯t like the idea of paying extra, but she decided it wasn¡¯t 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 game¡¯s 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 distance. He stepped away to collect the neon rings left behind by the last player, speaking over his shoulder as he worked. ¡°You¡¯ve got six rings. Toss them from where you¡¯re 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, I¡¯ll tell you to get a move on,¡± he said, handing her the rings. ¡°But, technically, there ain¡¯t. Just don¡¯t 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 couldn¡¯t 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 weren¡¯t 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 wouldn¡¯t 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, 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 the 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. She¡¯d have to guess, and not only that: she¡¯d 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, and counted down from three before tossing. She missed. Frankly, it didn¡¯t even come close. The crowd oohed. ¡°Gonna need you to speed it up,¡± the man said, leaning on 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 stake¡ªand perhaps it meant very little to your average parent, but to her, she would climb the mountain of hell and back if it meant getting to see her daughter happy, getting 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. This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. The crowd erupted with cheers, whistles, and applause. Isolde couldn¡¯t believe it. She had actually won this rotten cheater¡¯s game. She¡¯d 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 Isolde¡¯s heart. ¡°I guess there¡¯s 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 walked up to them and placed the life-sized animal plushie in Elysia¡¯s hands. ¡°She can¡¯t speak,¡± said Isolde, ¡°but if she could, she¡¯d say thank you.¡± ¡°I can see it in her eyes,¡± the man said. Then, to the crowd, he shouted, ¡°All right, who¡¯s 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, asking if she could place it in the back until later. He had no issue with that¡ªnot that she thought he would¡ªand 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 lining up with books and tools. He shook his head as he often did, telling her to enjoy herself. No surprise there. She¡¯d also made a promise. Elysia tugged on Isolde¡¯s jacket sleeve again, looking suddenly distraught. She raised her hand, splaying two fingers. It was a way of saying she had to poop¡ªone of the more important signs she¡¯d taught her in case she was having an emergency in public¡ªso Isolde looked around. There weren¡¯t any outhouses like there normally would be. There clearly wasn¡¯t 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 she¡¯d never heard of it, probably because she¡¯d 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, 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 to worry about, and a pretty large mouth to feed. She opened the outhouse door. It wasn¡¯t 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. It was supposed to get down to twenty-eight around seven o¡¯clock, so she figured that would be as 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 she¡¯d 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 time¡ªshe was something of a shy pooper¡ªand 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 didn¡¯t take her long to recognise what it was: a vial. In particular, one of Rhyce¡¯s vials; she knew by the green smear of liquid at the bottom. ¡°Funny I should see you here,¡± a voice said, and she knew, without even looking, who it belonged to. She turned slowly. It was Rhyce alright, but there was something different about him; he wasn¡¯t 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 broken bottle and stood up, keeping to the side so as to not reveal it. She moved over to the outhouse, mouth gaping, eyes focused but frightened all the same. She wasn¡¯t 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 community¡¯s going to want to hear what I have to say.¡± ¡°You¡¯re speaking?¡± she said, thinking that he wasn¡¯t the sort to talk about hope or justice. She didn¡¯t trust him, not one bit. ¡°You only just got back here.... Listen, I¡¯d much rather you leave me alone, Rhyce. Now¡¯s not the time.¡± He stepped towards her, and she noticed something else that she hadn¡¯t 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 didn¡¯t say a word. ¡°She¡¯s with you, isn¡¯t 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. ¡°You¡¯ve had too much to drink, and you¡¯re not thinking straight.¡± Not that he was a straight-thinker when he was sober, but this was something else entirely¡ªa 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 owner¡¯s 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. Aren¡¯t you a real piece of shit, Isolde? Not only that, but you¡¯re 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. ¡°I¡¯m sorry I used you,¡± she said sincerely. ¡°I was young, I was stupid, and I was afraid. You scared me when you drank. You¡¯d get angry. You had a problem¡ªhave 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 don¡¯t 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, don¡¯t be stupid.¡± Now he pointed the bottle at her. ¡°Come here,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯ll 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. ¡°I¡¯ll be honest,¡± she added, trying to hide the quaver in her voice. ¡°It¡¯s been so long since I¡¯ve had a big man take care of my needs. I¡¯ve been so... stressed. But if you¡¯re willing to let everything go for a little fun, then trust me when I say I¡¯m more than happy to oblige.¡± He looked at her thoughtfully, and his brow relaxed, now underwritten by a pair of gentle, understanding eyes. ¡°I promise you,¡± he said, ¡°it¡¯ll be nice and easy.¡± Another bang from the outhouse door, this time with more force. ¡°Elysia,¡± Isolde yelled, ¡°stay inside. We¡¯ll 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 Elysia¡¯s 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 hadn¡¯t 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 monster¡¯s 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 came from, but Isolde was too frightened to explain. She was just happy that she¡¯d gotten away and was now surrounded by people. He wouldn¡¯t dare to chase her up here, not if he didn¡¯t 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 wouldn¡¯t just let a mother and child be subjected to physical abuse or danger. She¡¯d witnessed it before, read about it on the news. They might not have had a lot of money, but doing the right thing didn¡¯t 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?¡± Reluctantly, she explained the situation, that Rhyce was her ex-boyfriend from over a decade ago and that she¡¯d 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 she¡¯d 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 wasn¡¯t crying, Isolde could tell was upset. She knew. It was difficult to put into words how she knew; it simply came down to that mother¡¯s 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 it comforted Isolde to know that he wouldn¡¯t 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. ¡°Let¡¯s make some motherfuckin¡¯ noise for 2086!¡± The crowd loudened; 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 we¡¯d go all out given those nasty government changes. First things first, I¡¯d like to thank each and every one of you for making it tonight. This is by far the biggest Luminara event we¡¯ve 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 don¡¯t: strength in numbers.¡± More applause from the crowd. ¡°Now I¡¯d like to start off today¡¯s list of events with everybody¡¯s favourite: the lightshow,¡± the man continued, reading the script. ¡°In the previous years, we¡ª¡± The crowd suddenly shifted reaction, more to confusion than to excitement. She didn¡¯t know why at first, but then she saw someone¡ªsome people¡ªclimbing up the right-hand side of the stage. A sharp breath escaped Isolde¡¯s 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 now¡¯s not the time to¡ª¡± He didn¡¯t even manage to get a full sentence out when Rhyce marched up, grabbed the microphone, and pushed him onto the wooden floor. The crowd clamoured with confusion, wondering who on Earth this person was or what he wanted. Isolde knew, oh Isolde knew very well, and she couldn¡¯t 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 crowd¡¯s reaction was not a cheer or a murmur, but a wave of uneasy silence, punctuated only by the 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, it¡¯s 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 don¡¯t 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 emotions¡ªsome 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 Isolde¡¯s relief, and perhaps everyone else¡¯s, he pulled out a piece of paper¡ªno, 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 I¡¯d read it out to y¡¯all. 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: Optimise 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 outrage¡ªunderstandably so. Still, Isolde couldn¡¯t 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 mom¡¯s 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 chief¡¯s name, Kent Silverwood, was stamped in black underneath. The blueprint alone couldn¡¯t prove Rhyce¡¯s claims¡ªit might just as easily have been an elaborate hoax¡ªbut it didn¡¯t matter. Chaos erupted around her. Voices clashed: accusations of madness, fragments of ¡°I¡¯ve heard this before¡±, and angry demands for his immediate arrest. The truth was that this conspiracy was not new. It¡¯d 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 everyone¡¯s 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 he¡¯d latch onto such a belief and try to weaponise it, the monster. ¡°They¡¯re 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. It¡¯s the answer to man over machine, to the south over the north.... Our greatest weapon against the elites¡ª¡± ¡°That¡¯s 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 Elysia¡¯s 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 can¡¯t 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, you¡¯re 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 you¡¯d 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 didn¡¯t sexually assault no one. That lady¡¯s nothing but a thief. Stole my money, everything I had. Can¡¯t blame me for trying to get it back.¡± ¡°There¡¯s ¡®getting it back¡¯ and forcing sex as collateral,¡± Silas said, his voice cold and menacing. He paused. ¡°Stand up straight when I¡¯m 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¡¯: don¡¯t 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 God¡¯s name high and mighty, I ain¡¯t 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 ain¡¯t 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 won¡¯t stand for that, will we folks?¡± A unanimous ¡°No!¡± ¡°And I think it¡¯s about time we do somethin¡¯, ain¡¯t 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 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 Rhyce¡¯s 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 Elysia¡¯s hand and wait for the police¡ªwith everyone keeping him captive, there was no need to occupy his time or entertain his silly little beliefs¡ªbut 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 hadn¡¯t 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 Elysia¡¯s name over and over, navigating through the crowd, but the clamour was too loud. She asked some of the people if they¡¯d seen her, a little girl with white hair, but they hadn¡¯t; everyone had been too focused on Rhyce and his stupid conspiracy. Where was she? Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report 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 you¡¯ve 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, 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 hurt¡ªbad. 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 didn¡¯t 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 what¡¯s on the screen. Tell them what¡¯s 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 officer¡¯s 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 even chilled her, 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 said¡ªperhaps 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 Melbourne, you are being detained while we investigate a report¡ª¡± 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, he wrenched the pistol from the officer¡¯s trembling hand, levelling it at the man¡¯s skull. The crowd dispersed in a panic, scattering hurriedly. Gradually, their numbers dwindled¡ªnot entirely, but enough for Isolde to stand out, kneeling on the ground and gasping for air. Silas, who hadn¡¯t moved from his spot, approached her, helping her up. ¡°Where¡¯s Elysia?¡± he said breathlessly. ¡°I¡ª¡± Isolde choked. ¡°I don¡¯t know. She was here just a minute ago. Sh-she¡¯s opened the rabbit cage.¡± Silas looked over at the pets-for-sale stand, then began guiding her away from the stage. ¡°It¡¯s okay. She¡¯s not far.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t you two fucking move,¡± Rhyce shouted. At first, Isolde barely recognized it was him¡ªhe sounded so delirious and scratchy. His claims about Ghostfire minimising cyberpsychosis were without a doubt short-lived, because he didn¡¯t 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 they¡¯re planning to do.¡± Rhyce pointed the gun at the male officer¡¯s 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 isn¡¯t 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 officer¡¯s brains all over the fuckin¡¯ stage,¡± Rhyce said. ¡°Tell the people. We¡¯re 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 couldn¡¯t breathe, and soon he would pass out or perhaps die in this cyberpsycho¡¯s 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¡± A flash of blue light, and then the male officer¡¯s 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 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 Isolde. 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 fast¡ªhis 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 didn¡¯t. 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 something¡ªsomething 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. ¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± he said. ¡°Once I¡¯m done with you, I¡¯ll send her to hell, too. I¡¯ll end that waste-of-space vege just like how I¡¯m gonna fuckin¡¯ end you. Shouldn¡¯t 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 wouldn¡¯t pull her into a kiss. This time he would kill her. He holstered his pistol in his pants and picked up the screwdriver. ¡°Let¡¯s see how you like it,¡± he said. ¡°Nice. And. Slow.¡± His grip tightened, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The tip of the tool was just inches from her eye. With a cruel, slow smile, he leaned in, 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 bang¡ªa gunshot, she was sure¡ªand then the sound of a body skidding on hard planks. Her eyes blinked open. A pair of odd-looking limbs hovered over her shoulders, faced forward with the palms wide open, as if they¡¯d just pushed something. 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. Farther ahead again, behind the The Whale, she saw her: Elysia, down on all fours, wanting to creep out but frightened. Rhyce¡¯s goons had her incidentally blocked off, and she was shivering. ¡°Elysia¡ª!¡± 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, with the flexibility and fluidity of what she could only describe as a serpent. The steel hands yanked her away safely, dragging her towards someone¡¯s 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 wasn¡¯t 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. One of them had mantisblades extending from his forearms, gleaming with a deadly edge. Another officer¡¯s visor glowed with a faint, otherworldly light as he gripped a long, metallic rifle. 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 outline and distortion of light around her. ¡°Cormac, sir,¡± the woman said. ¡°What¡¯s 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 don¡¯t 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. How they could support someone as cruel and merciless as him, Isolde couldn¡¯t 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 Rhyce¡¯s will by an invisible chain. Perhaps they were controlled¡ªpuppets 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 didn¡¯t 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 didn¡¯t just glow green¡ªit 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 winding through his body throbbed with each beat of his augmented heart, and his eyes flickered, 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, didn¡¯t 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 straight 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 relieved¡ªsomeone had finally stopped this monster¡ªbut then she saw Rhyce pick himself up off the ground again, and she held her breath. He wasn¡¯t 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. The liquid sprayed in wild arcs as he 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 he¡¯d 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, and she needed help. Isolde picked herself up. She wanted to tell the mercenaries, any of them, but Rhyce¡¯s 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 didn¡¯t 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. ¡°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 mantisblades 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¡ª¡± 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 chaos¡ªthe flames, the smoke, the clanging of metal limbs in battle¡ªall of it drowning out Elysia¡¯s fragile, terrified movements. Isolde¡¯s legs trembled as she pushed herself upright, the object she¡¯d leaned on digging into her palm. She didn¡¯t 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. Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. Tears streaked Isolde¡¯s 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 officer¡¯s 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 couldn¡¯t 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 Rhyce¡¯s men lay there, writhing, his breath gurgling through blood that bubbled up from his lips. His arm¡ªno, what was left of it¡ªended in a spiky 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 Isolde¡¯s 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. ¡°I¡¯ll fix it later,¡± Isolde rasped. ¡°But we have to leave. Now.¡± She took Elysia¡¯s hand, grasping it firmly, and guided her around the left side, towards the steps leading to the beach. It wasn¡¯t 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 officer¡¯s blue-ringed pistols. He looked at Isolde, and she expected him to say something, but he didn¡¯t. He brought the pistol down to the tank, took a deep breath, and¡ª ¡°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 tipping 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 saw-edged 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 couldn¡¯t turn over this time to protect Elysia from the blow. All she could do was rest her arms over her daughter¡¯s skull. It crashed into them, the weight enormous, burning Isolde¡¯s 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 they¡¯d 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!¡± Isolde¡¯s 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. You¡¯ll never amount to anything so long as you¡¯re taking care of that disgusting, useless, waste-of-space thing. Isolde¡¯s 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 fire¡ªroaring, crackling, devouring. Elysia¡¯s patting petered into silence, leaving behind only the horrific image seared into Isolde¡¯s mind: her daughter¡¯s 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 leech, feeding off me and my husband¡¯s money. Don¡¯t be like Mommy when you¡¯re 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 couldn¡¯t speak; she could only wail. She couldn¡¯t dare to look up at her daughter¡¯s corpse. She turned onto her side, slobbering, struggling to breathe. All she could see was a pair of boots with long steel arms hanging near the shins, and everything was silent. Then a voice spoke, and she would never forget it: ¡°Trauma team en route. We¡¯ve had a civilian casualty.¡± the weight of small hands - 3.6 3.6 Isolde spent six days in the Aegis Node medical centre recovering from third-degree burns, though most of it passed in a haze. She didn¡¯t remember the trauma team arriving; by the time they¡¯d picked her up, she¡¯d already slipped into unconsciousness. Whether it was the smoke, the pain, or the unbearable weight of Elysia¡¯s death that had pulled her under, she couldn¡¯t say. What she hoped for¡ªwhat she¡¯d begged for in those brief flashes of lucidity¡ªwas to wake up in her apartment. To find herself under her scratchy old blanket, Elysia sitting cross-legged on the floor, drawing her bright, vivid worlds onto paper. To realise it had all been one terrible dream. But it wasn¡¯t. She was... gone. And Isolde hadn¡¯t spoken a single word throughout her entire stay. When the nurses asked what she wanted for breakfast, she didn¡¯t answer. When the doctors inquired if she smoked or drank, she stayed silent. And when people leaned in gently, their voices full of concern, and asked how she was feeling, she only stared back, eyes vacant yet weighted with something insufferable, something that swallowed the room in silence. She felt nothing. Pure... emptiness. It was as if someone had drilled a hole in her stomach and let everything spill out¡ªher joy, her love, her very sense of self¡ªuntil all that remained was a hollow, aching void that no amount of time or tears could ever fill. And during those restless nights, as the ward echoed with the relentless beeping of monitors, the distant cries of pain, and the never-ending shuffle of footsteps, she found herself wondering what kind of merciful god could allow such a thing. Why her? Why Isolde Crane? Why not the monsters across the river? The liars, the bullies, the ones who thrived on making life miserable for anyone without the fortune or power to resist? Why not the people who played their hands ruthlessly in a game rigged for failure, leaving others to suffer for their greed? She asked it again: What merciful god would do this? No answer. Only the cold, sterile beeping of machines. Only the muffled cries and groans that drifted down the hall, reminders of suffering she could no longer bear to witness. When she finally checked out of the hospital, bandages wrapped tightly around her neck and forearms, Silas was there, waiting for her in his battered transport van. His face was lined with a heaviness she hadn¡¯t seen before, and for a moment, they just stared at each other. Rain slicked the streets, turning the pavement into a fractured mirror that reflected the cold, artificial glow of the city lights. People brushed past her, faceless shadows under umbrellas, their hurried steps splashing through shallow puddles. The wind crossing the intersection kicked up smells of wet concrete and oil, and in the distance a child cried, a sound swallowed by the hum of hydrocell engines. She stood still, letting the rain soak through her clothes, chilling her skin but failing to reach the hollow ache inside, and her hands were steady, not a tremor in sight, falling darkly at her sides, a slight hunch in her back. As the droplets slid down her cheeks, all she could do was watch the world pass her by, leaving her to grovel in its shadow. She walked around to the opposite side of the van, moving slowly, opened the passenger-side door, and slid inside, shutting it gently behind her. Silas didn¡¯t boot the engine up right away. He sat there in silence¡ªthey sat there in silence, listening to the rain drum against the roof. ¡°Listen,¡± he said, struggling to find words, ¡°I think it¡¯s best you stay with me for a while. I think the last place you should be is... home.¡± Isolde kept her eyes forward, tracing the rain against the windshield, each droplet wobbling and merging as if caught in a slow, rhythmic struggle, and for the first time in nearly a week, she spoke: ¡°Why, Silas? Just... why?¡± Her voice was hoarse from disuse. ¡°I see that look in your eyes,¡± he said. ¡°It¡¯s not a good look¡ªit¡¯s a dangerous one.¡± ¡°No, Silas,¡± she said slowly. ¡°Why?¡± He stared at her, flicking his thumb on the steering wheel. ¡°Forgive me. I don¡¯t understand.¡± ¡°Why do you go out of your way to help someone like me?¡± He took a moment, his eyes flickering with caution. ¡°You¡¯re a friend. A real good one, Isolde.¡± ¡°A... friend?¡± He nodded. ¡°Of course.¡± She hummed, disbelieving. ¡°Take me home, Silas.¡± ¡°Isolde, it¡¯s not the best idea¡ª¡± ¡°I don¡¯t really give a fuck what you think, Silas,¡± she said calmly. ¡°If you don¡¯t take me home, I¡¯ll walk.¡± ¡°Now listen,¡± he said, sharp. ¡°You go home to that apartment and you¡¯ll end up hurting yourself. You¡¯ll end up¡ª¡± ¡°Dead?¡± She turned to him, her voice cold. ¡°And so what if I do? Do you really think there¡¯s anything left for me to live for?¡± ¡°Listen to me¡ª¡± She balled her fists, then started squeezing the leather car seat. ¡°Do you really believe that anything¡ªany amount of money, jobs, books, scratchy blankets¡ªcan make up for what I just lost? Do you have any idea of how deeply, deeply painful this is?¡± Once again, her voice was calm, controlled. Silas shook his head, worry plastered on his face like an ugly mask. ¡°It¡¯s not about that¡ª¡± ¡°But it¡¯s alright for you, isn¡¯t it? You still have a family, don¡¯t you? You can still travel across the state and visit your parents, you can still go home to your girlfriend. It must be nice having someone who doesn¡¯t take off like a fucking fart in the wind. Must be nice having a jobbbbbbbb where you don¡¯t have to worry about the next bill or a kid staring at the same plate five days in a row when all you can say is, ¡®Oh, I¡¯m sorry, Elysia, it¡¯s all I can fucking afford.¡¯¡± Silas waved his hand in a desperate attempt to cut her off. ¡°Now hold on¡ª¡± She let out a bitter laugh, her brow furling. ¡°You don¡¯t get it. You don¡¯t get what it¡¯s like to lose everything. Hell, you don¡¯t know what it¡¯s like having nothing in the first place. For the past twenty years, you¡¯ve been working in that kiosk, bought a nice van so you don¡¯t have to ride the metro or tram where your mere existence is a disservice to the employed.¡± She swallowed hard, nearly choking on the words, but she forced them out, her voice steady and sharp. ¡°But me? I¡¯ve had to fight every single day of my life to put food on that fucking table.¡± She started counting on her fingers. ¡°I¡¯ve lost sleep. I¡¯ve been bullied, I¡¯ve been pushed down, I¡¯ve been nearly raped, I¡¯ve been treated like complete shit, and why? Because I don¡¯t have any fucking money? Because I don¡¯t have a job? I bet you think I wasn¡¯t trying either, hey?¡± ¡°That¡¯s not true¡ª¡± Silas said. ¡°Thought I was just leeching off the system, hey? Surely that must have been the case if I couldn¡¯t land a job for years, hey? All those interviews, all those rejection letters, all those FUCKING PHONE CALLS!¡± She yanked the seatbelt as hard as she could, straining her wrist. ¡°¡®Sorry, but you¡¯re not what we¡¯re looking for¡¯. ¡®Sorry, we¡¯ve decided to go with another candidate¡¯. ¡®Sorry, Isolde, you¡¯re a fucking southsider!¡¯¡± She¡¯d never seen such fear in Silas¡¯ eyes, such terror, and yet, she could tell he wasn¡¯t afraid. He didn¡¯t say anything; only listened. ¡°So don¡¯t give me that ¡®things get better¡¯ optimistic bullshit,¡± she said, and every word was like spitting out a dry ball of lint. ¡°The truth is I¡¯m just waiting for the next thing to destroy me, because that¡¯s all my life¡¯s ever been. The next blow. The next loss. And you really want me to continue to suffer through all that?¡± Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. The silence that followed was profound, as if the world itself had paused. Even the steady patter of rain against the windows seemed powerless to break its weight. It hung thick in the air¡ªtoo heavy, almost suffocating. Isolde stared down at her shoes, her hands clenched so tightly it hurt, every muscle in her body taut. She leaned over, taking a deep breath. He put a hand on her back and massaged it, like before, but this time it did little to soothe her. ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± he said softly. ¡°It¡¯s, uh¡ªwell, I can¡¯t really find the words. People are disgustin¡¯, plain as that. And I can¡¯t even begin to imagine what this is like for you. No amount of trauma I¡¯ve ever encountered my whole life could match up to what happened, and believe me when I say I¡¯m sorry. But I can¡¯t just let you go back to that place. You know as well as I do that, as soon as you step through that door, Father Time will take over. The memory will be too strong. You¡¯ll kill yourself. That¡¯s the hard truth, Isolde. And I know you want to say that you don¡¯t have anything worth living for, but the truth is that you do. ¡°I can see you changing this place one day. Don¡¯t ask me how, but you¡¯re smarter than you think. Very smart, actually. Like out-of-this-world smart. And putting that intelligence to use to fix the problems in this city.... I don¡¯t know, I can just see you changing it. You said that I thought you weren¡¯t trying but that couldn¡¯t be further from the case. I saw all those letters, Isolde. Every week I¡¯d notice you coming through the market, and you weren¡¯t buying drugs or any of that wasteful crap. And I can see it in you. A man knows the type who¡¯s trying and the type who isn¡¯t. ¡°Look, all of this is just me rattlin¡¯. Nothing I say can or will change anything, make things easier. But it¡¯s better to keep standing up in the face of evil, refusing to back down, because otherwise, that¡¯s how worlds get destroyed.¡± Isolde pinched the bridge of her nose, remaining silent. What could she say, really? He had explained it in his own halting way. She opened the door, allowing the rain to gust inside. ¡°Worlds fall apart because people do nothing, don¡¯t they?¡± she murmured, her voice barely audible over the storm. The look she gave him was sharp, piercing yet unbearably soft. Silas¡¯ hand rested on her shoulder, its grip faint, too feeble to hold her back. She was going. Isolde stepped out of the van and shut the door behind her, the sound of it slamming more final than anything Silas could ever say. She looked up at the sky¡ªa churning sea of ash-grey clouds, the kind that smothered stars. Drones hovered and zipped like metal vultures, soulless and efficient, their blinking lights casting a barren glow that only deepened the darkness below. The buildings loomed, their windows shining faintly, but never warmly, with the artificial light of a world that didn¡¯t care. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, its pitch stretching thin, bending like a scream caught on the wind. She stood there, letting the rain run down her cheeks, her fists clenched at her sides, her breath fogging the air in shallow bursts. Every sound, every flicker of movement, every pulse of neon was an insult, as if the city itself dared her to find meaning in its hollow rhythm. And she walked. She dragged her feet through the water, each step finding a deeper puddle. She was cold, so very cold, with the temperatures reaching well below freezing. The apartment complex was about an hour¡¯s trek from here; she didn¡¯t care enough to take the tram, not that she had the money for it. Just another hospital bill tacked onto the list, a final nail in the coffin, the sort of nail that plunged deep into the wood and teased you¡ªit teased you, ¡®You will never escape.¡¯ And she walked. Far ahead, by the main bridge, a hulking aerodyne descended onto the beach with all the grace of a falling anvil. Just a quick pitstop, dropping off whatever scraps the privileged north had deemed unfit for their pristine lives¡ªhow generous. How magnanimous of the government to ensure the south got its fair share of leftovers. What a flawless system it was, truly. A system that didn¡¯t just widen the gap between the glittering towers and the crumbling slums but actively polished the divide until it gleamed. A system that, rather than investing in education or clean water for people here, spent its time maintaining this noble tradition of trickle-down charity. Yes, what a marvel of modern governance. Who could possibly imagine a better arrangement? Oh, sure, she thought, forget sustainable infrastructure or policies that might actually improve lives across the board¡ªwhat fun would that be? A fairer system might rob the north of their gilded trash heaps or their smug sense of superiority, and we couldn''t have that. No, better to keep this well-oiled machine humming along, delivering its monthly dose of mockery disguised as aid. And she walked. She walked for so long her feet nearly gave out. When she finally made it to the complex and climbed up those ruthless steps to her apartment on the third floor, the paint, RENT IS DUE, was still waiting for her, gawking at her, laughing at her. It was challenging to simply open the door and walk inside. She knew her daughter¡¯s belongings would be waiting for her on the other side. What Silas said about Father Time overpowering her would very likely occur. But she didn¡¯t care. Frankly, there was no point in living anymore. No amount of hope could save her from this, no number of smiles or good intentions. She had lost everything. Isolde could barely raise her hand to press the scannerlock. Just when she was about to, her phone rang. Silas. She gritted her teeth. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the phone, almost swiping left to cancel the dial, but she noticed something: that wasn¡¯t Silas¡¯ number. It was completely different, only four digits long, a business number. She stared at it, wondering who on Earth it could be, then reluctantly swiped right, putting it up to her ear. ¡°Who is this?¡± she rasped. ¡°Good afternoon, may I speak to Ms. Isolde Crane?¡± It was a deep voice, very deep. She¡¯d not heard it anywhere before. Her voice was stern. So stern, in fact, that she thought whoever this person was would no sooner hang up the call. ¡°Yeah,¡± she said. ¡°Yeah, this is she.¡± ¡°So sorry to disturb you, Ms. Crane, but my name is Dr. Alaric Solvayne, Head of Neural Systems Integration at Techstrum Systems International LLC. Are you free to speak at the moment?¡± Perhaps it was a force of habit, but her voice changed, becoming slightly, just slightly, more polite. ¡°Oh, well¡ªI, yes I am. I¡¯m free to... talk.¡± ¡°Now, Ms. Crane, I won¡¯t take up too much of your time, but we¡¯ve recently been reviewing candidates to start early on in the first quarter, and your resume struck me,¡± he said. ¡°I read through it. I noticed a few things, such as your gap in employment, which I understand based off your cover letter was a difficult situation for you, but I also noticed your background in pharmaceutical chemistry. There aren¡¯t many with your level of education in the city, and I would like to offer you to come in for an interview tomorrow morning at ten o¡¯clock.¡± She took a moment to respond; it was one of those situations where she was too blown away to gather thoughts. ¡°Tomorrow morning?¡± she said softly. ¡°That¡¯s right,¡± he said. ¡°Or if that¡¯s too sudden, we¡¯re open to rescheduling¡ª¡± ¡°No,¡± she said. ¡°Tomorrow would be.... Tomorrow at ten would be perfect, Dr. Solvayne.¡± ¡°Excellent,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯ll email you the details. Do you have a suit, Ms. Crane?¡± She shook her head as if he were in front of her. ¡°No, I don¡¯t. Can¡¯t really afford one.¡± ¡°That¡¯s okay,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯ll make a note of it. Once again, I apologise for the sudden call and the late notice. Originally, your resume missed the scanning. I stumbled upon it by accident and really felt for your situation. I¡¯ll be talking to you soon.¡± ¡°Thank you,¡± she said, and it was sincere. ¡°You and your daughter have a wonderful rest of your day now,¡± he said. ¡°Goodbye, Ms. Crane.¡± The line dropped. She was too stumped to move. Isolde stood in front of her apartment door, the phone still clutched in her hand. The echo of the man¡¯s polite farewell hung in the air like a ghost she couldn¡¯t quite banish. Her heart didn¡¯t race; it didn¡¯t flutter with hope or anxiety. It barely beat at all. She placed the phone in her winter coat pocket, turned back, and... walked. She headed downstairs again, ignoring the swarm of tenants passing her out, bumping shoulders, nearly tripping. The walk felt longer than it should have, every step heavy, every direction bending and swirling. And she stepped out onto the concrete stoop exiting the complex, looking ahead, hands stuffed in her jacket, face unreadable, even to herself. Her breath puffed out in faint, short clouds against the chill, but her chest didn¡¯t heave. She gazed. Across the canal, in the distant north, the government tower loomed like a monolithic sentinel over the city, its sleek glass and steel silhouette cutting through the horizon. It stretched impossibly high, the upper levels lost in the perpetual smog that hung over Neo Arcadia in a thick shroud. The tower bellowsed with a life of its own, each row of electronic strips breathing. The building¡¯s architecture was sharp and angular with edges scraping against the heavens, and the massive holograms projecting across its surface blinked and shifted like monstrous eyes. Drones and armoured convoys threaded their way to the base, mere ants serving the will of an indominable mound. To anyone who dared look, it would be a place of awe and fear, a fortress of power meant to crush resistance with its very presence. There was no crack, no weakness, no flaw to its imposing exterior. It was a god, built by those who saw themselves above all others. A constant reminder that the south would continue to drown, to be enslaved in corporate misery. And yet, as Isolde stood there, her glare locked on the tower, a strange sense of calm settled over her. A part of her knew, somewhere deep in that hollow space of hers, that it was not invincible. I can see you changing this place one day. She reached into her pocket and retrieved her leather wallet. She opened it, slowly, and brought out the piece of paper with the perfect, clean words: I Love You. Isolde Crane might not have had any augmentations, no chrome-threaded nerves, no neural uplinks to dull the pain, no special wiring to shield her from the world¡¯s brutality, but she had this: a crumpled piece of paper¡ªand the horrific image of the flames swallowing her child. It would never dwindle. It would never falter. It would only burn. And as she clenched her fists, her reflection distorted in the rain-slicked concrete, she realised: so would they. currents beneath steel - 4.1 4.1 It¡¯s 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. They¡¯re 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 it¡¯s over¡ªjust like that. I reach up, peeling the mask off, gulping down thick, brackish air. The room presses in around me, dense and heavy. I can¡¯t smell anything, but I don¡¯t 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, I¡¯d 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 arm¡ªit¡¯s gone, finally. In its place is a snaggy stub. The cut isn¡¯t clean, but it¡¯ll do. ¡°Was wonderin¡¯ when you¡¯d come around,¡± a voice drawls. Dr. Maelstrom, of course. He¡¯s 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¡¯s a surprise. Concerning, really. ¡°How long are people normally out for?¡± ¡°Post-surgery? Fifteen minutes. Had to reschedule a few appointments.¡± ¡°Oh, I¡¯m sorry,¡± I say, feeling guilty. ¡°Didn¡¯t mean to disrupt your business. I can pay you back if you want.¡± He breathes out a half-assed chuckle. ¡°I¡¯m messin¡¯ with you. Finished up five minutes ago. And be careful. Shouldn¡¯t believe everything you hear without some sort of back-up.¡± A laugh flies out my nose as I step off the surgical bed. ¡°I admit you did a good job.¡± ¡°How¡¯s 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 wasn¡¯t 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. It¡¯s quiet for a moment, and then he asks, ¡°You find out anything else about that picture, or are you still waiting?¡± I presume he¡¯s 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.¡± He¡¯s 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. ¡°You¡¯re out of the grave three days and you¡¯re already talkin¡¯ about that conspiracy.¡± ¡°Conspiracy?¡± He pushes the trolley out of view, then steps in front of me again. ¡°It¡¯s 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. There¡¯s 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 don¡¯t put it on. Too warm for that. Instead, I tuck it under my armpit. ¡°Sorry, it¡¯s 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¡ª¡± I almost ask but stop myself. ¡°You know, I wouldn¡¯t be asking so many questions if you didn¡¯t give such abrupt answers.¡± He chuckles. ¡°Huge problem that¡¯s 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, they¡¯re 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 it¡¯ll 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 can¡¯t even begin to predict. It¡¯s like giving a child a loaded gun: sure, it might be efficient at some point, but at what cost?¡± I¡¯m 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 didn¡¯t affect the public? Now that the information is out, why would they care what Cormac knows¡ªunless there¡¯s more to the story? Something he hasn¡¯t shared with Fingers. Maybe something he¡¯s deliberately keeping to himself. I guess it¡¯s also possible that this information circulated around the dark net and they might be trying to eliminate anyone with access to government files. I don¡¯t know, but it¡¯s 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 man¡¯s trash being another man¡¯s 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 can¡¯t keep up with the bills, and even the government themselves. ¡°It¡¯s not just junk; it¡¯s evidence, secrets, and assets they¡¯d rather forget about. Those dead androids under the bridge? They¡¯re 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 much¡ªwitnessed something, recorded something, or were programmed to do things that¡¯d make headlines if they ever got out.¡± He leans forward, eyes narrowing. ¡°But you did get out. And that¡¯s what makes you so interesting. Half woman, half machine, at least according to your biometric readings.¡± Literally half. I look at my right side; it¡¯s 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, you¡¯re looking at over a hundred grand,¡± he says. I let out a low, drawn-out whistle¡ªthe universal sound of sticker shock. ¡°Little steep, don¡¯t you think?¡± ¡°Yeah, but there¡¯s another problem,¡± he says, pointing to my clipped shoulder. ¡°Your nervous system¡¯s shot there¡ªliterally. Fried brachial plexus. Looks like your body¡¯s immune response went haywire, attacking any foreign tech in the area. Even if we install a cybernetic arm, your nervous system won¡¯t recognise it. The limb would just sit there, completely dormant. You¡¯d have a hundred grand¡¯s 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 sucks.¡± ¡°That¡¯s life for you.¡± He winks. ¡°But something tells me it won¡¯t hold you back very far.¡± Footsteps come clacking from the foyer. It¡¯s 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 smile¡ªthat lovely smile. ¡°Front¡¯s all ready to go,¡± she says. ¡°Righto.¡± Dr. Maelstrom slaps his knees and stands up with a groan. He¡¯s just tired, I¡¯m sure. ¡°Come back to me whenever you tally enough scratch for the procedure, and remember what I said: not feeling pain ain¡¯t all it¡¯s 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. I¡¯ve learned it¡¯s a habit of hers¡ªdigging into every angle. Turns out she¡¯s done her homework on the loading bay and the off-screen areas. While there isn¡¯t much security in the immediate vicinity, there¡¯s a market nearby that wraps around, meaning there¡¯s 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 hadn¡¯t considered beforehand: weapons. In case things go wrong¡ªand they often do¡ªwe 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 suit¡¯s 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 don¡¯t have to concentrate as hard to land a shot. Each is fitted with micro-compensators to counteract recoil. That¡¯s 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 it¡¯s an added feature in case the infrared cameras were to pick up on standard material. Even if they¡¯re less effective during the day and our suits could slip by, a normal pistol might get sniffed out; with these, there¡¯s no chance. Too small, too compact, and too sneaky. As if that isn¡¯t enough, they each have a subtle chameleon coating on the exterior that allows them to blend into the suit¡¯s 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 Raze¡¯s ashtray, press the sides, and pull the magazine out. Packed to the brim with subsonic ammunition. I¡¯d 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?¡± I nod. ¡°How much did they cost you?¡± ¡°Five bags. Each.¡± That same whistling sound from earlier. ¡°I¡¯m 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. It¡¯s cold to the touch, like it¡¯s been pulled straight from a freezer or left by an open window on a wintry 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. It¡¯s 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. It¡¯s weaved together from a nanofibre mesh, so dark it seems to absorb light itself. Midnight black, yet there¡¯s a subtle shimmer to it, like liquid shadows shifting along the wires, though it¡¯s probably just a reflection of the light. A jumpsuit of sorts, one that you can stand into and zip up, only this doesn¡¯t 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? The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. ¡°Throw it on,¡± Fingers says. ¡°I¡¯ll show you how it works.¡± Shrugging, I begin taking off all my clothes. I¡¯m still a trifle shy about getting naked¡ªwho wouldn¡¯t be with someone watching?¡ªbut 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 I¡¯d 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 there¡¯s 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, it¡¯s 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. ¡°I¡¯ve had my hands on a few of these prototypes. They¡¯re designed for flexibility. You just need to know where the pressure points are.¡± She gives the suit a once-over. ¡°Figured you¡¯d need a little help with the fit, but I wasn¡¯t 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, don¡¯t it?¡± Strangely, it does; it¡¯s so thin and seamless it¡¯s as if I¡¯m 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 nanofibres 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 the suits away and take me to the seaside by which the shipyard is located. It''s an hour¡¯s 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, ¡®That¡¯s enough for one day.¡¯ It¡¯s 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 doesn¡¯t quite hide the grit. Children laugh through the crowd, scampering, while patrons nearly stumble over one another. It¡¯s not difficult to understand why; everything is so compact, and the signs¡ªthose glitzy wooden slabs¡ªcombine to create a disturbing kaleidoscope. It¡¯s dazzling, sure, but in a way that makes your eyes ache or head swim. There¡¯s 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¡¯s a distraction. While some of them talk to the merchants, another sneaks around the back, pilfering eddies. I have to admit; they¡¯re fast. They might have a career ahead of them, if they manage to make it through this coming winter. They ought to be careful, though. After what I¡¯d 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 south side while smaller honky-tonk marinas dot the edge, their sleek vessels dwarfed by the massive ships tethered further out. It¡¯s the northern stretch that gets my attention. The cranes tower overhead, their long arms extending like skeletal claws, lifting cargo containers into the bellies of monstrous freighters. The whir of hydraulics and the harsh neon glow from the shipping cranes reflect off the slick, rain-soaked concrete; it¡¯s so lucid you can see the reflections splayed out across the terminal. 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 that contains the snake-symbolled storage crate, is much lighter along the dock; most units seem to have been relocated into the interior, and it¡¯s so utterly huge, way larger than it appeared from an aerial view. They all are. Their hulls are easily more than four hundred metres long, and they must be more than a hundred metres above the waterline. It¡¯s a little scary, honestly. I didn¡¯t expect to see something this large, but now that I have, I¡¯m 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 won¡¯t 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 sideloader, sucking up a crate with, I presume, a large magnet of some sort, the forks 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 sitting on the dock itself but they¡¯re 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. They¡¯re always three characters long while the figures to either end vary. The first few characters seem to indicate the location, the middle set is a code for the ship, and the last is a generic cargo label. I decide it¡¯s best to observe the crane¡¯s behavior for a while and see how it operates. About ten minutes after depositing the previous container, I notice it slowly making its way back to the terminal. I watch as it descends, latches onto another unit, and lifts it. Once again, the tag reads "93F," with the weight listed as 18.6 tonnes. Interesting. That¡¯s what I need to keep an eye out for. It takes a long time sifting through each individual container¡ªthere are just so many¡ªbut eventually, among the stacked piles, I see that same tag: 93F, and the weight: 14.4 tonnes. The selection order might be determined by weight, with the heaviest items handled first and the lightest ones 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 don¡¯t get crushed underneath. That means, in theory, if we want to not be wedged in tight, we should opt for the lightest so that we¡¯re placed at the top, but how 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 93F 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 centre 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 ship¡ªlikely 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: 93F. 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. It¡¯s a small crate, only about the size of a commercial van, clocking in at a little under five tonnes. That¡¯s where we should hide. ¡°¡®NGT-93F-7X2842,¡¯¡± I tell Fingers, but I have to repeat it 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 jacket¡¯s been turned inside out, so as to not have it hang about. Plus, in her own words, I won¡¯t look like a circus tent. ¡°Knew you had some brains in that thick chrome dome of yours,¡± she says. ¡°I think I¡¯ll 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 we¡¯re done with that Techstrum job or whatever you wanna call it, that big league, I¡¯m packin¡¯ my pockets and takin¡¯ off towards the sunset like in those old westerns. 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, Mono, but until then you¡¯re stuck with me and Raze¡¯s shitty attitude.¡± I chuckle, wiping sweat from my brow. It isn¡¯t hot, just intense. I was honestly nervous about messing things up, but the quick-hacks.... They¡¯re 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?¡± ¡°You didn¡¯t peg me as a lady who was into men.¡± She stares at me, half-quizzical, half-smiling, one thin eyebrow cocked. ¡°That hairstyle, although a little wild.... Yeah, I thought you were into women, believe it or not. Just the general vibe I got from you.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t mind women,¡± I say coolly, rather surprised at how nonchalant she is. It¡¯s one of those statements you don¡¯t hear every day. Then again, she barely knows me. ¡°Well, to be honest, I¡¯m not really sure what I like. I¡¯ve only been here three days. It¡¯s difficult to remember what my interests were, but I have an inkling I¡¯m a two-way street. You?¡± ¡°Men,¡± she says. ¡°Simple, straight to the point, I take it?¡± ¡°Who? Men? I mean, I suppose so. I had a boyfriend once, didn¡¯t really like him much, but damn did he have a nice ass.¡± I ahh. ¡°So, you¡¯re an ass chick? Makes sense.¡± ¡°More or less,¡± she says. ¡°You think you have loved ones waiting out there for you?¡± It¡¯s an excellent question. I had considered the possibility before, but 2056 is such a long time ago. Anyone I would have known back then, especially from the scrubland, would have likely moved on and kissed Neo Arcadia goodbye. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I say mildly. ¡°That¡¯s sort of what I¡¯m worried about. If I supposedly came from a parched wasteland that degraded into, in Maelstrom¡¯s words, ¡®cyberjunkies¡¯, then maybe that says something about my past, who I was with.¡± ¡°I think you were part of a gang, aim like that,¡± Fingers says. ¡°But hey, doesn¡¯t matter who we were, only who we choose to become, ay?¡± ¡°Yeah,¡± I say. ¡°But I¡¯ll be damned if I live my life not knowing what happened. I¡¯m sure someone out there knows something, someone who can help me. Maelstrom says I¡¯m a lost ¡®asset¡¯.¡± I do air-quotes. ¡°Whatever that means.¡± ¡°Promising theory,¡± Fingers says, stuffing her hands in her pockets. ¡°I think it¡¯s best you do your own research sometime. Once you have your own place and computer, information is free. Dark net is free, know? Only other option is reaching out to some of the fixers in the city.¡± ¡°Fixers?¡± I say. ¡°Why would I go to them?¡± Fingers says, ¡°You know how many gangs interact with some of the big fixers across Neo Arcadia? We¡¯re not the only ones. If you¡¯re runnin¡¯ with the gang theory, best ask around, though be warned, that source of information isn¡¯t free.¡± ¡°Think Rico knows something?¡± ¡°If we come back in one piece tomorrow night then we¡¯ll find out,¡± she says. ¡°Till then, tough luck.¡± ¡°Thanks, Fingers,¡± I say sincerely. ¡°For?¡± ¡°Just... thanks.¡± She looks at me, perplexed, then pats my shoulder before walking towards the stairway. ¡°C¡¯mon. Gettin¡¯ late.¡± She¡¯s right there. The sun¡¯s completely sunk into the horizon, leaving only the starless evening. We start making our way down the steel-grated stairs again, thinking it¡¯s best to pack things in for the day. Still busy in the market, even though we¡¯ve 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 that¡¯s an award for all my hard work today, but something¡ªsomeone¡ªcatches my attention on the far-left end of the market sprawl. It¡¯s those kids again, but¡ª ¡°You bastard,¡± one of the merchants shouts, his voice stretched tight. ¡°You want to lose a fuckin¡¯ arm? Where¡¯s your mother? Your father? Show me!¡± He¡¯s grasping a machete in one hand, and as we draw closer, I see he¡¯s caught hold of one of the children, the thieves. A little boy. The boy strains, not saying a word. His friends seem to have taken off. ¡°The eddies,¡± he snaps. ¡°Spill ¡¯em, or I¡¯ll 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; it¡¯s 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 boy¡¯s arm forward over the table of his kiosk, and the boy kicks helplessly, punching and scratching to break free. He lays the boy¡¯s arm across a meat chopping board. ¡°You have ten seconds to tell me where you put ¡¯em. That¡¯s my night¡¯s work, and I¡¯ll be damned if I let another rodent¡ª¡± An arm flies forward, grips him by the elbow, and yanks him back on his ass. A basketful of oranges and apples tumbles over him. The arm¡ªcold, strong, and fed up¡ªis 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, knocking the machete. Fingers, of course. She quickly snatches the blade. People gather around, laughing. ¡°Say another word,¡± Fingers says eerily. ¡°I dare you. Go on.¡± A part of me hopes he will 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 aren¡¯t poor little kids. ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s right. Shut your mouth. If I see you threatening anyone around here again, never mind kids, I¡¯ll kill you. Understand me?¡± He nods, picking himself up. Fingers waves the blade at him, as if to say goodbye. ¡°I¡¯ll be keeping this,¡± she says sternly, walking 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 couldn¡¯t help myself. He¡¯s 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. It¡¯s a lot of money on the line, so I hope we¡¯re in and out, smooth as pie. currents beneath steel - 4.2 4.2 It¡¯s a quarter past one in the afternoon. Fingers figured this would be the best time to hit the terminal¡ªmost 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, supervising¡ªbasically 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 aren¡¯t human; they¡¯re 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 flaws¡ªjust the cold, relentless hum of machinery doing what it¡¯s built to do. Whatever personality they might have, if any, is buried under layers of corporate firmware. They''re perfect workers. And they¡¯re 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 isn¡¯t 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. We¡¯re armed with the sleek nano pistols Fingers snagged and a fresh batch of MX-inhalers that Dance had so expertly brewed just days ago. They¡¯re stashed in our pouches, so they shouldn¡¯t show up on any outside scanning technology. Shouldn¡¯t 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 aren¡¯t as many left for collection. Good. Only makes things easier. I quickly locate ¡®NGT-93F-7X2842¡¯. It¡¯s 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 mess 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 we¡¯re inside, it won¡¯t be long before we¡¯re 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 unit¡¯s 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 isn¡¯t much space to move around in here. The crate¡¯s 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. There¡¯s 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 that¡¯s about it. Could be worse. At least there¡¯s 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 be¡ªthat we just wait¡ªbut it¡¯s so silent and awkward I can¡¯t 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.¡± ¡°Shouldn¡¯t be too long before we¡¯re onboard then.¡± Slowly the skin of her suit appears. She¡¯s turned it off, hand pressing down on the centre chest button. ¡°Don¡¯t need it. They can¡¯t see us in here.¡± ¡°But what about the scanners?¡± She lies against the wall, legs crossed. ¡°As long as we don¡¯t touch anything, the drones won¡¯t notice. They work off these barcodes.¡± She points to the crates. ¡°As long as they can see ¡¯em, we¡¯re golden. No issues. Just stay low, and don¡¯t 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, we¡¯ll be long gone by then.¡± ¡°That¡¯s an assumption,¡± Fingers says. I take a second, wondering what she could mean by that. ¡°I don¡¯t understand. How?¡± She gestures with an open palm, turning it towards the ceiling in that universal motion that screams, Isn¡¯t it obvious? She stares at me, and although I cannot see her face, I can tell she has a confused look. ¡°We don¡¯t 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 didn¡¯t really think it would be neatly stacked at the front for someone to access, did you?¡± She has a point, a pretty concerning one, even. ¡°So, how are we supposed to get it?¡± ¡°Simple.¡± She points at me. ¡°You¡¯re 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. We¡¯re gonna be in here a long time and you¡¯re already thinkin¡¯ I¡¯ve messed up on the plan. There¡¯s a claw inside, an organiser claw. Moves the crates around, very similar to the crane system. Cargo hold has multiple 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 weren¡¯t listening.¡± I don¡¯t think so. If she had told me this, I would have remembered it. I don¡¯t just forget stuff like that. Still, it¡¯s not worth the argument. ¡°And if people see this?¡± I ask. ¡°They¡¯re bots, Mono. Not safety inspectors. Not watchmen. If you use the organiser claw, they¡¯ll think it¡¯s just routine,¡± she says. ¡°This is assuming we even need to do that. It¡¯s likely to be a very light crate, according to Rico, and if your theory about stacking by weight is true, it¡¯ll be at the top, so there wouldn¡¯t be much movement needed.¡± That makes sense. So, it¡¯s 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 we¡¯re getting for Rico: I doubt it¡¯s 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 we¡¯ll sneak on top, have it carry us out. Leave the item handling to me. I¡¯ll keep it low and hidden¡ªtrust me, I¡¯m good at that. You just worry about controlling the firmware.¡± Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. ¡°Okay, that makes sense,¡± I say. ¡°And I¡¯m assuming the reason we wait for the scans is to give us more time. If we leave too early, then¡ª¡± ¡ªwe 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. It¡¯s 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 don¡¯t 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 shouldn¡¯t be saying this to my boss, but I am really nervous. Can¡¯t help it.¡± ¡°Then don¡¯t think of me as a boss,¡± Fingers says. ¡°I don¡¯t really like being called ¡®boss¡¯ anyhow. I don¡¯t believe in corporate hierarchies. I¡¯m just the girl sourcin¡¯ jobs. That¡¯s it. Well, the planner, too, technically, but that¡¯s irrelevant. Just have a little faith in me. I promise I¡¯m 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 must¡¯ve built one hell of a reputation if Rico¡¯s trusting her with a job like this, one I overheard is worth hundreds of thousands. 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, few answers. I doubt I¡¯ll 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, it¡¯s slim pickings. There¡¯s barely anything about the city¡¯s 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, there¡¯s a 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, we¡¯re lowered, landing with a heavy clang. The sound reverberates through the container, and I can tell from the stillness that we¡¯ve been set down on top of another unit¡ªmost 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. It¡¯s so lifeless and monotone that it can¡¯t 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 ¡®Server Locator¡¯, I see that all the smuggle crates are on board, but there¡¯s 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?¡± ¡°There¡¯s 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 17:47. I confirm it with her. ¡°Okay,¡± she says, ¡°here¡¯s what I want you to do, and listen to me very carefully because you can¡¯t fuck this up.¡± Sweat slips down the back of my neck. It¡¯s so cold, icy. ¡°I¡¯m listening.¡± ¡°Unlock the door,¡± she says. I¡¯m 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 doesn¡¯t 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 tags from 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 didn¡¯t fuck up, when the drones scan that crate, they¡¯ll realise it¡¯s in the wrong place and get the crane to relocate it. Did you use another shipment tag?¡± I nod. ¡°Good, then they¡¯ll move it to one of the other ships in the dock.¡± It¡¯s a promising theory, and I really hope it works, because if it doesn¡¯t, we¡¯ll 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 I¡¯m not entirely sure why¡ªuntil the sound of loud buzzing filters in from outside. My pulse quickens as I glance at my phone. It¡¯s ten o¡¯clock. Scanner drones. Before I can react, Fingers grabs my arm and pulls me down flat¡ªwell, as flat as the cramped space allows¡ªand hisses, ¡°Don¡¯t 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-17¡ªscan complete, 22:04. Anomaly detected: Unit WAT-T88-2378393. Error: incorrect shipping label. Source: ....¡± Silence for a moment. Painful, worrying silence. ¡°.... Unknown.¡± The drone¡¯s 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 AI¡¯s processing. Then, the ship¡¯s loudspeaker crackles to life with the mechanical tone of the crane¡¯s 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. We¡¯re safe¡ªfor 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 door¡ªI just can¡¯t wait to get out of this deathtrap¡ªbut Fingers stops me. ¡°No,¡± she rasps quietly. ¡°The time. We move at eleven.¡± That¡¯s right. I¡¯d forgotten. So, we wait and wait, watching the time tick towards eleven o¡¯clock. 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. Doesn¡¯t 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 it¡¯s light enough to keep our antifibre suits¡¯ invisibility intact. We step outside, and immediately, the next problem becomes clear: we¡¯re boxed in on all sides. It¡¯s not a major issue¡ªnothing we can¡¯t handle. I move to the nearest crate and press my back against it, extending my hand. ¡°I¡¯ll 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. Finally¡ªfreedom. 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 ship¡¯s 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 failure¡ªand 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. It¡¯s already dropped off the hacked unit, and those supervisors¡ªthe ones who were lazily sipping coffee by their motorcycles earlier¡ªare now swarming the container, inspecting it like it¡¯s 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 true¡ªthat 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 crane¡¯s magnet head descends, its sleek bulk looming over us. The magnet itself is deactivated, just as I expected, and once it¡¯s 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 ship¡¯s 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 don¡¯t hesitate. I select ¡®Down¡¯, and the crane begins its descent. As we¡¯re lowered into the heart of the ship¡¯s cargo hold, my grip tightens on the metal housing. The workers are completely oblivious to the intrusion happening right above their shiny, steel heads. ¡°Just follow my lead,¡± Fingers whispers. ¡°Don¡¯t do anything stupid.¡± I nod, my pulse quickening. Our next moves have to be perfect¡ªor we¡¯re done for. currents beneath steel - 4.3 4.3
The containers sit in tidy, colourful rows¡ªhundreds arranged in a metallic mosaic¡ªwhile 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 notice¡ªor care, for that matter. Fingers¡¯ prediction that they¡¯d 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 aren¡¯t paying attention doesn¡¯t mean human workers, if there are any, won¡¯t start asking questions. I halt the cranehead¡¯s 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¡¯ doesn¡¯t quite describe them. They¡¯re 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 can¡¯t help but feel like we¡¯re being watched by an enormous metal creature tending to its lair. There are four of them, I¡¯m sure¡ªtwo ahead, two behind¡ªand 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 it¡¯s coming from. I keep low, hiding behind a crate stacked unevenly at the top. ¡°Manual Control says the crane¡¯s 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 there¡¯s 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, flowing 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 appears: ADDITIONAL WARNING: Subject gauntlet detected with Override Capability. An anti-quickhack defence mechanism? Who is this guy, and what¡¯s he doing working on a cargo ship? That¡¯s 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 now¡ªtell 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¡¯. Don¡¯t worry about him. We don¡¯t have all night.¡± ¡°Sorry,¡± I say. ¡°Where do we start? There¡¯s hundreds of units.¡± Fingers raises a frustrated hand. ¡°That¡¯s 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, he¡¯ll see our outline.¡± ¡°Then we¡¯ll 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 can¡¯t scan any underneath, what with them being blocked off. There¡¯s nothing. ¡°What¡¯s 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 hasn¡¯t 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. It¡¯s a little awkward from this angle, because every time I lock onto a new crate, I struggle to remember if I¡¯ve already scanned the one before it. My memory¡¯s sharp, but not sharp enough for this. After a while, I say, ¡°Look, we need to move to the other side and see if it¡¯s on top.¡± ¡°Why?¡± ¡°It¡¯s impossible to tell from this angle,¡± I say, once again keeping my voice quiet. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, but my memory¡¯s 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. He¡¯s not moving, not budging one bit. It¡¯s almost eerie how much he can stand in one place; it¡¯s as if he¡¯s daring us to come outside, for him to spot us and put an end to this whole operation. Given the spoofer¡¯s description of his spec, this isn¡¯t someone we¡¯d want to alert. ¡°Okay,¡± Fingers says. ¡°Here¡¯s the plan.¡± She points over to the employee on the metal platform, who¡¯s 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, ¡°here¡¯s the problem: if I short-circuit him, he¡¯ll put this place on lockdown. He knows what a short-circuit looks like, surely, and he¡¯ll know a netrunner is out there.¡± She shakes her head. ¡°You think cyberware doesn¡¯t 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 hesitate¡ªthis could go very, very wrong¡ªbefore 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 fly open, 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 it¡¯s too late¡ªhe¡¯s 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 don¡¯t 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 Obadele¡ªthe short-circuit has worn off, and the employee¡¯s 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 didn¡¯t, isn¡¯t that right?¡± The employee catches his breath, holding his cybernetic arm. ¡°I monitored it. This isn¡¯t normal.¡± ¡°Liar,¡± Obadele says. ¡°If it was up to code, it wouldn¡¯t have malfunctioned, yes?¡± ¡°Look,¡± the employee says, getting loud but not quite shouting, ¡°my cyberware is up-to-date. I didn¡¯t skip out on that. There¡¯s something jamming signals in here. Think about it: the crane malfunctioning, the mislabelled crate, and now this. Something¡¯s goin¡¯ on, Mr. Kanyama.¡± My heart races, faster than ever. Obadele snatches the employee¡¯s arm and inspects it. ¡°Hey,¡± he says, shouting now. ¡°Let off man. You can¡¯t do that!¡± He keeps scanning the man¡¯s arm, possibly wanting to identify any abnormalities or outdated hardware. ¡°Mr. Kanyama. Please sir¡ª¡± ¡°Shut your mouth, eh?¡± says Obadele. ¡°So long as you¡¯re working for me, I can do whatever I damn want with you. You don¡¯t forget, Jesu, you¡¯re just noise that blew up from the southside. You are lucky I even let you in this place at all, ah. You¡¯re nothing but a cog in my machine. A speck of dirt I keep around for convenience. So, don¡¯t get smart with me, ah. You hear me, boy?¡± Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. The employee opens his mouth, but Obadele holds up a hand, cutting him off. ¡°Don¡¯t 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. You¡¯re 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 isn¡¯t just anger¡ªit¡¯s something more primal, something bred from years of watching the world play out in predictable, ugly cycles. He lets go of the employee¡¯s arm. ¡°Now, get out of my sight. Down to Tier 7 and monitor the workers, and don¡¯t forget where you came from.¡± His eyes don¡¯t shift from the employee¡¯s face, and for a moment, the smaller man looks as though he might argue. But he doesn¡¯t. 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 didn¡¯t realise there was such a sense of classism to certain individuals. I¡¯m guessing that these workers from the southside are paid significantly less than their northern counterparts. Terrible. Absolute robbery¡ªa 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 wasn¡¯t just degrading that southsider¡¯s 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 isn¡¯t about finding a way to climb, but about finding a way to burn the whole damn ladder down. Though, that¡¯s a fight for someone braver than me, stronger than me, smarter than me. Someone with more at stake than survival. I just need money¡ªthat¡¯s 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. It¡¯s 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, it¡¯s 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 shouldn¡¯t 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 it¡¯s 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 I¡¯m faced with a different screen this time, one I¡¯ve 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
It¡¯s a firewall. Fuck, this isn¡¯t 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 don¡¯t know how to crack this. I¡¯m sorry¡ª¡± ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± Fingers says. ¡°And stop saying ¡®sorry¡¯, for fuck¡¯s sake. You¡¯re 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. It¡¯s the same one I used to move the snake crate. I say, ¡°Yeah?¡± ¡°You¡¯re gonna pick it up again,¡± she continues, once again placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. ¡°You¡¯re 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 you¡¯re gonna drop it¡ªhard.¡± ¡°Won¡¯t that damage it?¡± I ask¡ªand cause a pretty significant crash, gathering the attention of the entire place, but I¡¯m not going to argue. ¡°It won¡¯t,¡± Fingers says, though I¡¯m not sure she¡¯s so certain about that based off her deprecatory tone. ¡°But that doesn¡¯t mean the personnel won¡¯t open it to give a look-around, to make sure everything is still intact, know? It sounds dumb, but we¡¯re 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 unit¡¯s dial-lock, use ¡®Server Locator¡¯, and track the red line all the way over to the grated metal platform. It leads right into Obadele¡¯s 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 I¡¯ll 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¡ª ¡®Off.¡¯ The snake crate falls immediately, crashing with an enormous, earth-shattering clang. It¡¯s 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 Obadele¡¯s 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 he¡¯d belittled. ¡°You.¡± He grabs him by the vest. ¡°Go up to my office and turn on ¡®operator mode¡¯. You¡¯re going to take over the claws tonight until we figure out what¡¯s 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 isn¡¯t 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 android¡¯s vocal emitter. Its eyes fizzle 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 it¡ªa 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 doesn¡¯t move from his spot. Shit! That didn¡¯t 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 back¡ªnot 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 A loud slash, followed by a crack. The employee¡¯s 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 worker¡¯s skull, finishing the job, then stands up. The illuminated line across its face blinks 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. Obadele¡¯s voice cracks, fury giving way to disbelief. It doesn¡¯t stop. The AI isn¡¯t malfunctioning. It can¡¯t 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. Given Maelstrom¡¯s 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 bot¡¯s 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 the 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 don¡¯t have much time.¡± She¡¯s 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. It¡¯s suspended about seven feet above the railing¡ªtoo high to jump¡ªso I take control of the claw, guiding it down until it¡¯s 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 it¡¯s clearly not far from its end. If he looks up just once, even for a moment, we¡¯re as good as caught. We step into the snake crate, finding that a lot of the stuff inside¡ªpallets of coiled tubing, industrial hoses, and stacks of reinforced steel plates¡ªhas 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 we¡¯re forced to shift some of the debris aside. It¡¯s noisy, but not enough to drown out the low hum of the magnet beneath us. The hum doesn¡¯t 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 don¡¯t 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. It¡¯s 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. It¡¯s 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. There¡¯s no way for us to keep that invisible¡ªthe pockets in the anti-fibre suit simply aren¡¯t large enough to accommodate such size¡ªmeaning 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, it¡¯s 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 we¡¯re 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 crate¡¯s opening. He scowls, teeth grinding, his eyes flashing that same eerie shade of blue I¡¯ve seen so many times before, on Li Wei, on Rico. ¡°Rats,¡± he shouts. ¡°Southsider rats!¡± I¡¯m 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 magnet¡¯s 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¡ª Whoosh! We¡¯re 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. We¡¯re 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 I¡¯m 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. We¡¯re stuck to the steel plate which is in turn stuck to the bed of the magnet. The claw repositions itself until we¡¯re 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 doesn¡¯t have a scowl on his face anymore; he¡¯s 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. Weren¡¯t 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 smuggle illegal cargo out of the state, ahhhhh?¡± Fingers says, mimicking his accent. ¡°Your operation won¡¯t last long. Only a matter of time before the blues show up and catch on. Faulty androids, mislabelled cargo? You¡¯re a shoo-in for the slammer.¡± He laughs, the rain from the flood gates passing over him. It¡¯s stronger now, heavier, but his perfectly coiffed slickback remains untouched. ¡°You really believe the warriors are coming, eh? You¡¯re as foolish as they say, isn¡¯t 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 don¡¯t 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 don¡¯t realise we could crush it all if we wanted, eh? All of it.¡± ¡°You won¡¯t destroy a damn thing,¡± Fingers snaps, her voice sharp and unflinching. ¡°You think you¡¯re some big shot, strutting around with your fancy implants and your shiny tech, but the truth is, you¡¯re nothing. No more powerful than us, no more important. Hell, you can be replaced tomorrow¡ªprobably already have a replacement lined up, just waiting to slide into your spot. But you cling to this, don¡¯t 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, you¡¯ll be shaking. Terrified they¡¯ll toss you down here with the rest of us. You¡¯re scared. Just another coward in a cheap suit pretending to be untouchable.¡± Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. ¡°Heh. As if you know anything about a corporate structure,¡± he says. ¡°But it¡¯s 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. ¡°I¡¯m going to kill you and take the money. Both of you.¡± He suddenly scans me, the green eye twisting. ¡°Hm. Why is that? Why is it that you are... dead?¡± I scan him back, particularly the gauntlet. Short-circuiting him isn¡¯t 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¡¯. ¡°I¡¯m not,¡± I say, selecting ¡®Delete¡¯ on the claw holding us, watching as the bar zips up to 100%. ¡°But you¡¯re 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. He¡¯s fast, unnervingly fast. ¡°You want to do things the hard way, then?¡± Obadele¡¯s green visor flashes in sharp intervals, scanning us, calculating. ¡°Fine.¡± 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 he¡¯s the master conductor of this mechanical orchestra. The other three whip along the ceiling¡¯s 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 Obadele¡¯s will. He grins down at us, fearless, his gauntlet glowing brighter. ¡°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 doesn¡¯t. It beeps in defiance. Shit. Bullets being fired in the distance. Fingers. She¡¯s distracting him. I have to be careful here. She doesn¡¯t have any quick-hacks or spoofing software, so if she gets caught, I¡¯ll 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 right when I¡¯m 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 don¡¯t 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 I¡¯m 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 don¡¯t let the claw recover this time; instead, I step onto the 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. He¡¯s 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 can¡¯t attack him directly, I¡¯ll 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, crimson red. Sparks erupt from its joints like fireworks, spraying molten flecks in every direction. The stabilising pistons scream under the strain, jerking and misfiring, 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 while he tries to regain control, frantically inputting commands, but the claw ignores him, convulsing in a digital seizure. Then the central mechanism snaps, sending a plume of smoke and sparks into the air. The claw¡¯s pincers spasm, opening and closing in erratic bursts before locking halfway open, trembling, the internal systems failing one by one. The platform tips suddenly, forcing Obadele to grip the edge to keep from being flung off. Sparks rain down around him, but he''s still out of sight. Can''t get a good shot on him. So, instead 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 couldn¡¯t be continuously used without some sort of limitation. ¡°You¡¯re 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¡ª An organiser claw whips towards her, looming over her with 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 he¡¯s smart: he moves behind the pistons for cover. 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 Obadele¡¯s gauntlet. It¡¯s interesting. In theory, he should only be able to control one claw at a time, but somehow, he¡¯s able to control them all, even when faced away from them. The speed of the claw faced away from him, however, is slower, more mechanical in nature, as it scans the area in search of Fingers. If it¡¯s not controlled by Obadele, and it¡¯s 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 doesn¡¯t just lead to Obadele¡¯s 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; it¡¯s in there. That¡¯s the solution: get to the server room and disconnect all the claws, then he¡¯s a sitting duck, with no visible weaponry to protect himself. That employee won¡¯t 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, that¡¯s no surprise. Thankfully, it holds under my weight, and I make for the hallway by the stairwell, but when I¡¯m about to head inside, the door slides shut. I look back and see Obadele pointing his gauntlet at it. ¡°Oh, you think I¡¯m that stupid, ah?¡± He¡¯s close now, very close, so close that¡ª A claw whips down and strikes me in the left shoulder, knocking my entire body to the side and into the wall. ¡°Vitals low,¡± the voice in my head says. ¡°Activating emergency protocols.¡± Electricity surges through my body, pumping adrenaline, but I feel weak, very weak, too weak to even stand. I try to activate my spoofer again, but this time it doesn¡¯t 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. It¡¯s been knocked out. I¡¯m 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, because moments later the magnet begins to pull against her. It¡¯s high up, so she¡¯s not completely ripped apart, thank goodness, but it¡¯s clear she¡¯s not going to last very long either. ¡°You¡¯re 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. Pathetic dirt. But don¡¯t worry, eh. I¡¯ll make sure you stay dead. For. Ever.¡± Obadele¡¯s 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. The magnetic force grips every piece of metal in my body, stretching my limbs outwards. 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, I¡¯m terrified; after having been given another chance to live, by what I can only assume is the luck of God, I¡¯d 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 I¡¯m dropped on top of a crate stack, gasping for air. I look up, and the claws aren¡¯t responding to Obadele¡¯s movements. The claw on which he stands suddenly jerks forward, kicking him off, onto the platform. ¡°What?¡± he shouts. ¡°This isn¡¯t right. Obey your master!¡± But the claws don¡¯t. 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 ship¡¯s intercom: ¡°You were right, sir.¡± The employee. ¡°Don¡¯t you dare, Jesu,¡± says Obadele. ¡°What do you think you¡¯re doing?¡± He 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. Another claw moves in close, its pincers poised. ¡°You traitor,¡± Obadele roars. ¡°You¡ª¡± 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 sputtering back to green in my neural HUD. I climb over to the edge, looking down at him. The claws descend and jerk sharply, pulling Obadele¡¯s 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. His legs give next, bones shattering under the immense pressure. Obadele¡¯s scream falters, choking off, his body finally ripping 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 head descending through the flood gates. ¡°You¡¯ll 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.¡± Never stop fighting... He just... saved me, my life, our lives.... The intercom fizzles out, and all I can hear is 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. It¡¯s time to get the fuck out of here. currents beneath steel - 4.5 4.5 I drop down from the crate stack, landing in a slight hunch, my body tense. Fingers waits by the claw, gripping the Ourovane case tightly by the handle. Her suit, like mine, is too damaged to recoup its energy reserves and maintain invisibility. This is going to make getting out of here a lot harder, especially with that employee¡¯s warning about security on the way. And Fingers looks hurt, leaning on the conveyor hose atop the crane head, catching her breath. She pulls the MX-3 inhaler from her pocket and lifts it to her face. The synthetic skin over her mouth peels back, revealing thin, bloody lips. She takes a deep pull, the vapour hissing as it fills her lungs. A small shudder runs through her before she coughs, shaking it off. The suit seals shut around her mouth again, and she looks at me. ¡°You okay?¡± I flex my arm awkwardly, gesturing towards the pouch on my left shoulder. ¡°Spoofer¡¯s disconnected. Need you to jack it in. I¡ªthis arm makes it difficult.¡± Fingers steps closer, pressing against the area where the spoofer sits. The anti-fibre skin reacts instantly, peeling away to expose the port. ¡°Is it broken?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think so.¡± It looks intact, probably just a loose wire, maybe dislodged by the magnet or jolted free from the electricity. Doesn¡¯t matter. I pull out my neural cord, and as Fingers inserts it into the spoofer, the connection stabilises. The skin warps back into place when she pushes the lead along my neck. I squint, seeing the same quick-hack list from before. Relief washes over me. If it had been wiped, we¡¯d be screwed, totally doomed. No way out except guns blazing, and we¡¯re in no shape for that. Fingers climbs back onto the crane head, and I follow her up. Using ¡®Manual Override¡¯, I guide it through the floodgates again, listening to it rumble to the top. Rain pounds down on us, relentless and heavy. The brewing storm lashes out with squalls so fierce they nearly knock us off, while the rain pelts our sides like tiny, nipping bullets. Below, the sea churns, heaving its black, foaming body against the hull of the cargo ship. It roars and snarls, each wave a clawed hand that slashes at the steel plating, trying to drag the colossus down into its maw. The ship groans in protest, its gargantuan frame lurching side to side like a drunkard trying to stay upright in a fistfight. The deck tilts sharply with every swell, creaking and listing and thud-thud-thud. Workers, both humans and androids, have evacuated, not a single one in sight, and farther south, where the other ships taper out and a set of squalid marinas sit moored to piers, I see strange lights¡ªthose lights. Drones. They¡¯re approaching, their red blinkers cutting through the mist like warnings from the underworld. This time they¡¯re not looking to scan material. They¡¯re looking for us. I grab Fingers by the shoulder and pull her behind the centre hose of the crane head, keeping out of sight from the drones. Although they are a good distance away and move rather slowly, they likely have infrared scanning technology that can detect abnormalities from a mile away. She notices them, too. I look towards the terminal, finding most of the workers scattered about like yellow ants, their supervisors on the holo, calling for security. All we have to do is stay clear, stay low, and ride the crane head towards the terminal, lower it down, and wait for the perfect opportunity to¡ª The crane head suddenly halts, and the conveyor pulley pops, sending a plume of smoke and electricity into the air. ¡°What happened?¡± Fingers says, her voice panicked. I try to bring the crane head back to life, but my spoofer blinks with a red message: ERROR: **XR-HT3000 Series 1** CIRCUIT FAILURE. PROCESSING INCOMPATIBLE. The circuits. The employee had mentioned there was a problem with them. Not good. Not good at all. ¡°The crane head,¡± I say. ¡°It malfunctioned.¡± She flails a frustrated arm. ¡°You¡¯ve got to be fucking shitting me,¡± she says. ¡°Now, of all fucking times?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± I point to my neural port. ¡°It won¡¯t hack if it¡¯s broken. The spoofer doesn¡¯t respond.¡± ¡°What?¡± she says. ¡°What kind of shitty model is that?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know!¡± I say, unsure of how to reply. ¡°It¡¯s just¡ªit doesn¡¯t work that way. And I hate to rush, but those drones are gonna be here any minute and we¡¯re sitting ducks.¡± Fingers peeks around the side of the crane head, groaning, wondering, thinking. She takes a step up on the side of the crane head, holding one of the pistons for support, tugging on the conveyor like some dead cable. She runs her hand along the crane pulley itself, then looks over at the sea, then once again back at the approaching drones. ¡°Okay,¡± she says. ¡°I have an idea, but you might not like it.¡± I clear my throat. ¡°What?¡± ¡°The crane pulley.¡± She points at it, at its long body which extends the entire way down to the terminal. Then she points to the side of the cargo ship, where the water swirls and clashes, foams and sloshes, up and around and back and forth. There¡¯s a jetty between this ship and the other, with a ladder leading into it. The wooden planks are warped from years of salt and sun, dark stains marking places where seawater has pooled and dried in endless cycles. A set of rusted metal stairs leads up from the jetty to the terminal above, their edges lined with algae and chipped paint. To the right of the stairs, a massive sewer pipe juts out from the concrete wall, its grated mouth yawning over the water below. Thick bars block anything, or anyone, from slipping inside, but the rot still seeps out. A steady trickle of murky water drips from its underside, spilling against the waves in rhythmic splashes. The dark liquid disperses into the sea, mixing with the foam before vanishing into the current. Fingers focuses on the jetty. ¡°We get down there, we swim across, we climb up the other side,¡± she says, more to herself than to me. I stare at the sewer pipe, then at the swirling mess of water between the ships. ¡°You want us to swim in that?¡± Fingers looks at me, and I can tell, even through the suit, that she¡¯s glaring. ¡°Unless you¡¯ve got a better idea.¡± ¡°How do you expect us to jump in?¡± I say. ¡°The crane isn¡¯t positioned over the water, and this ship is way too damn big for us to hop.¡± ¡°Rotate the crane,¡± she says, pointing to the pulley. ¡°Position it above the water. We jump, we swim, we climb.¡± ¡°And if we get carried away by the waves?¡± ¡°The waves are pushing against the breakwater,¡± she says. ¡°Look.¡± I follow her finger, squinting past the mist rising off the sea. In front of the sewer outflow, where the harbour wall meets the water, a heap of massive rocks juts out. They¡¯re haphazardly stacked, some half-submerged, others jutting up at odd angles, their surfaces worn smooth from the endless clash of tide and storm. The waves slam against them, curling white foam over their edges before rolling back into the sea. The breakwater does its job well: redirecting the current, keeping the worst of the surge away from the docks. But the water here is still a mess, churning between the ships, sloshing against the rocks, twisting and pulling in unpredictable swells. ¡°The water is pushing against the breakwater,¡± she repeats. ¡°We need to ride the current towards the ladder. Worst case scenario: we use the rocks to climb.¡± It¡¯s definitely an idea I don¡¯t like¡ªit¡¯s a high fall and I¡¯m not sure I can swim with only one arm¡ªbut what choice do we have? Fingers nudges me. ¡°There¡¯s not much time.¡± She¡¯s right. We¡¯re stuck up here otherwise. Seeing no other option, I use ¡®Manual Override¡¯ on the crane itself, select ¡®Rotate¡¯, and watch as it slowly positions itself over the rough waters. It¡¯s high, very high, more than fifty metres. I look over at the blinking drones and see that they¡¯re practically already over the smuggle ship, sweeping their red scanners all along the docks and crates. One of them approaches the crane. It¡¯s on to us. Fingers tucks the Ourovane case between her arms. ¡°Fall straight,¡± she says. ¡°In three... two... one....¡± I take a deep breath. A bit of silence. Then, Fingers says, ¡°Jump!¡± We leap off the crane and plunge fifty-some metres to the sea. When it hits, it hits hard. The water doesn¡¯t welcome me: it slams into my skin, a cold, crushing force that knocks the breath straight from my lungs. For a moment, there¡¯s nothing but chaos. The world twists, turns, tumbles. My body flips, weightless and directionless, swallowed whole. The water bubbles and plugs my ears, even through the suit, muffling everything into a deep, humming silence. My heart pounds, each beat a dull thud inside my chest. The cold seeps in fast, wrapping around my limbs, tightening, numbing. I kick, but the sea drags at me, thick and heavy, as if wanting to keep me. Pressure builds in my head, in my ribs. I need to breathe. I need to get up. I beat against the waves, struggling to fix my sight on the surface above. Through the spoofer''s neural display, the LED encryptions along the ship¡¯s stern flicker in coded bursts of green. Ahead, the safety ladder dips into the water, barely visible between the chop of the waves. Fingers is almost there, the Ourovane case held high above her head as she kicks, angling her body to ride the current towards the jetty. I follow suit, stretching out, arm upright, kicking hard. The water batters me from every direction, reckless, wild, but there¡¯s a rhythm to it, a push-and-pull I can work with. I clench my fist. Instantly, the anti-fibre plating over my forearm peels away, retracting like liquid metal. My mantisblade unfurls, long, curved, and heavy. The weight shifts me, just enough. The propulsion of the mechanism acts against the current, a stabilising force. I flex and unflex, small, sharp adjustments, feeling the drag and pull of water against steel. Every movement tilts me, angles me, guides me. The ladder draws closer. The current shifts, fighting back. I tighten my grip, flick my wrist, let the blade¡¯s momentum cut through the resistance. Closer. Closer. My fingers brush wet metal. I seize the rung, hold tight, and pull myself up. The ladder jerks under my grip, slick with brine and rust. My knuckles tighten as I cling to it. The waves don¡¯t want to let go. They crash against my legs, dragging, pulling, urging me back into the depths. But I grit my teeth and haul myself upwards, foot searching blindly for the next rung. It¡¯s difficult, especially with only one arm, but I manage, even if just barely. Then, as I¡¯m about to reach the top of the wooden jetty and pull myself above the surface, a powerful current pounces forward, threatening to drag me towards the rocks of the breakwater, but something, a hand, swoops in and catches my arm. I look up and see the shadow of Fingers through the blue haze of my scanner. She pulls me up, using both arms, pressing her leg against the steel safety rail for support. Soon, I¡¯m out of the sea, and water oozes from the suit. I gasp and crawl on to my side. ¡°You still in one piece?¡± Fingers says, catching her breath, too. Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. It takes me a bit to respond. Eventually, through the stormy winds, I say, ¡°Do you have the case? Is it okay?¡± Fingers reaches down next to me and picks up the case. I didn¡¯t even notice it. ¡°Yeah,¡± she says. ¡°Yeah, it is. But you gotta pick yourself up and move. Our suits won¡¯t work, not in this weather. Rain¡¯s too heavy, and it¡¯s too damaged, so we¡¯ll have to be careful.¡± ¡°Is the place on lockdown, do you think?¡± She shakes her head. ¡°Depends who they called security on. If it¡¯s the rogue bot, no need to lock the terminal down. If it¡¯s us? Maybe. Doesn¡¯t matter.¡± She nods. ¡°What matters is you getting off your ass and using that spoofer.¡± She extends a hand. I take it. With a firm pull, she hauls me to my feet. ¡°It still working?¡± I nod back at her. ¡°Yeah, works fine in the water, too.¡± ¡°Good,¡± she says. ¡°Watch out for any cameras, disconnect them when needed, and for God¡¯s sake, don¡¯t draw any attention.¡± A difficult ask, especially with no invisibility, but I do my best to abide by her words. We head up the metal stairwell leading to the terminal, watching the drones scan the cargo ship overhead, looking like nothing but red glisters through the smog. When we reach the top and see the open shipyard of cargo containers, android units, and those supervisors in black, I scan a camera attached to a datamine watch terminal and use ¡®Server Locator¡¯ to link all the cameras in the area. The infrared mode is fully operational on each and every one of them. Not that it matters now, though it¡¯s likely to make identifying anomalies that little bit easier. Still, it¡¯s possible to follow the same route as before, so I lead Fingers through the maze of containers, pulling us to the side whenever an android passes by on its tracked base. When the time comes and there¡¯s no possible way to go without alerting a camera, I turn it off with ¡®Manual Override¡¯, moving on to the next tier, and to the next, and to the next. It takes some focus, but eventually we manage to make it back to the loading gate where trucks normally pull through, and thankfully it¡¯s still open. I disconnect the camera linked to a nearby watch terminal, exhale slowly, and step forward. Almost there. Almost free from this Godforsaken hellhole. Then, a low, thrumming roar cuts through the night. I grab Fingers and yank her behind a nearby dumpster just as a massive shape emerges from beyond the gate. An aerodyne. Its twin thrusters burn hot, kicking up swirling eddies of dust and rain as it hovers above the yard. The angular hull, reinforced with composite plating, bears the unmistakable insignia of the security division¡ª¡°Meridian Transport Patrol.¡± Its underbelly bristles with sensor arrays, a forward-mounted turret tracking in idle sweeps. From the shipyard, a supervisor points towards the cargo ship, shouting something inaudible over the engines. A confirmation blip flashes across the cockpit¡¯s external display. Then, with a tilt of its nose, the aerodyne shifts course and surges towards the ship, its thrusters flaring bright as it accelerates into the haze. I press my back against the dumpster, heart hammering. That must be them. Wasting no time, we head back through the gate, leaving this place once and for all. We keep running, checking back every couple of seconds, just in case someone spots us on the way out, but it looks like we¡¯re in the clear. There¡¯s a road leading off to the far left that wraps around most of the district¡ªI presume designed for carriers and trucks¡ªwhile the right breaks off into the apartment complex where we¡¯d initially observed the terminal yesterday, as well as, of course, the market. We crouch under a gap in the gate between a pair of rusty bins, heading back to the market sprawl, where patrons rush past one another in heaping riptides. An easy place to get lost in, to hide in. We weave through the crowd, moving fast but not too fast. The bodies pressing in around us provide cover, but they also slow us down. A group of street kids dart between stalls, those damn kids, their hands quick, lifting credchips and microdrives from distracted customers. A woman with augmented arms flexes chrome-plated fingers, bartering aggressively with a vendor over a combat mod. Somewhere in the distance, a gunshot cracks the air. No one flinches. A towering Oni-faced man, his mask painted in blood-red glyphs, stands watch over a gambling den, his glowing eyes sweeping the market, just looking for trouble. A pair of gang-affiliated fixers loiter near a noodle stand, their coats lined with hidden holsters, exchanging low murmurs between bites. Fingers nudges me. ¡°This way.¡± She ducks under a string of hanging lanterns, cutting through a narrow alley wedged between two vendor stalls. It leads away from the main sprawl. Away from prying eyes. I cast one last glance behind us. The market rages on, oblivious. We disappear into the shadows. On we go, steadily now, keeping pace. When we reach the parking lot, I¡¯m delighted to see Fingers¡¯ Fragment Roamer parked untouched between two lines. It¡¯s a relief, and as we step inside, away from this bastard storm, I realise, with enormous, skin-tingling satisfaction, that we¡¯ve done it. The job: it¡¯s finished, and that hundred grand is ours. Fingers places the Ourovane case under her seat, starts the engine up, and puts it into gear. She takes off, and soon we¡¯re out onto the main street again, heading back towards the Old Mill. ¡°Holy shit,¡± I say, excited. ¡°We¡ªthat¡¯s it. We¡¯re out, Fingers!¡± ¡°That we are, Mono,¡± she says, not bothering to indicate at her turns. She tugs the head of her suit down, revealing her neck and collarbone, damp with seawater. Strands of wet cyan hair cling to her skin, the glow of the dashboard lights catching in the soaked locks, making them shimmer elegantly. A few loose strands hang over her face, sticking to the curve of her cheek and the bridge of her nose, swaying slightly with each sharp swerve of the jeep. Her lips are split, a thin smear of blood tracing from the corner of her mouth down to her chin. She licks it away absently, eyes fixed on the road ahead. The cut isn¡¯t deep, just enough to sting, I bet, but she doesn¡¯t seem to care. I watch her knuckles tighten on the wheel, the subtle rise and fall of her shoulders as she exhales. The city lights streak past the rain-slick windshield, smearing neon reflections across her face. She grins, teeth flashing through the blood. ¡°We¡¯ll talk about the job later,¡± she says. ¡°You did good out there, but you have some weaknesses. Some issues that need ironing out. Things I don¡¯t wanna see you do again.¡± I nod. ¡°Yeah, I admit I messed up a lot.¡± ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± she says. ¡°You¡¯re new, at least from what you tell me. But you gotta remember: it¡¯s my life on the line out there, too. Not just yours.¡± She has a point there. I really should have stopped arguing with her so much. ¡°I understand.¡± She pats my shoulder, taking another turn. ¡°Zip that down. You¡¯re making me nervous.¡± I chuckle, unzipping the head of the suit and letting the damp fabric fall loose. Flipping down the passenger-side sun visor, I glance into the mirror. My reflection stares back: blood smeared at the corner of my mouth, hair a tangled mess. The vitals display on my HUD says I¡¯m fine, and more importantly, I¡¯ll live. Still, I really could use a haircut. Fingers mentioned it looked wild the other night, and she wasn¡¯t wrong. Something short, maybe. Tight at the sides, practical. Nothing that could get yanked in a fight or caught in machinery. Yeah, that¡¯d make sense. Then there¡¯s the issue with the wire connecting to the spoofer. I can¡¯t let that disconnect again. It¡¯s too important, too influential, to my ability to perform. I¡¯ll see what can be done. What was it Fingers once said? That some people embedded spoofers in their systems as a cybernetic implant? Though, of course, she also mentioned it came with risks, big risks. Still, it¡¯s not like I can live like this, asking someone to pop my neural wire back into place every time it unplugs. Definitely a puzzler. After forty-five minutes or so, we make it back to the Old Mill on the south side, across the canal, park up, and head inside to get dressed before meeting Rico at Flux. Fingers had sent him a text on the way, that she¡¯d gotten the material, and he was delighted, wanted to meet up as soon as possible, as did we. Fingers doesn¡¯t break stride as we approach the entrance. She presses her car key beneath the square intercom, the device giving a soft, affirmative beep before the reinforced door unlocks with a mechanical click. We move quickly, our footsteps echoing against the worn floor panels. The hallway stretches ahead, narrow and utilitarian, lined with doorways leading to forgotten storage rooms and abandoned units. At the far end, the large elevator waits, its rusted steel doors marked with that same marking THE BLUES FUCK US RAW!!! We catch it down to Dash Two and step into the foyer, expecting silence, but instead, I find three figures gathered around the central coffee table. Dance, Cormac, and Vander. The room is dim, as always, the only light coming from the flickering screens mounted on the walls, casting harsh shadows across their faces. Dance Fletcher, the spoofer reveals his true name to be, is hunched forward, a finger pressed to his temple, eyes narrowed in intense focus. In front of him on the table is a small spider-robot, its legs twitching with mechanical precision as it skitters across the surface, making soft clicking sounds. The spider pauses, then moves again, its metal limbs climbing down and tapping against the floor, effortlessly defying gravity as it mounts to a wall and climbs up. Cormac O¡¯Cormac¡ªwhat a name¡ªleans back in his chair, lengthy steel arms hugging himself, watching with mild amusement. His oversized, yellow oilcoat drapes to the ankles, edges frayed and weathered. Vander Sinclair stands beside him, his foot tapping restlessly, eyes scanning the tiny bot as it ascends the wall. His expression is less entertained and more impressed, though it¡¯s hard to tell if he¡¯s still adjusting to the novelty or just calculating how best to use it. His hair is still tied back into that ponytail, and those lips are still shining with blue. ¡°What is that?¡± Fingers yells through their laughter. Dance doesn¡¯t miss a beat. He doesn¡¯t even look up as he responds, still guiding the spider bot with a finger to his temple. ¡°Ah, this little beauuuuuuuty is a HexaMite Model 82: military-grade, stealth chassis, composite graphene frame. The legs are all servo-driven with high-torque actuators, so it can crawl, jump, even stick to walls, like you¡¯re seeing. The whole rig¡¯s powered by a lithium-silicon core, pretty efficient for its size, mate.¡± He grins, eyes flashing as the bot flips mid-air, landing with precision on the far side of the room. Like a cat, it always lands on its feet. Fingers and I head into the red room and start taking our suits off, becoming butt-naked. As we get dressed into our other clothes, Fingers says, ¡°And how did you afford that?¡± ¡°Didn¡¯t,¡± Dance says. ¡°Stole it.¡± Fingers suddenly stops putting her top on and walks into the foyer again wearing nothing but pants. She looks at Dance, her arms spread wide in confusion. ¡°You stole it? What are you talking about?¡± ¡°I got a lead, madame,¡± says Cormac, standing up to his enormous height, steepling his fingers. He splays them out as he talks, his voice taking on a slow, calculated rhythm, each word dripping with that eerie, British lilt. ¡°Hm, yes. You see, it wasn¡¯t exactly stolen per se. More like, liberated. A bit of... creative acquisition.¡± He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considers his words. ¡°I¡¯d been tracking a delivery route for weeks, oh yes, I have. The HexaMite Model 82 was making its way through the underground, through a secure transport node. Some fancy corporate types wanted it, but didn¡¯t realise the value of the tech they were hauling.¡± Fingers lets her arms hang at her sides. Then she starts putting her top on. ¡°You guys... I told you, it¡¯s not safe to go on these big jobs alone.¡± ¡°Well, you sure survived your big job, didn¡¯tcha mate?¡± Dance says. ¡°I wuddn¡¯t there with you. Cormac wuddn¡¯t there with you. Vander wuddn¡¯t there with you. You got on fine, ay? Although a bit bloody. Otherwise, you¡¯re fine, ay?¡± ¡°This was a two-person job,¡± Fingers says, fixing the T-shirt over her somewhat muscular shoulders. ¡°Any more and it could have messed things up. Besides, how are you controlling that thing? You¡¯re a chemist, not a netrunner.¡± Dance removes a data shard from his temple, looking at her with his lips pressed tightly in a straight line. ¡°Don¡¯t have to be. Manual shard. Can control it as long as it¡¯s in range.¡± Fingers tightens her belt. ¡°And the range is?¡± ¡°Fifty metres,¡± he says. ¡°Still need er a netrunner to have any sert of prergress,¡± says Vander, crossing his arms and standing with perfect posture. He¡¯s so clean-shaven, yet he looks like the sort of man that would do well with a beard. ¡°I knew the routes this convoy takes, having er worked for some of der engineerin¡¯ programmes. Used to manufacture some of the bots myself.¡± ¡°You were an engineer?¡± I ask. Vander nods. ¡°Thirteen years. Manufactured androids, mainly. Even used to er help out with new designs from Techstrum.¡± ¡°I presume you didn¡¯t work for them directly then,¡± I say. He smirks. ¡°Ner, definitely not. Hard place to crack into in general, ¡¯specially for a young southsider. I¡¯m not that old, only forty. Need fancy education, like masters and PhDs. I didn¡¯t have no time or money for that. Just learned the trade.¡± Fingers juts in. ¡°Still, you guys managed to pull it off? How?¡± ¡°Hm, yes,¡± says Cormac, approaching Fingers closely, tapping his fingers together. ¡°It was all simple, really. Wasn¡¯t hard to slip in. A few well-placed distractions, mhm, a subtle, almost imperceptible diversion.... And just like that, I was in. Took the bot right off the truck, tucked it under my coat like a baby.¡± He smiles at the memory, his teeth a little too white, a little too sharp. ¡°Not a single soul noticed. Not until after I was long gone, of course. By then, I was sipping tea and admiring my spoil.¡± ¡°You...¡± says Fingers, struggling to find words. She groans. ¡°Look, at least you guys are okay. Mono and I: we got the material. Just gotta meet the fixer and cash in and then we¡¯re done.¡± I slip on the last bits of clothing, placing the spoofer on the coffee table in the red room next to Raze¡¯s ashtray. ¡°Yeah, it was¡ªwell, I wouldn¡¯t wanna do it again. Probably smell like seawater.¡± ¡°More like sewer water, mate,¡± Dance quips, grabbing the spider bot and carefully placing it back into its containment case. He snaps it shut. ¡°Looks like you took a beatin¡¯, too. Come see me later if needed. Cool worms, Mono.¡± ¡°Cool worms,¡± I repeat, the words sounding strange as they leave my mouth. ¡°You dressed?¡± Fingers asks, eyeing me up and down. ¡°Alright, good. Come on.¡± She grabs the Ourovane case by the handle and strides towards the door. I start to follow her, but just as I reach the threshold, a cold hand lands on my shoulder. I turn to find Cormac standing there, his arm extended out creepily, a grin stretched across his face. ¡°She left her keys behind,¡± he says, pointing towards the red room. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t want to forget those, now, would she?¡± I glance at him, unsettled by his gaze, and then back at the room. He¡¯s just standing there, grinning like it¡¯s all a joke. He¡¯s quite disturbing, I must say. I step into the red room, grab the keys, and turn to meet Fingers, leaving the place behind as we head out to meet Rico and collect our money. After all, we earned it. currents beneath steel - 4.6 4.6 It¡¯s pushing two in the morning when we finally reach Flux, early enough for the city¡¯s 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 yesterday¡¯s trash. There¡¯s 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; it¡¯s off-limits, I¡¯m sure, not meant to be driven in, but it¡¯s 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 don¡¯t 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 Tatum¡¯s watchful glare. It doesn¡¯t take long. Looks like he¡¯s 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, it¡¯s 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. It¡¯s 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, they¡¯ll 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 people¡¯s 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. ¡°Don¡¯t 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 didn¡¯t go so smooth?¡± Fingers takes another sip of the drink. ¡°That obvious, eh? Didn¡¯t 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 he¡¯s enjoying some private joke. ¡°Netrunners are netrunners for a reason. They ain¡¯t like your average street tough, ain¡¯t out here makin¡¯ noise, flashin¡¯ chrome, beggin¡¯ to get noticed. They stay in the dark, buried in the code, pullin¡¯ strings where no one¡¯s lookin¡¯. You don¡¯t see ¡¯em till they wants you to¡ªby then, you¡¯re 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 don¡¯t 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 wrist¡ªthe 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 didn¡¯t 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 don¡¯t 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, who¡¯s 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. ¡°I¡¯m wondering if you know something about it.¡± He hums curiously. ¡°Well, send it my way. I¡¯ll take a look. My number¡¯s 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. ¡°That¡¯s 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 he¡¯s trying to read through the smudges of time. ¡°This ain¡¯t just a random shot from The Scrubs. This goes way back, half a century at least. Those faces? You¡¯d think they¡¯re long gone, dead, or buried somewhere nobody cares to look. But there¡¯s 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 didn¡¯t just vanish. Some of these faces¡ªhell, one of these faces¡ªI¡¯ve seen in old data banks. Ghosts. If I¡¯m right, most wasn¡¯t just killed; most was erased.¡± I swap seats, moving closer, staring at the picture with him. ¡°It¡¯s hard to explain,¡± I say. ¡°But I was.... I woke up in the circuitery. I¡¯ve 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 you¡¯re digging into The Scrubs¡¯ old ties, be careful. These people, even dead, have a way of pulling you into things you can¡¯t get out of. And if they was hiding something, you can bet it¡¯s 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. ¡°It¡¯s a very long story, and I¡¯s a very busy man.¡± ¡°Fuck it,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯ll 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 what¡¯s 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 you¡¯re invincible or... or whatever. People say it¡¯s 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 hint of old knowledge sparking behind his eyes. ¡°That¡¯s the public story. What they don¡¯t tell you is that Shine wasn¡¯t always what it seems. It was originally called Ghostfire¡ªbefore 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 who¡¯d 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 wasn¡¯t 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, what¡¯s this about memory loss? Why can¡¯t I remember who I am?¡± ¡°Ourovane are a crafty group,¡± Rico says. ¡°Are?¡± I repeat, still trying to wrap my head around the weight of what he¡¯s saying. ¡°You mean, they¡¯re still around?¡± He nods. ¡°Oh yeahs, they still exist. Very much so. The name might be buried deep in the underworld, but trust me, they¡¯re still pulling strings behind the scenes. And the funny thing is, they didn¡¯t just stop with Ghostfire. No, they dipped their toes into some other... interesting tech along the way. Memory storage. The kind of stuff that doesn¡¯t just hold data. Stores memories. Actual, living memories.¡± You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. I¡¯m 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 wasn¡¯t 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 wasn¡¯t 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 didn¡¯t 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.¡± Rico¡¯s smile is dark, almost grim. ¡°They was in the business of manipulating memories. Not just taking them: altering them. Imagine this: you¡¯ve 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 can¡¯t 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, it¡¯s possible they erased you, wiped you clean. Maybe they didn¡¯t want you to remember something, or maybe you knew too much. People disappear in The Scrubs all the time, but you¡ªyou¡¯re different. Whoever they was working with, they might¡¯ve decided you was a liability.¡± ¡°But... why? Why do this? Why take memories?¡± A deep breath. ¡°It wasn¡¯t 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 don¡¯t 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 I¡¯m goin¡¯ with this?¡± ¡°How do you know all of this, Rico?¡± asks Fingers. ¡°Maelstrom didn¡¯t spit a fuckin¡¯ word, and it¡¯s the first I¡¯ve heard of it.¡± ¡°Family¡¯s from The Scrubs,¡± he says. ¡°So, connections. A lot.¡± I point at the image on the phone, grabbing Rico¡¯s attention again. ¡°Where can I find them? This Ourovane?¡± He shrugs, a response I¡¯d been dreading. ¡°No shot in the dark, no lead. Somethin¡¯ happened, blues, and they¡¯re 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. It¡¯s the woman with the cotton jumpsuit and leather overtop, the crimson quiff. ¡°She¡¯s a pretty under-the-radar fixer in Paxson.¡± ¡°Paxson?¡± I say. ¡°That a place, a gang, or...?¡± ¡°It¡¯s a district,¡± Fingers juts in. I look at her and she¡¯s finishing off the last drops of the whiskey glass. ¡°Farther south again, along the borderlands. Technically outside N.A. Dry, rustic. Lot of tech surgeons.¡± ¡°What¡¯s 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 doesn¡¯t. It feels foreign, unfamiliar. Still, Rico¡¯s rundown on Ourovane and what happened in The Scrubs gives me more than I had before, even if it¡¯s 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 asshole¡¯s shelf or buried in a supercomputer. That is, if it hasn¡¯t been wiped out, erased after all these years of being forgotten. It¡¯s terrifying, but I can¡¯t just wait. My life¡¯s 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 it¡¯s fairly clean already, and stuffs the phone in his pocket. ¡°Nice chat, but I¡¯ve 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, we¡¯re 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 city¡¯s own nervous system laid bare. Fingers doesn¡¯t say much, just pulls up the hood on that rain jacket of hers, tucks her hands into the pockets, and walks like she¡¯s 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 jeep¡¯s 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 they¡¯ve been cannibalised for parts. The rain¡¯s 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 buzz of signs glitching, restless: like something waiting to break. Fingers beeps the jeep open and slips into the driver¡¯s seat. I hesitate to join her, standing there in the half-dark, breathing it all in. The weight of Rico¡¯s words still sits heavy in my gut, twisting, pulling. Whoever they was working with, they might¡¯ve 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 jeep¡¯s dashboard speaker. I don¡¯t catch all the details, just fragments of his voice breaking through the static, but the gist of it is clear: he¡¯s got a lead, another job, something that could pull all of us in. But I¡¯m too tired, drained to care, my skin sticky with sweat and my head spinning. I don¡¯t 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 there¡ªVander, Cormac, Dance¡ªthough this time that asshole Raze is there with them. Must have gotten a call or showed up late. He¡¯s got that same dark jacket on, the one that¡¯s seen better days, paired with a pair of faded blue jeans, the cigar clenched between his teeth like it¡¯s 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. Didn¡¯t 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. I¡¯d been expecting something rude, but I¡¯ll 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 Dance¡¯s shoulder, taps him lightly, then flips over his head. The metallic talon snatches a slice from the box. 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. ¡°You¡¯re 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 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, unsteady light across the cluttered space. ¡°Pretty,¡± says Vander. ¡°You got all sorts of crap under your belt, don¡¯t 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. ¡°We¡¯ve been keepin¡¯ an eye on a convoy movin¡¯ through the lower sectors. Word is, they¡¯re transportin¡¯ a batch of M-Gates: top-tier stuff. And exactly what we need. They ain¡¯t 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. ¡°Problem is, they¡¯re 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 I¡¯ve 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 don¡¯t 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 they¡¯re seein¡¯ and controllin¡¯ everything through the android¡¯s eyes. They¡¯re sittin¡¯ at the table, speakin¡¯ low, makin¡¯ deals in secret. It¡¯s way more secure than chattin¡¯ over the net. No one can tap into that.¡± Cormac¡¯s sharp eyes snap 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 they¡¯re not the one actually performing, yes. They¡¯re 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? It¡¯s the puppeteer, madame, making sure every movement, every glance is in perfect sync with the user¡¯s 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. It¡¯s not just a meeting. It¡¯s a show, and they¡¯re 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 it¡¯s a month away? The convoy?¡± ¡°Now you¡¯re listenin¡¯, mate.¡± Dance presses another button, and the hologram sputters before shifting, zooming in to show the convoy¡¯s 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. ¡°It¡¯ll happen during the Luminara festival,¡± Dance continues, pointing to the screen. ¡°Whole place¡¯s gonna be packed: celebrations, distractions. People won¡¯t even notice the convoy moving through. But that¡¯s where the problem is.¡± He pauses, fingers hovering over the controls. ¡°They¡¯ll pass through the north sector first. Tight security around the tech zones. But after that, the convoy heads to District 9 itself. That¡¯s 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 they¡¯re safe, slipping in unnoticed. But that¡¯s 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, fuck¡¯s 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 meeting¡¯s 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 I¡¯m 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. That¡¯ll 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?¡± ¡°Doesn¡¯t 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 they¡¯re workin¡¯. Cormac¡¯s good at that. Fingers, too. And hey, if you need someone to er blow something up....¡± Fingers chuckles. ¡°I like it. But it¡¯s far from perfect. I¡¯ll iron some of the details out with you, Dance. And guys: I¡¯d like to say something.¡± She stands, settling the holo-projector on the table. ¡°I know we¡¯ve got a month and everything and I might be sounding a little dramatic, but I really appreciate you all. The work you put in. I¡¯m 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.¡± ¡°How¡¯s your sister, Raze?¡± Raze¡¯s expression tightens for a moment, and he shifts his weight, looking down at his feet. ¡°Hangin¡¯ on. Docs say she¡¯s not outta the woods yet, but she¡¯s stronger than they thought. It¡¯s a battle, but she¡¯s 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 Raze¡¯s 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 anyone¡¯s got the strength, it¡¯s her.¡± ¡°Christ,¡± says Raze. ¡°Don¡¯t get all poetic on me, Corn.¡± They laugh. ¡°What about you, Monner?¡± a voice says, and it takes me a moment to realise it¡¯s 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 he¡¯s 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 you¡¯re inside, which can be convenient. Fitting, even. You see, it¡¯s got a bit of history to it, old bones creaking in the walls. No one ever stays too long, but I can promise you, it¡¯s got a certain... charm. Just don¡¯t ask why the last tenant left in such a hurry.¡± The air around him feels thicker, like a shadow clinging just out of sight. ¡°I¡¯ll, uh, I¡¯ll 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. ¡°I¡¯m 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 we¡¯ll fine-tune it. I¡¯ll keep you posted.¡± With that, we make our way back to elevator, ready to catch it up for a wash. I¡¯ll 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
Isolde Crane paced across the tiled walkway, trying to draw air out of a corridor that moments ago seemed to have plenty and now seemed to have none. The decorated wall panels flickered in their slow, rhythmic throb, golden veins threading through sterile white, yanking her forward with the gnarled grip of an eldritch gaoler. She rounded the corner, their glow tightening around her ribs, pressing her inward, inward, into the women¡¯s bathroom, into a stall, until she hit her knees and... and... RRRRRR-ETCH! The vomit slipped out so easily, a steady orange stream, and the light, those merciless hallway signs, followed her even here, pooling at her feet, licking at the stall door. Every Luminara was the same. The symbols, the gifts, the dancers: it all reminded Isolde of her, of what happened. Fifteen years, and It still knew her name. Isolde pushed herself up from the toilet bowl, gasping for breath. She tore a piece of tissue from the dispenser and wiped her face, her hands trembling. A quick glance down confirmed her lab coat was still spotless: crisp, clean, and white. Thank God. She had a meeting in two minutes. Which, in the corporate world, meant she was already eight minutes late. She steadied herself and stood, dabbing away the last traces of vomit around the toilet bowl before tossing the tissue in and flushing. A knock at the stall door. Then a feminine voice: ¡°You alright in there?¡± She exhaled, pressing a fresh tissue to her damp hands. ¡°I''m fine. Just give me a second, will you?¡± Her voice was soft but steady. She tossed the tissue into the swirling water and watched it disappear. After a moment, Isolde unlocked the stall and stepped out, coming face to face with a co-worker, one whose name she hadn¡¯t bothered to learn in all her fifteen years of working here. The woman worked in Biotics. Isolde, on the other hand, was the assistant lead in Neurochemical Integration. And if you knew anything about that field, you knew it wasn¡¯t the kind of job that let you have bad days. The woman, who didn¡¯t look a day over fifty-five, knitted her brows together, a clipboard grasped firmly in hand. ¡°You sure?¡± ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± Isolde repeated sharply, though the lingering taste of acid in her throat said otherwise. ¡°Just¡ªbad coffee this morning.¡± Her co-worker didn¡¯t look convinced, but she didn¡¯t press; she had her own places to be, after all. ¡°Well, alright then.¡± With that, the woman was on her way, out the door, back to whatever it was Biotics had planned for her. Isolde reached down to the side of the stall and grabbed her briefcase. She sighed, straightening up, then turned towards the long restroom mirror. Her reflection stared back at her: tired, pale, but functional. That would have to be enough. She smoothed a hand over her curly, brown shag cut, tucking a few stray strands behind her ear. The movement pulled at the skin on the back of her neck, where an old burn scar lay just at the nape, peeking out from beneath her collar. A reminder. Her fingers hesitated there for just a second before she dropped her hand. Despite entering her early forties, she didn¡¯t look any older, or younger, than she had fifteen years ago, but that was no surprise. Techstrum provided anti-aging treatments as part of their standard employment package. After all, wrinkles, sagging skin, and brittle bones were obsolete concepts for a company that prided itself on progress, with the exception of senior officials, who Isolde thought were well into their nineties, if not older. Nevertheless, she was late, and she knew she¡¯d get in trouble. Someone of her position couldn¡¯t afford to miss out on major talks. So, she squared her shoulders, composed herself as best as she could, and made her way back into the corridor, onwards. She moved with purpose, her footsteps absorbed by the hush of engineered flooring. Overhead, recessed lights bathed everything in a sterile glow, casting sharp-edged reflections against the glass partitions that lined the corridor. Scientists in lab coats hurried past, some engaged in low, clipped conversation, others fully absorbed in their holoscreens as they walked. Engineers in darker uniforms clustered near workstations, their hands moving in a blur over augmented reality schematics. Even the custodial bots, spider-like and silent, glided along the edges, keeping the facility spotless. She caught the elevator up to the third floor and continued on her way. A lot quieter compared to the lower levels, though still busy enough for her to mind her step. She kept walking and walking, knowing that with each second that passed, her chances of being written up increased, but on a day like today, she didn¡¯t care for any of that; her mind was elsewhere. Five minutes. That was how long it had taken her to get from the bathroom to the boardroom doors. Not long, but long enough to make her absence noticeable. Isolde exhaled through her nose, steeling herself, then pressed her palm to the scanner. A brief flicker of red light passed over her skin, confirming her identity. The door slid open with a low hiss. Simply put: the boardroom was big. Curved walls lined with embedded displays that pulsed with data streams she didn¡¯t yet have the context for. A circular table in the centre, polished surface gleaming beneath recessed lighting. Chairs already filled, and faces that turned towards her, important faces. Ignoring the weight of their stares, she slid into the nearest open chair, next to the only person in the room she could recognise: Dr. Alaric Solvayne. Head of Neural Systems Integration for the last thirty years, and boy did he look it. He had to be teetering on the edge of a hundred by now, though the company¡¯s anti-aging protocols had done their part to keep him functional. Even so, some things couldn¡¯t be smoothed over. His hair, stark white and wild as ever, spritzed over his ears in an unruly mess that no amount of corporate discipline had been able to tame. He wasn¡¯t like the younger executives, the ones who kept their appearances meticulously curated, their hair slicked and their skin glassy. Oh no. Dr. Solvayne didn¡¯t care about any of that. If anything, he seemed to wear his age like a challenge, a badge of longevity in a world that chewed up and discarded people before they had time to get old. Not that it mattered in this place. Regardless of how old or experienced you were, these corporate sharks would just eat you alive. Directly behind him was the test-bot: half an android, torso and arm seamlessly fused to a wheeled trolley, cables snaking from its open side into an activation panel. Exposed servos twitched at idle, metal fingers flexing in phantom gestures. A single eye slit flicked to life, scanning, waiting. ¡°So nice of you to join us, Ms. Crane,¡± a voice said. Isolde didn¡¯t bother looking up to see who it was; she already knew. Chief of International Affairs. Or, in easier terms, her boss¡¯ boss. Mbale Gond. ¡°I apologise,¡± Isolde said. ¡°I was late¡ªthere¡¯s no excuse.¡± Another voice chirped in, muffled through the M-Gate visor worn over an android¡¯s eyes: ¡°It seems not even your so-called ¡®elite workforce¡¯ is immune to basic human inefficiencies.¡± And that, oh that, was Dahl-Keshet Vryne. An oh-so-important investor. A bigshot. Mr. Money. His voice, thick with an accent Isolde couldn¡¯t quite place, was edged with cool disdain. The android wearing the M-Gate visor sat across from her, its golden, humanoid form unsettlingly precise, too smooth, too perfect. The visor buzzed with streams of real-time data, undoubtedly assessing everything from her vitals to her microexpressions. Isolde forced herself to keep her posture neutral, knowing full well that any sign of defensiveness would only be noted, logged, and used against her. Hell, with people this important around, she would likely get fired, sacked on the spot. She could not have that. Mbale Gond leaned forward slightly, steepling his fingers. ¡°This is precisely what concerns our foreign partners, Ms. Crane. Techstrum¡¯s reputation rests on efficiency, precision, perfection. And yet, here we are, wasting minutes because one of our senior researchers couldn¡¯t be bothered to check the time.¡± ¡°Not to mention,¡± Dahl-Keshet continued, tapping a gleaming metallic finger against the table, ¡°lateness suggests a lack of discipline. And a lack of discipline suggests a deeper... instability. If one member of your Neurochemical Integration division is slipping, I have to wonder: how many others are underperforming? How many other weaknesses have you failed to address?¡± A calculated pause. ¡°I assure you, Mr. Vryne, this matter will be dealt with,¡± said Mbale. Then, the slightest tilt of the android¡¯s head, staring into Isolde¡¯s soul. ¡°Perhaps the issue isn¡¯t just with your staff,¡± Dahl-Keshet said, the android¡¯s mouth unmoving; the M-Gate visor simply pulsed green with every word. ¡°Perhaps the issue is systemic.¡± A chill tightened in Isolde¡¯s chest. That word¡ªsystemic. Systemic failures weren¡¯t fixed; they were erased. ¡°Once again,¡± Isolde said, staving off nerves. ¡°It¡¯s my fault. I accept full responsibility. I.... I got too caught up with my work. Dr. Solvayne always tells me not to overwork, but sometimes... it¡¯s difficult not to, especially when you¡¯re on the cusp of something exceptional.¡± ¡°Exceptional?¡± Dahl-Keshet echoed, his synthesised voice carrying the faintest trace of amusement, a tone carefully programmed for just the right level of condescension. A brief pause. A moment stretched just long enough to make Isolde sweat. Then, a slight incline of the head. An invitation. ¡°Please, Ms. Crane. The table is yours. Do share what you have for us.¡± Isolde placed her briefcase on the table and clicked the locks open. She pulled the case out flat, revealing the inside: a singular, long tube-vial of blue liquid. ¡°When I first got accepted into Techstrum¡¯s neural-integration team back in 2086, there was a problem, a major problem, surrounding artificial intelligence.¡± The board members leaned forward, intrigued. Dr. Solvayne pressed a holo-projector, and the lights to the boardroom dimmed. A hologram flared to life, a cerulean bloom of light expanding from the centre of the table. At first, it was just shifting lines of code, a pulsing lattice of numbers and equations twisting in the air. Then, the image resolved: a human brain, rendered in perfect digital detail, rotating slowly in the darkened room. Veins and neural pathways glowed in shades of deep indigo, webbing outwards like lightning frozen in glass. Every so often, bursts of energy pulsed through the synapses, lighting up different regions of the brain in a mesmerising, almost hypnotic pattern. It was beautiful. It was alive. Then, the glitches started. Tiny at first, just a few erratic flutters in the neural pathways. Then more. A pulse fired off in the prefrontal cortex and didn¡¯t stop, spreading, corrupting everything it touched. Data fractures split across the model, jagged cracks in the once-pristine image. The brain twitched, its left hemisphere dwindling. A moment later, the entire hologram shuddered, spasming violently as the neurons lit up in chaotic bursts, no longer in sequence, no longer thinking, just firing off at random, drowning in its own malfunction. The room was silent save for the soft, rhythmic hum of the projection. Isolde watched the display, jaw tight. She¡¯d seen this simulation a hundred times before. Dr. Solvayne exhaled through his nose, voice low and measured. ¡°Neural collapse.¡± Dahl-Keshet remained perfectly still, his visor casting a dull glow in the dark. ¡°An unfortunate flaw,¡± he said smoothly. ¡°One we assumed your department had yet to correct.¡± Isolde¡¯s fingers curled around the vial, the cool glass pressing into her palm. She looked up at the brain, its neurons still misfiring, spiraling towards complete failure. ¡°That¡¯s where you¡¯re wrong,¡± she said in a low voice, but with confidence. ¡°When artificial intelligence grows to such a degree that its complexity cannot be reasonably monitored, problems occur,¡± explained Dr. Solvayne, taking the vial from Isolde¡¯s hands. ¡°The system stops being a system and starts becoming something else. A mind. An unshackled, unstructured, evolving intelligence. And therein lies the danger.¡± The hologram of the failing brain continued to twitch, neurons firing wildly, pathways misfiring and reconfiguring in ways they were never meant to. ¡°When an AI reaches a certain level of complexity, it stops behaving like a machine. You cannot track every decision, every deviation in thought, because it stops following thought as we understand it. It builds its own logic. Its own language. Its own perception of reality.¡± ¡°Much like society,¡± Dahl-Keshet said, waving a disbelieving claw. ¡°What you are proposing has been proven to be a failure over and over again. We need not hear further, Dr. Solvayne.¡± ¡°Is a one-hundred per cent success rate a failure to you?¡± Isolde said, her voice a little too loud, a little too sharp. Dahl-Keshet steepled his mechanical fingers, talons tipping eerily. ¡°¡®One hundred per cent?¡¯¡± he repeated. ¡°Do you understand the concept of what you just said? You are proposing a¡ª¡± ¡°Perfect solution,¡± Isolde said. ¡°So, with respect, Mr. Vryne, let us continue our presentation.¡± Another moment of silence, and Dahl-Keshet leaned back on the swivel. ¡°Please,¡± he said, his tone more inviting. Dr. Solvayne pushed his swivel chair aside and wheeled the test-bot trolley forward. Isolde switched off the holographic display, and the lights brightened once again. ¡°Ms. Crane has devised a chemical, deemed ¡®Stillmind¡¯ or ¡®Elydrine¡¯, capable of suppressing neural overload in high-functioning, high-model artificial intelligence.¡± With a pull of a lever attached to the side of the control panel, Dr. Solvayne booted the android up, its eye slit flashing blue. The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. It moved around for a moment, flailing its free arm, before settling. ¡°Please input command,¡± the test-bot said. Isolde walked around to the opposite side of the test-bot, where an octagonal intake port lay embedded in its neck, the designated slot for the coolant canister. With a twist of a knob, she unlocked the seal, the mechanism hissing as it disengaged. Dr. Solvayne handed her the tube-vial. Carefully, she slotted it into place, feeling the subtle click as the connectors latched on. She locked it again, and Dr. Solvayne began fiddling with the control panel. ¡°At the moment, the intelligence of the bot is set at the lowest possible model, Model 0,¡± he said. ¡°However, for demonstrative purposes, I will tune it above the maximum typically allowed of its make, to Seraph 1.¡± He inputted the higher intelligence allowance for the bot, and waited. For a moment, nothing happened; the bot just sat there idle, hanging from the trolley, but then, out of the blue, its arm snapped forward, and its voice began glitching, spasming, warping. Soon, it was uttering nothing but static hums as it thrashed about on the trolley. A patch of concern spread its way through the room, with one of the investors demanding for it to be detained immediately, but Isolde knew it was safe, and there was absolutely zero possibility of it breaking off the trolley. That and, well, all of its dangerous fixtures had been stripped for the purposes of the test. Still, Isolde was nervous. Not because it was a threat but because things often went wrong at the worst of times. She hoped this would work, just as it had the past thousand times, just as it had when they first started rolling it out into the public as part of a city-wide experiment. Please, she thought, oh please just work. She twisted the knob next to the canister holder, and she watched as the coolant level on the control panel rose to the top. She rotated the test-bot so that the room could see what was happening, careful not to get struck by the bot¡¯s flailing arm. Slowly, the bot¡¯s uncontrollable humming and thrashing ebbed away into stationary obedience, and it called out once again: ¡°Please input command.¡± They could see the model that was selected on the control panel, highlighted in blue: Seraph 1. At first, people were silent; rightfully so. What they were seeing couldn¡¯t be possible, shouldn¡¯t be possible. But Isolde knew, through a decade of careful research and public experimentation, that it was, and she had done it. Dahl-Keshet was wrong. ¡°Very interesting indeed,¡± one investor said in a deep Russian accent. Isolde didn¡¯t know her name. Frankly, she had neither seen nor heard of her before. ¡°Have you tested this in public settings?¡± Isolde nodded. ¡°We¡¯ve rolled out several batches across Neo Arcadia, working in a variety of, well¡ª¡± She took a moment to find the right words. ¡°¡ªplaces. Including construction grounds, factories, oil rigs, cargo terminals, and so on. We¡¯ve even started implementing them into hospitals to help overworked surgeons, and the results have been incredible. We¡¯ve seen a boost of 38% in overall economic productivity, with some sectors, like manufacturing and logistics, experiencing increases of up to 52%.¡± Keeping her cool while maintaining professional language was difficult, but she¡¯d done her research; she was ready. Dahl-Keshet leaned forward, once again steepling those cold, mechanical android fingers. ¡°What are the upfront costs and long-term maintenance expenses?¡± Isolde took a deep breath before answering. ¡°Upfront costs depend on the model and industry requirements¡ª¡± ¡°Don¡¯t give me the rehearsed answer. Give me the real answer, Ms. Crane. My patience is wearing thin.¡± A lump formed in her throat. She did her best to swallow it, but it lingered. ¡°42,000 per unit to produce and install, and planned to drop to as low as 26,000 following mass replacement of industrial labour.¡± ¡°So, you plan to use these bots to create themselves, essentially, at some point?¡± another investor asked. Isolde nodded. ¡°That¡¯s correct. But general maintenance won¡¯t be that much. 2,800 eurodollars should be enough for the vast majority.¡± Mbale Gond jutted in with a question of his own. ¡°What¡¯s the projected ROI for businesses that integrate these test-bots?¡± Isolde met the chief¡¯s gaze with confidence. ¡°The projected return on investment varies by industry, but on average, businesses integrating our test-bots see a full ROI within 14 to 18 months, sometimes faster in high-labour sectors.¡± ¡°Give me numbers, figures, anything,¡± said Mbale. The question hit hard, but Isolde was prepared. ¡°Weh-well, for example, in muh-manufacturing and logistics, we¡¯ve observed a 42% increase in output efficiency, along with a 34% reh-reduction in labour costs, not by eliminating jobs outright, but by reallocating human workers to more specialised roles while bots handle repetitive or hazardous tasks.¡± ¡°That¡¯s excellent,¡± said Mbale. Another investor bit: ¡°How do you ensure these bots won¡¯t pose a security risk, especially in industries like, saaaaay, healthcare and energy?¡± Isolde straightened, her tone firm and assured. ¡°Seh-security is our highest priority. Our bots operate within a zero-trust security framework, which means every action, every data exchange, and every system interaction requires multi-layer authentication. They are designed with hardware-level encryption to prevent tampering, and all external communications are routed through end-to-end encrypted channels. ¡°Beyond that, we¡¯ve implemented air-gapped fail-safes for high-risk environments. If a bot detects unauthorised access, it can isolate itself from the network, preventing data breaches or system compromises. And because cybersecurity threats evolve, our firmware is built to receive real-time security patches without disrupting operations.¡± ¡°An excellent method,¡± the investor said, writing notes. The investors kept hurling questions at Isolde, so ruthless she felt like she was being attacked, until eventually... Dahl-Keshet gave a single clap. ¡°This sounds marvelous,¡± he said. ¡°Very well done, Ms. Crane and Dr. Solvayne. It seems that you¡¯ve discovered a self-sustaining, profitable purpose for high-functioning androids while also reducing, if not eliminating entirely, the risk of heliostrophy, of AI growing out of control.¡± He turned to his colleagues, awaiting any objections. None came. Instead, a ripple of nods passed around the room. He leaned forward, lacing his fingers together. ¡°I believe we have all the information we need.¡± Mbale Gond, the hardest to convince, exhaled through his nose before tilting his head. ¡°You¡¯ve made a compelling case. The numbers check out, the scalability is sound, and frankly, the potential here is undeniable.¡± A small pause. ¡°Ladies? Gentlemen?¡± Once again, they all agreed, more verbal this time, briefly discussing it over. Dahl-Keshet let a slow smile spread across his face. ¡°Then it¡¯s decided. We will move forward with Phase Two investment and deployment.¡± A signature beep echoed through the room as he authorised the decision on his console. ¡°Congratulations, Ms. Crane. Dr. Solvayne. You¡¯ve just secured the future of synthetic labour.¡± Isolde didn¡¯t smile or celebrate as she once thought she would. Instead, she stared into empty space, her mind adrift, until Dr. Solvayne gently tugged her sleeve, reminding her it was time to go. It was time, but in that moment, she hesitated. A deep sense of satisfaction washed over her, so intense it left her lightheaded. For a fleeting second, she thought she might faint. But she didn¡¯t. She took a breath, shut the briefcase, and left. Things weren¡¯t over; this was only the beginning. And that... worried her.
Later, when her shift was over and she was catching the sky metro back to her house in Sal Panriese, a lonely district on the north side of Neo Arcadia, she couldn¡¯t stop thinking about the board meeting, about how everything went not just well but borderline perfect, and every so often, when she gazed out at the bleeding skyline over the south, she pictured what life would have been like had she possessed that sort of luck back then. Fifteen years ago, when the world simply seemed against her, always, a never-ending struggle where fighting for your life meant damaging an economic machine that didn¡¯t even recognise you as a moving part, where every breath felt like resistance, every attempt to climb felt like scaling a wall greased just enough to keep you sliding back down. She¡¯d been working hard ever since that day, that successful interview where she¡¯d shown up smelling like bergamot, no suit, no dress. She worked late on most nights, showing up as early as she could, even if it wasn¡¯t required. And every so often Isolde would get struck with It. Oh, how It was terrible. A gnawing, gut-wrenching sickness born out of the flames, of the night she¡¯d lost everything, her beautiful Elysia. It came in subtle ebbs some days, but on others, like today, It came in sloshing waves, and sometimes she simply couldn¡¯t handle It; It would swim down her esophagus, stay there, boil, brood, and cause her to vomit. She¡¯d done everything in her power to keep It at bay, took anti-depressants, the strong shit, and when that didn¡¯t work, she¡¯d seek out therapy, hoping that someone out there could reach out their divine hand and pull her out of the emptiness, out of the void, into a cleaner view of life, where the skies didn¡¯t stretch over her like a leaden sheet, pressing down, down, suffocating the light, where mornings didn¡¯t arrive like an executioner¡¯s drumbeat, where waking up didn¡¯t feel like stepping onto thin ice, waiting for the inevitable crack, where the world wasn¡¯t tinted in the dull, lifeless grey of something that once mattered but didn¡¯t anymore, where she could finally breathe without feeling like every inhale was borrowed and every exhale was a debt coming due, where, just maybe, she could remember what it felt like to want to be alive rather than simply not wanting to be dead. It was relentless. It was large. It was in control. The metro rolled over her district at twenty-two minutes to six o¡¯clock, and by then the sky had fully bled into the horizon, leaving only the endless stretch of dark. She walked the rest of the way home, where, though it lacked grandeur or space, everything was quiet, open, and clean. A large canal wound through the centre of the estate, and sometimes, when the weather was nice, the rich kids liked to ride a canoe the whole way down to the seaside, where fishermen plucked fish heads from their nets, tossing the scraps to the gulls that wheeled and screamed above. She avoided it, though, the seaside. It liked to swim there, too. She dragged her feet up to her lot. A nice, medium-sized house, like the others in the estate, with a neat patch of grass along the driveway, a stairway leading up to the front, and a gazebo lying along the left-hand side. Her car was there, untouched. Most days she didn¡¯t feel like driving. She figured she wasn¡¯t the sort of person who should be behind the wheel, unless absolutely necessary, unless there was a... particular purpose. She headed inside, where everything was, as always, so painfully empty, and made dinner. Steak, fries, and green beans, along with a glass of Coca-Cola. Never eggs, never chicken, never milk, because those were It¡¯s favourite foods. While she ate, she turned on the TV, listening to the news. It was always the same: politicians swearing to improve the world, violence across the globe, and inflation, that disease. She normally didn¡¯t spend much time on the news, only a couple minutes or so, just to see what was going on, before she''d swap on to soap operas, finding some semblance of joy by taking her mind off of life¡¯s struggles. Later again, when the crickets chirped and distant seagulls mewed, she was in the bathroom showering, keeping her eyes shut the entire wash, because she knew if she¡¯d open them, It would return: I see those burn marks, oh I see them well, and I see your past, I see that waste-of-space thing. I killed her, I consumed her alive¡ª RRRRRR-ETCH! Vomit, all in the bathtub. Steak, fries, green beans: all slipping down the drainhole. ¡°Fuck,¡± she managed, finally opening her eyes to see the burn marks on her arms. One of those really, really bad days. Later again, when she nodded off to dreamless sleep in her cosy, twin-sized bed, she heard a ding, a sharp bell, from her phone. Silly her. Forgetting to turn on ¡®Do Not Disturb¡¯. How foolish. But who could it possibly be? It couldn¡¯t be Silas; she hadn¡¯t talked to him since the night she swore to take her own life. She couldn¡¯t let the memory resurface; she couldn¡¯t let It attach Itself to him. Isolde slid onto her side and grabbed her phone from the night stand. She swiped it open, feeling the harsh light from the screen nearly blind her. On it, a single text message appeared: ¡®I have it.¡¯ Of course, it was him. The man who could change everything for her. Who could change everything for... the world. How could she forget? She texted him back, agreeing to meet as soon as possible. Isolde got dressed into her raincoat, put on her jeans and boots, and hopped into her car. She eased out of the estate and drove east along Interplex-6, catching the slip road off to the south, the tires humming against the slick pavement, the wipers slashing at the windshield like a dull knife trying to carve through suds. The city stretched out around her, neon bleeding through the downpour, casting jittery reflections off the wet road. Traffic was thin at this hour. Just the occasional autocabs drifting along in the opposite lane, their LED grilles flickering coded advertisements. A truck ahead rumbled on in the slow lane, something big and industrial, its exhaust belching black plumes into the rain, a moving shadow against the sodium vapour glow of the overhead lights. She kept both hands on the wheel, knuckles pale. The highway was long, straight, and somehow mean, like a loaded gun laid out on a table, just waiting for someone to pick it up and pull the trigger. A billboard loomed ahead, pixelated and half-broken, flashing BUY. OBEY. REPEAT. in choppy intervals before glitching into a toothpaste ad. Below it, a shattered speed camera sat in a nest of cracked asphalt, the glass eye punched out by someone who¡¯d had enough. Ahead, the streets stretched on, busy, bustling, drowning. After a while, she veered towards the south side, weaving through the maze of city roads. She pulled into an alleyway outside Dexter¡¯s Call, an abandoned movie theatre that looked all the part of a haunted relic, and she waited, not leaving her car until she saw his vehicle pull up. Eventually, it did. A nice, sleek, dark van, one full of status, of eddies, of a job well done. She stepped out of her car, keeping it shut. She pulled up her hood, listening to the rain beat down on her. His van squeaked to a stop, a little rusty in the brakes maybe. Nothing a little oil couldn¡¯t fix. He stepped out, his bright, glistening, magnificent silver jacket flashing high under the neon haze, catching every flicker and scattering them all over, a beacon in the midnight rain as he strode forward, boots clicking against the wet pavement, every step a declaration, Afro bobbing. And in his hand: the silver case. ¡°Isolde Crane,¡± the man said. ¡°Long times, no sees.¡± ¡°Rico,¡± Isolde said timidly, hands stuffed in her pockets, leaning against her car door. ¡°You have what I want?¡± ¡°Told you,¡± he said, slapping the case. ¡°Rico don¡¯t disappoint.¡± He stepped in front of Isolde¡¯s car and set the case on the bonnet. She stood next to him, reading the name ¡®Ourovane¡¯. That was it alright, but what about what was inside? He flicked numbers up and down on the code lock until it clicked, and he opened it. Inside, nestled in a bed of black foam, lay the quick-hack shard: a thin, obsidian sliver no bigger than a cigarette, its surface pulsing faintly with a bioluminescent thread of code that flowed beneath the glassy finish. It was sleek, impossibly smooth, and impossibly dangerous. At a glance, it could have been mistaken for just another data chip, the kind corporate runners used to ferry memos or scrub security logs. But this? This was different. Oh, so very different. Engraved along its spine in delicate, inhuman script was a name: ¡°Ourovane // GhostKey v4.7.¡± A black-market legend. A skeleton key for firewalls, an assassin''s dagger for netrunners. One slip into a neural port, and it wouldn¡¯t just crack a system; it would make it beg. Isolde stared at it, pulse quickening. ¡°That¡¯s the one,¡± Rico said, tapping the case. ¡°Plug it in, and you own whatever¡¯s on the other side. Just don¡¯t¡ª¡± ¡°I know,¡± Isolde muttered. ¡°I know how dangerous a quick-hack list like this is.¡± Rico blinked, looking stunned. ¡°Eh-heh. Yeahs.¡± He fixed the shades over his eyes. ¡°Now, ¡¯bout payment.¡± Isolde reached into her pocket and pulled out a money shard. ¡°Six hundred grand, as agreed.¡± Rico grinned, all teeth, like a shark smelling blood. He plucked the money shard from her hand, flipped it between his fingers, then slotted it into the reader on his wrist. A second later, his smile widened as the transaction confirmed with a soft chime. ¡°Pleasure doin¡¯ business, Crane,¡± he said, slipping the silver case shut. ¡°You be careful with that little ghost in the machine. Things like that don¡¯t just break doors; they wake up things best left sleeping.¡± Isolde barely heard him. Her eyes were locked on the Ourovane shard, its soft, pulsing code reflecting in her pupils. She exhaled slowly, then lifted her right arm, pulling the sleeve back. A seam hissed open along her forearm, the hidden compartment sliding apart like the petals of a steel flower. Inside: a row of neatly arranged data slots, each one glowing faintly, waiting. Some were already occupied: military-grade decryption protocols, an old firewall bypass, a black-market sensory dampener. She slid the Ourovane shard into an empty slot. ¡°Suspicious data identified,¡± her neural AI said, a deep, masculine voice. ¡°Are you sure you wish to allow this access to your primary neural system?¡± She immediately selected ¡®Yes¡¯. The moment it clicked in, her vision distorted. A smidge of deep-space black, followed by the rush of something vast and unseen shifting. Her HUD glitched, the overlay spitting out garbage data before settling. A whisper curled at the edge of her consciousness, something too faint to make out. A red data cube appeared on the right side of her neural display, and on the left: a list of quick-hacks: 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 A flood of access permissions scrolled across her neural feed: firewalls bending, network structures unfurling. She could see things now. Feel them. The city around her was no longer just a city. The lights, the cameras, the signals dancing through the air: she could hear them breathing. She shut the compartment, flexed her fingers. Rico was still grinning, still running his mouth, but his words barely registered. Isolde turned, got in her car, and drove. Outside, the rain fell in heavy sheets, washing the world clean. Inside, buried in the deepest parts of her mind, the ghost in the machine opened its eyes. i walk the circuit, leave no echo - 5.2 5.2 Nearly a month had passed since that day, since Phase Two began. An unctuous, corporate term for what was, in reality, the mass production and deployment of high-functioning artificial intelligence. As Isolde later learned, they were flooding the workforce with machines, carving out entire sectors in a desperate bid to rake in as much profit as possible. She knew exactly what that meant, knew it in her bones. More jobs lost. More people replaced. A slow, quiet culling of human labour. And yet, it had to happen. It was necessary. Crucial. The alternative was failure. The large, white cafeteria buzzed, filled with the clatter of trays, the hum of conversation, and the occasional burst of laughter. Overhead, Luminara decorations hung in long ribbons of colour: bunting stretched between support beams, paper lanterns swaying gently in the artificial breeze of the ventilation system. ¡°¡ªdo you know what you¡¯re getting her this year?¡ª¡± ¡°¡ªI heard big raises are comin¡¯ soon¡ª¡± ¡°¡ªdamn microwave¡¯s busted¡ª¡± Isolde kept her eyes down. She focused on her homemade lunch, a tuna salad with sweet corn, letting her fork push idle patterns through the dressing. The celebrations didn¡¯t touch her. Couldn¡¯t. It didn¡¯t like them, but thankfully this was one of those days where the voice in her head wasn¡¯t so loud. Her stomach was churning, sure, but she could manage if she kept to herself and didn¡¯t get involved with any of the workplace festive activities. So, she thought. A cheer went up somewhere behind her as someone cracked open a bottle of something fizzy. She took a slow breath and chewed, trying not to think about the inevitable. Do you see them? The voice threaded through her mind, a high-pitched, almost sing-song whisper that didn¡¯t belong to her. A lilting thing, something that slithered between amusement and malice, that drew out its syllables like a cat stretching after a long sleep. Not now, she muttered internally, swallowing her bite like it was something heavier than food. Oh? But how is it you¡¯re not celebrating, Isolde? It pressed, all mock concern. Do tell me again, is it because¡ª You know why, Isolde shot back. There was a pause, an absence like the space between heartbeats. Then, a chuckle. Oh, that¡¯s sweet, It purred, rich with something sickly, something rotten underneath. Blaming little old me. But we both know that¡¯s not quite true, don¡¯t we? Isolde set her fork down, stomach tightening. Across from her, her co-workers laughed at something, their conversation bubbling warm and easy, untouched. You¡¯re the reason I can¡¯t celebrate, she thought, firmer now. You don¡¯t let me. Another hum, deep, indulgent. Then It leaned in. Close. She swore she could feel breath at the nape of her neck, a phantom sensation prickling against her skin, even though she knew¡ªknew¡ªthere was nothing there. No, darling, It whispered, silk-soft. I just remind you of why you shouldn¡¯t. Isolde clenched her fists beneath the table. I¡¯ll ask him, alright? she thought, voice tight. A beat. Then, a delighted laugh, echoing somewhere just behind her ear. You¡¯ve been saying that for a month, It said, voice dripping with mock sympathy. When are you going to take action? When are you going to grow a pair and walk up to his office and ask the question? Isolde coughed, the sound catching in her throat. I just need time. That¡¯s all. It sighed, long and exaggerated, as if utterly disappointed. Ah, but time doesn¡¯t change anything, my dear. It only makes you weaker. But you are weak, aren¡¯t you? Useless, no more worth than a head of cabbage to a barnyard animal. And you¡¯ll stay weak, forever, a nobody too scared of taking action. Look at you, eating salad when you could be making progress, when you could be making your daughter¡¯s death mean something¡ª Stop. The government: they¡¯re to blame, It said. You have the perfect opportunity to make things right. But you¡¯re so pathetic you cannot get off your useless, waste-of-space behind. Just as you did nothing when Elysia died. Just as you did nothing for the last fifteen years, trying to take your mind off of me, to forget I exist, by working yourself into the ground, into the grave, deeper now, the soil sinking in, the air wearing thin, all life around a bleak, soulless¡ª And do you feel it, Isolde? Do you feel me creeping in? You cannot stop me. I am the Master of the Warren. I am large. I am relentless. I am in con¡ª You cannot hide her picture from me. You cannot escape. I¡¯ll always be there, the chip on your shoulder, and I will get what I want. Do you understand me? Do you, shit-for-brains¡ª She was so beautiful in her little blue coat, wasn¡¯t she? Before I took her away, each flame searing into the skin, her mute, lifeless soul¡ª I am the Master of the Warren¡ª YOU WILL NOT DISOBEY ME! Her stomach churned. YOU ARE MINE, YOU ARE SMALL, YOU ARE WEAK, YOU ARE¡ª ¡°Isolde.¡± The voice was deep, coming from just over her shoulder. She hesitated, then turned, her breath catching slightly. Her mouth parted, eyes widening. Dr. Solvayne stood there, a cup of coffee in one hand, the other dragging wearily down his face, pulling at the wrinkles like a damp, worn cloth. ¡°Hey, Dr. Solvayne,¡± Isolde said, a little breathless. He cleared his throat and slid down next to her on the bench, leaning forward and placing his coffee on the table. ¡°Staff party¡¯s on at Flux tonight,¡± he said. ¡°Top floor. You know the place, eh?¡± Oh, she knew it. Knew it very well. Been there more times than she should have, drank there more than she should have, smoked there more than she should have. Saturday afternoons were the sweet spot: quiet, but not too quiet. Enough to let the alcohol do its work while she zoned out, watching reruns over the bar. That was, of course, before she met Rico. ¡°Yeah,¡± she said, setting her fork down. ¡°Off the I-6, south side. Not too far south. Just by¡ª¡± ¡°Willow¡¯s Lane,¡± he finished. She blinked. ¡°Yeah,¡± she said slowly, tearing a piece off her bread and popping it into her mouth. ¡°That¡¯s the one. Don¡¯t think I¡¯ll go, though. I just¡ªI don¡¯t get on well at celebrations.¡± Dr. Solvayne sat back, studying her a trifle, and all of a sudden Isolde got hit with this mysterious, inexplicable belief that he knew, knew something she hadn¡¯t said, something even she hadn¡¯t quite put words to yet. ¡°You should be proud of your work,¡± he said at last, his tone as measured as ever, but his gaze lingered a fraction too long. She stilled mid-chew. Swallowed. ¡°Oh, it¡¯s nothing, really.¡± The words felt automatic, something she¡¯d rehearsed too many times before. Compared to him? Compared to him? Dr. Solvayne, the one who programmed the AI itself? ¡°I just¡­¡± She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. ¡°I just made a coolant, if anything.¡± Her voice was lighter than she felt. But Dr. Solvayne didn¡¯t waver. ¡°And without it¡±¡ªhe lifted his coffee again¡ª¡°none of this would even run.¡± She had no response to that. It was a fair point. Still, so many others had contributed far more to the company than she had. She took another bite of her food. ¡°Did they decide on the metrics for Phase Two yet?¡± ¡°We¡¯ve had words with Mbale and some of the investors,¡± he said, rolling the rim of his mug between his fingers like a man turning over an old problem. ¡°They¡¯ve decided¡ªrather hastily, if you ask me¡ªto push out another five thousand units before the first quarter¡¯s up.¡± Isolde nearly choked on her coffee. She set the mug down a little too hard, coughing before blurting out, ¡°Five thousand? That¡¯s insane. How do they expect us to cough up five thousand bots, each with a canister, in only a few months?¡± His expression didn¡¯t change, but something in his posture softened, just a fraction. ¡°Well, it¡¯s only a target, and you, along with the rest of the team, shouldn¡¯t feel undue pressure,¡± he said, the words measured. But then, in a voice so low she wasn¡¯t sure she¡¯d heard him correctly, he added: ¡°That¡¯s not really what you want to ask me, is it?¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry, what?¡± She kept her voice level, but the sudden tightness in her throat betrayed her. He was watching her now, not just looking¡ªwatching. The way someone does when they already know the answer to the question they¡¯re about to be asked. He didn¡¯t repeat himself. Just sipped his coffee, gaze steady over the rim of his mug. The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. Isolde exhaled, pressing her palms against the table¡¯s edge as if grounding herself. ¡°I wanted to ask¡­¡± She hesitated, rolling the words over in her mind before committing. No use dancing around it. ¡°Do you know anything about The Seraph Device?¡± There. It was out. Silence pressed in around them, thick and suffocating. Long enough for doubt to take root. Maybe she shouldn¡¯t have asked. Maybe she¡¯d misread him entirely. But then, he set his coffee down with deliberate care, fingers lingering on the rim. ¡°I have an idea as to why you¡¯re asking,¡± he said. ¡°And, as it happens, it¡¯s the very reason I came to find you.¡± Isolde blinked. ¡°You came to¡­ talk to me?¡± He nodded, exhaling deeply before shifting to face her more fully. ¡°What¡¯s wrong, Isolde?¡± Her breath caught. ¡°Wrong with what?¡± ¡°Every Luminara, something happens.¡± His voice carried that deep, signature rasp¡ªtoo many cigarettes, too many late nights. He cleared his throat, a dry, gravelly sound, before continuing. ¡°You switch. Words don¡¯t come easy. And you¡¯re late.¡± Her jaw tensed. ¡°I¡¯m not late¡ª¡± ¡°I clocked you five minutes past the start of your shift last time you came into the lab.¡± He took a slow, unhurried sip of his coffee, utterly unbothered by any protest. His tone remained infuriatingly gentle, like a man stating facts, not accusations. Isolde held his gaze for a moment before clicking the lid shut on her lunchbox despite there still being plenty left. She stood. ¡°Excuse me,¡± she muttered, voice tight. ¡°I¡­ I need to use the restroom.¡± She turned sharply on her heel and made for the exit. The scanner lock blinked as she reached for it¡ª ¡°I know what happened, Isolde.¡± She froze. Her hand hovered over the scanner. He couldn¡¯t have known. She¡¯d never spoken about it. Not in fifteen years. Not to anyone here. The only person who even had an inkling was her therapist, and even then, she¡¯d been careful, sparing the details. Behind her, his seat creaked as he shifted. ¡°Why didn¡¯t you inform me?¡± Isolde let out a sharp breath, rubbing her fingers over her forehead before turning back. He was watching her, steady and unreadable, one arm resting on the table, the other pressed to the bench. Reluctantly, she stepped forward. One step. Then another. She sat back down, her movements careful, controlled, placing her lunchbox on the table without opening it. She propped the side of her head in her hand. ¡°Don¡¯t talk about it,¡± she said, firm. He lifted his coffee, taking another slow sip. ¡°I won¡¯t.¡± A pause. ¡°Haven¡¯t told anyone else.¡± Another beat of silence. Then, quieter: ¡°But you should have told me when I first hired you.¡± ¡°I know,¡± she said. ¡°I lied. Now tell me how you found out.¡± He slipped a hand into the inner pocket of his lab coat, retrieved a sleek tablet, and flicked through its contents. ¡°Nothing stays hidden for long in this city.¡± With a tap, he spun the screen towards her and nudged it across the table. An article from 2086 flashed to life. The headline read: ¡°Cyberpsycho Attack Reduces Beloved Stagework The Whale to Ruin.¡± A sharp gasp escaped before she could swallow it down. Her stomach lurched. The walls of the caf¨¦ blurred at the edges of her vision, as if reality itself had tilted slightly off-axis. Remember now? It said. Her fingers hovered over the screen, but she didn¡¯t touch it. Couldn¡¯t. Dr. Solvayne studied her reaction, then, without another word, pulled the tablet back, locking the screen with a flick of his thumb. ¡°I¡¯m not here to harp on it,¡± he said, steady as bedrock. ¡°But I¡¯ve seen the pattern. Every year, around this time, you collapse.¡± She tore her gaze away. What would you know? ¡°I¡¯ve seen you bolting for the bathroom,¡± he continued, his tone calm, almost conversational. ¡°Your co-workers say you get sick, but since you insist you¡¯re fine, I¡¯ve let it slide.¡± A sharp, humorless laugh burst from her lips. ¡°Oh, you let it slide, huh?¡± She shoved herself to her feet, pulse pounding in her ears. Heat rose to her skin, the mix of anger and something more volatile bubbling up all at once. ¡°What is this? You here to tell me off because I still can¡¯t get over it? That what this is? Fifteen years and I¡¯m still wallowing? Who are you to ¡®let things slide¡¯?¡± He didn¡¯t flinch. Didn¡¯t recoil. Just raised a hand, his expression steady. ¡°Not at all what I came here to do.¡± Then, slowly, he stood as well, fixing the hem of his lab coat so that it fell straight to his shins. He looked down at her¡ªnot in judgment, not in pity, but with the quiet weight of someone who had seen this before. ¡°I¡¯ve spent enough years in the corporate world to know not everything can be patched up with a few days off, scheduled therapy, or whatever bureaucratic noise they like to peddle as solutions.¡± Isolde¡¯s fists clenched. Her breath came faster. ¡°Yeah, well, forget it,¡± she snapped, stepping back. ¡°You came here just to shove that fucking article in my face? I don¡¯t care who you are or how long we¡¯ve known each other. You just don¡¯t do that. But I guess I shouldn¡¯t be surprised because true northsiders are all the same: selfish, cruel, and care about nobody but themselves.¡± Her pulse was a war drum against her ribs, her hands shaking just enough for her to shove them into her pockets before he could see. His voice, when it came, was even, but there was something behind it. Something raw. ¡°Isolde....¡± She opened her mouth, ready to fire back, ready to lash out before whatever was inside her could collapse in on itself. But then, in a single, fluid step, Dr. Solvayne closed the distance between them and pulled her into a firm, grounding embrace. Her breath hitched. The heat of her anger met the cool of his coat, his steady, deliberate presence, and for a moment she felt like she¡¯d been standing back in the pier, outside Silas¡¯ kiosk, when he first handed her that blessed letter. She stiffened. Every instinct screamed at her to shove him away. It screamed at her to shove him away. To recoil. To put the distance back where it belonged. But she didn¡¯t. Dr. Solvayne didn¡¯t speak. He just exhaled: nice and slow. As if waiting. As if bracing for her to fight it. She didn¡¯t. Because, against all odds, the tight coil in her chest loosened. Just a little. Just enough. ¡°If you need anything, Isolde,¡± Dr. Solvayne said, ¡°you¡¯re more than welcome to visit the office. If you ever need time off, let me know.¡± Isolde was too stunned to move. She¡¯d known him for so long, and moments like this were rare. If she¡¯d had this kind of support a decade ago, she might have reacted differently, might have burst into tears, no artifice. But now, in the warmth of the cafeteria, surrounded by laughter and camaraderie, she was content to simply lift her arms and return the embrace. He was a sweet old man, always had been. ¡°Thank you, Dr. Solvayne,¡± she said. ¡°I... don¡¯t really know what to say.¡± He stepped back, breaking the embrace with a quiet sort of finality. ¡°As I said, I won¡¯t press the matter,¡± he murmured, smoothing a hand over his sleeve. ¡°But someone very close to me went through something similar. It¡¯s why I took this job in the first place¡ªto make a change where I could.¡± A faint, wry smile flickered at the corner of his mouth. ¡°So, how foolish would I be not to let a long-standing, star employee know?¡± ¡°I really appreciate that,¡± Isolde said. ¡°Things haven¡¯t been easy¡ªthey¡¯ve actually been pretty... difficult. But thank you. I needed that.¡± ¡°Now,¡± he continued, taking a seat once again and offering for her to sit next to him. ¡°To answer your question: Do I know anything about The Seraph Device?¡± Isolde accepted his invitation, sliding down next to him on the bench. ¡°I suppose that the first thing I should know is: Why do you want to know this information? My, you have already solved the problem!¡± She folded her hands in her lap, schooling her expression into something neutral, something steady. ¡°I suppose I¡¯m just¡­ curious,¡± she said, letting the word hang, as if it were an afterthought rather than a carefully placed piece of bait. ¡°I¡¯ve spent years refining android behavioural frameworks, but The Seraph Device¡ªwell, that¡¯s something different, isn¡¯t it?¡± She tilted her head slightly, just enough to suggest intrigue rather than intent. ¡°I¡¯d be a fool to ignore something of that scale. A device like that, in the wrong hands? I just want to understand what we¡¯re dealing with.¡± The lie slid off her tongue effortlessly. ¡°That and, well, it caused such panic back in 2086.¡± Dr. Solvayne took a moment before responding. ¡°Well,¡± he began, his tone laced with something contemplative, ¡°the specifics of the device were never fully realised, because, quite frankly, it never made it past the conceptual stage. On paper, it was promising. The Seraph Device was designed to mitigate heliostrophy in androids by consolidating their collective cognition, if you could call it that, into a singular, streamlined neural channel. A shared ¡®brain¡¯, so to speak.¡± He glanced at her, assessing. ¡°Essentially, instead of thousands of autonomous androids processing the world independently¡ªreacting, adapting, evolving at their own rates¡ªthe Device would have acted as a unifying force. A hub. Every unit would draw from the same well of decision-making, reducing erratic deviations, unpredictable behaviours. It was meant to stabilise them.¡± She nodded, slow, careful. She¡¯d already heard as much from her colleagues. That wasn¡¯t what she wanted to know. ¡°So,¡± she pressed, tilting her head slightly, ¡°if it was such a perfect solution, why didn¡¯t it move forward? What stopped it?¡± Dr. Solvayne sighed, rubbing at his temple before meeting her gaze again. ¡°A number of things,¡± he admitted. ¡°But the simplest answer? It didn¡¯t work. Or, more accurately¡­ we realised what would happen if it did.¡± ¡°Which was?¡± ¡°Well, think about it,¡± he said, adjusting the collar of his shirt with a slow, deliberate tug. ¡°The problem with AI heliostrophy is that their intelligence evolves past a manageable threshold. Their cognition becomes too fluid, too adaptive, slipping beyond the parameters we set for them.¡± He paused, tapping a finger against the table before continuing. ¡°Now, imagine your solution to that problem is another high-functioning AI¡ªa single entity designed to govern the behaviour of thousands, perhaps millions, of bots. A failsafe, if you will. But tell me¡­¡± He turned his gaze on her now, sharp, waiting. ¡°What happens if that intelligence begins to heliostrophy?¡± A good question, one she hadn¡¯t considered before. It made sense. If that AI were to grow out of control, then all the other androids would, and by extension, havoc would ensue. ¡°If the AI at the core of The Seraph Device were to develop beyond its constraints,¡± he went on, ¡°if it stopped operating within our predefined logic systems, started exhibiting the same instability it was meant to prevent, then we wouldn¡¯t just have individual androids going rogue.¡± He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. ¡°We¡¯d have an entire network, an empire of machines, all governed by a singular intelligence that no longer thinks like us. No longer obeys us. An intelligence that, by design, would be untouchable, because every unit connected to it would reinforce and defend its will.¡± He spread his hands, as if laying out the inevitable conclusion before her. ¡°The moment we considered that possibility, The Seraph Device was shelved. Not because we couldn¡¯t build it, but because we shouldn¡¯t.¡± Isolde hummed thoughtfully, looking on at the cafeteria, at all the employees. It was certainly a lot different than Rhyce¡¯s interpretation, but she¡¯d already known that for some time now; the point about it being a hazardous decision for all of mankind she hadn¡¯t considered. However, there was still one question that bugged her, that she needed the answer to: ¡°So, what happened to the concept? Did it just get completely scrapped?¡± He shook his head. ¡°Not exactly, no. Mbale sold the concept off to another company, and I believe that is how the content of the blueprints initially got leaked to the public. Of course, there was some fibbing, such as the change of the wording and the stamp of Chief Kent Silverwood, who as far as we or the NACP are concerned, does not exist.¡± She was about to ask why such a simple idea required such a sophisticated process, but now, she understood. She knew exactly who had bought it. ¡°It was Ourovane, wasn¡¯t it?¡± she asked. ¡°The company it was... sold to.¡± A nod. ¡°Indeed, it was.¡± ¡°Where are they?¡± ¡°That is beyond my knowledge and veers more into the realm of conspiracy,¡± he said. ¡°If anyone would know, it¡¯s Mbale, but even then, I¡¯m sure they would have moved location. It¡¯s been decades.¡± ¡°Understood,¡± Isolde said. I might have to have a little... chat with Mbale. Even if he doesn¡¯t know, I¡¯m sure he will prove more than helpful. How right you are, It said. If anyone has any leads about the whereabouts of Ourovane, then do you really think it would be anyone other than the man who signed the concept over to them and was in regular contact? Who¡¯s to say he¡¯s still not doing it? Still not selling off important, corporate documents? Do you really think even a high-paid officer wouldn¡¯t refuse the opportunity to be even richer? Isolde checked the time on her neural display and saw that it was nearing two o¡¯clock in the afternoon. Her lunch hour was just about up, so she bid farewell to Dr. Solvayne, thanking him for the talk. As she stepped out of the cafeteria, the hum of chatter faded behind her, replaced by the unobtrusive murmur of the hallway. The conversation still pressed at the edges of her mind, Dr. Solvayne¡¯s warnings settling like dust over the thoughts already forming into something sharper. More deliberate. Mbale. If there was even the slightest chance he had something, anything, then she had no choice but to extract it. How do you plan to do that? It whispered, slinking through her mind like oil through circuits. A polite inquiry? A business meeting? Or something a little more¡­ persuasive? Isolde didn¡¯t answer. Not yet. She simply straightened her coat, steadied her breath, and stepped back into the stream of the company¡¯s daily motions, her path already shifting towards her next move. Mbale had information. And soon, she would have it, too. i walk the circuit, leave no echo - 5.3 5.3 Isolde pulled up to the Flux entrance and parked next to a new-looking redesign of a sports coupe, thinking it was only fitting that on a night like this, all the expensive cars would be lining the lot with their glossy, mirror-polished bodies, drowning in the neon bleed of what the locals aptly called electric dusk. At ten minutes to midnight, she thought that, between the hustle and the bustle and the steady, monotonous hollering that had been bouncing off the streets since early afternoon, the whole city felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for something big to break loose¡ªand if anyone knew what was coming, it sure as hell wasn¡¯t them. She hadn¡¯t planned to show up to the staff party, not initially, but Mbale Gond was an avid drinker, a man with a tongue for liquor, as the whispers in the breakroom often said, and it was an opportunity she couldn¡¯t pass up. She caught the line to the front, where Tatum and his creepy-looking twin nodded her through. She wore a brown winter coat over a white button-up, formal enough to blend in, but forgettable enough to be overlooked. Hidden inside the coat¡¯s inner pocket and pressed against her chest was a red Oni mask, a sharp grin concealed beneath layers of fabric. In her front coat pocket, her fingers brushed against the edges of a small MX case. Two things, and those were all she needed The music was louder than expected, a pounding synthwave pulse that rattled through her bones, and the bottom floor was packed to the brim with night-dwellers and punkishly dressed southsiders. Some were jacked into towering braindance rigs, M-Gate visors strapped tight over glassy eyes, lost in loops of digital ecstasy. She could see it on their faces. They sipped lazily at cans of Iron Fang Lager, the bottom swill of choice: cheap, bitter, but strong enough to dull reality¡¯s edge. In the ruddy half-light, phantom hands traced their bodies, algorithmically perfect virtual dancers grinding against them in private simulations. Behind the bar counter, androids dressed in suits tended to the south¡¯s every demand, each of their faces smushed with food, alcohol, and various claw-nailed scratches. It was far easier for the southsiders to abuse the machines than for the androids to abuse them. Easier still for the south to exploit the androids than to march upstairs and spark a riot with the north, especially with armed security stationed at the stairway, scanning every face to ensure only the well-heeled and well-connected could make it up. Only Techstrum. Only those people. Which was why she had no problem getting through. She headed upstairs to the second floor, looking out for Mbale, scanning, sweeping the red-haze optic flush across the strobes, distilling everything down to numbers, to code. And there: Mbale Gond, sitting at the central bar that swept around the red carpet in a long rectangle, downing shot after shot with some of his higher-up colleagues, faces she¡¯d not been promoted enough to recognise. To respect. None of that mattered now. For fifteen years, she had kept to herself, avoided conflict, played the game to build a spotless reputation and claw her way up the corporate ladder. But tonight, oh tonight, she was done waiting. A few colleagues greeted her as she passed, and she offered quick, polite responses, just long enough to avoid suspicion, but brief enough to escape the pull of pointless conversation. Then she headed over towards the alcoves, the VIP section, where Rico waited for her behind that mountain of a bouncer. Thankfully, he wasn¡¯t talking to anyone else, wasn¡¯t cutting any deals. He had set time aside just for her. He ordered Jog aside and Isolde stepped into the alcove, taking the seat across from him. ¡°Thanks for seeing me, Rico,¡± Isolde said. He poured a glass of his favourite blue drink, Azure Veil, and slid it across the table to her. ¡°I couldn¡¯t pass up a meet with one of my top clients, now could I?¡± Isolde took a sip. It was strong but juicy, a blend between an apple and a lemon. ¡°I need to ask you a favour.¡± Rico grinned, taking off his shades and tucking them away in the right chest pocket of his silver jacket. ¡°You has my attention, Crane.¡± She looked back and saw Jog still guarding the alcove, blocking the view of the bar. She asked Rico to make him step aside, and he did. ¡°Out there,¡± she said, pointing subtly, only for a second. ¡°The black man with the cotton shirt.¡± Rico said, ¡°Mbale.¡± She turned to face him. ¡°You know Mbale?¡± ¡°Seen him ¡¯round,¡± he said flatly. Then, he leaned forward, a curious glint in his eye. ¡°Where? And how long?¡± He had a strange knack for reading minds. He¡¯d been in the business for the better part of twenty-five years, so she supposed it made sense. ¡°In the back, somewhere alone, just for... thirty minutes,¡± Isolde said, not sure how long she would need exactly, but thirty minutes for sure sounded reasonable. She tipped at her glass nervously. ¡°I just¡ªI need to talk to him. I¡¯ll make it worth your while.¡± ¡°Thirty minutes, in the security office downstairs, basement level,¡± Rico said. ¡°That sounds good to you, Crane?¡± It did sound good. And for a moment, they just stared at each other, the kind of look shared by people who¡¯d grown used to seeing eye-to-eye when money was on the table. ¡°How much?¡± she asked, a question she used to dread, back when every eddy counted, and nowadays slipped from her lips with the ease of someone who no longer had to count at all. ¡°Bag a minute,¡± said Rico. ¡°Done,¡± she said. ¡°But I need to know: how do you plan to get him in there? I would prefer if you didn¡¯t hurt or force him.¡± How noble of you, It said. Do you really think the northsiders would have done the same for you? No, no. I recall a long, steel arm shoving you onto your backside while you desperately pled, ¡®Ohhhhh muh-muh-muh dawwwww-terrrrrr.¡¯ Pathetic, weak. Isolde took another sip of the Azure Veil, watching Rico think; she knew that face, where his eyebrows flexed and his lips curled to one side. He snapped his fingers. ¡°Jog.¡± The mountain of a bodyguard didn¡¯t turn fully, only nudged his head to the side, listening. Isolde didn¡¯t think she¡¯d ever heard that man speak, if he even could. Rico reached into his pants pocket, pulled out a wallet, and retrieved a hefty amount of fifty eurodollar bills. He handed them to Jog. ¡°Head across the skybridge to Opaline and ask for Kaiza. You knows the one. And see that black man with short hair and the blue cotton?¡± Jog did. Rico reached into his left chest pocket and pulled out a small key-card. ¡°Tells her to get him drunk and bring her down to the security office for a fun time. No sex, no kisses needed. Oh, and tells her to bring those pink little cuffs. She¡¯ll know the ones I¡¯m talkin¡¯ about.¡± Jog nodded, once again not a word spoken out of those thick, rubbery lips, and just like that he was on his way. ¡°Not a bad idea, actually,¡± Isolde said, and she brought up her wiring account on her neural display, transferring the funds across to Rico, thirty big ones. Rico chuckled, drumming his fingers on the glass table. ¡°He¡¯s gots a soft spot for Kaiza,¡± he said with a grin that didn¡¯t quite reach his eyes. ¡°And hey, always a pleasure doin¡¯ biz. Hope you don¡¯t minds me askin¡¯ for full payment up front. My turfs, my terms. Risky for me otherwise.¡± She rested her hands on the edge of the table, fingers tightening slightly. ¡°No, I understand.¡± She swallowed hard. ¡°It¡¯s just I¡ªI don¡¯t think I¡¯ll have any other opportunity.¡± They sat in awkward silence for a couple minutes, waiting. Then Rico leaned back as though he had all the time in the world. ¡°Never did tell me why you wanted that shard. Somethin¡¯ that powerful, wired into an OS that¡¯d cook your brain soon as you tried runnin¡¯ any heavy-duty quick-hacks. You handin¡¯ it off to someone else?¡± He¡¯d asked her before, and she had brushed him off. Now wasn¡¯t going to be any different. ¡°It¡¯s personal,¡± she said. ¡°Not many things are personal in N.A.,¡± said Rico. ¡°How do you think I know what Mbale likes?¡± ¡°A thin, petite woman?¡± Isolde let out a slight laugh. ¡°Come on, that¡¯s pretty much all men. Can¡¯t go wrong with that.¡± ¡°That so?¡± Another sip of his drink. Footsteps came from behind, those heavy, ground-eating stomps. Jog, of course. She looked back, and behind him stood a woman. She was pretty, no doubt about that, but to Isolde''s surprise, perhaps even shock, she was also built like a statue carved by a sculptor with a mean streak. Muscle on top of muscle, lean and hard, like she¡¯d been poured into her skin and left to set. Her dark complexion gleamed under the dancing ceiling lights. She wore something tight, black, and barely there, the kind of thing that didn¡¯t so much cover as it did highlight. Thick braids swung over shoulder and tipped just below her chest. She wasn¡¯t huge by any means, but she sure as hell wasn¡¯t tiny either. Isolde found it a little funny, though there was some concern. This was the woman Mbale liked? She supposed the old saying had some truth to it¡ªdifferent strokes for different folks¡ªbut this? This was a whole other category of different. ¡°There¡¯s your petite woman,¡± Rico said dryly, lifting his glass for another sip. ¡°Hey, Rico,¡± Kaiza purred, her voice smooth. In her left hand was the pair of pink cuffs Rico was talking about. ¡°Same guy as before,¡± Rico replied, casual but sharp. ¡°¡¯Member the one catcallin¡¯ you last month? Swore he¡¯d take you out to dinner in the plaza?¡± Kaiza turned, exhaling a short, humourless laugh. ¡°Yeah. I remember.¡± ¡°No kissin¡¯, no sex,¡± he said. ¡°Just get him drunk.¡± Jog handed her the key-card. ¡°Take him down to the office, scan in,¡± Rico continued. ¡°Cuff him to the side. He won¡¯t put up no fight. Then this lady will come down to meet you.¡± He gestured to Isolde. Kaiza rolled her shoulder, lips curling in distaste. ¡°Ugh. Fine. But it¡¯s gonna take a while.¡± ¡°Countin¡¯ on it.¡± With that, Kaiza spun on her heel and strode towards the central bar. Her thick braids swayed behind her, and every muscle in her broad back rippled. Lights flashed across her oiled skin as she moved, a shimmer of sequins and shadow. Sure enough, Mbale¡¯s face lit up the moment he saw her, that easy grin spreading wide, eyes sparkling like a kid on Christmas morning. He raised his glass in a half-toast, clearly pleased, clearly smitten. But Kaiza didn¡¯t rush. She let him wait, let him drink her in. When she finally closed the distance, she slid onto the barstool beside him. Perfect. Now all she had to do was wait. ¡°I¡¯ll let you know when it¡¯s time,¡± Rico said. ¡°Speak to you on the holo. Later, Crane.¡± Isolde got up from the leather sofa and made her way wearily across the floor to a smaller, less crowded bar tucked beneath an enormous plasma-screen TV looping reruns of The Ember Code, a show she¡¯d seen in passing but only remembered in fragments. It was about some underground resistance, hackers, something or other. Luke Styman played the villain, and she found him to be a very handsome man indeed. She was one of those women who had a thing for men who didn¡¯t pride themselves on their display of masculinity but rather their ability to wear charm like a well-tailored suit, the kind who tucked a hand in their pocket and leaned against the doorway, the kind who didn¡¯t need to raise their voice or flash expensive watches or ride first class because, truly, that sort of stuff was meaningless to its very core. But shows like The Ember Code were exactly that: shows, stories, fiction. In the real world, those things were hard to come by. The world needed changing. The night went on and on, and with each minute that passed she felt herself growing more nervous, thinking about all the things that could go wrong if she didn¡¯t manage to pull this off successfully. After all, she¡¯d never done anything like this. She¡¯d been keeping a keen eye on him and Kaiza all throughout the night, leading into the first hour of the early morning, when the club was at its busiest. Her co-workers were dancing beneath the disco lights to the steady drum of high-beat tunes, the kind that didn¡¯t require vocalists, only melodies and bump-bump-bump. She¡¯d grown used to the bite of alcohol, but the rotten smell of cigars and cigarettes were harder to ignore, leaving a scratch in her throat that no amount of soda or water could soothe. It slithered down and left hot embers along her esophagus, but she didn¡¯t puke, not yet. The voice wasn¡¯t loud enough. A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. At twenty past one in the morning, she got the call from Rico, telling her that Kaiza had finally pulled Mbale off the seat. When she looked back, sure enough, they were over by the stairway and making their way down. Now was the time. Don¡¯t mess this up. The thought slipped through her mind so easily that she couldn¡¯t tell whether it was her own or It¡¯s. Didn¡¯t matter. She stood up, took a breath, and then made her way to the women¡¯s bathroom on the opposite side of the floor. She stepped into an empty stall, unzipped her coat, and pulled out the red Oni-mask and MX case. She slowly positioned the mask over her face, locking it on tight; it was hot, difficult to breathe, but she didn¡¯t care. She slid the MX case into her jean pocket and removed her coat completely. Squaring her shoulders, she stepped out of the stall, keeping the coat tucked under her arm. She saw the mask in the mirror and froze. The crimson Oni stared back at her, its sharp horns and denticulate grin stirring something colder than fear, a worming alien that crawled, licked, and gnawed at the surface of her flesh. And like one of those old horror novels where a boy stumbled into a dusty seaside shop run by an unsettling elderly man, she couldn¡¯t tell if she was wearing the mask, or if it was wearing her. She made for the exit, stepped back into the floor, and briefly stopped by Rico¡¯s alcove, asking him to hold on to her coat while she was down in the office, which he had no problem with. She hurried downstairs, one hand stuffed in her pocket, keeping the MX case from slipping out, looking a trifle bizarre to the south folk. An Oni-faced mask with a nifty white button-up and flat blue jeans wasn¡¯t a particularly common combo, especially not for a northsider, but it would do. When she headed over to the door leading back to the security office, just right of the bar, Kaiza was waiting there, her muscular forearms curled into one another like steel cables, the key-card and band hanging safely from her thumb and forefinger. She handed the key-card to Isolde. ¡°Have fun,¡± she said, once again in her velvety smooth voice, and then headed on her way. Okay, take a breath. She stepped into the dim hallway leading to the security office, the bright white light bleeding from its doorway and cutting through the shadows. She pressed the key-card to the scannerlock behind her and shut the door. Mbale was calling for Kaiza in a heavy drawl when Isolde finally stepped into the security office, finding him cuffed to a thick steel railing along the wall, his head lolling to one side, eyes glassy and unfocused. His shirt was half-untucked, and he swayed, barely able to sit upright in the chair. The pink cuffs clinked softly as he tugged, too drunk to care, a lazy grin spreading across his face when he thought Kaiza had finally come for him. ¡°Kyyyyyy-zaaaaaa,¡± he drawled, then hiccupped. ¡°Is that...?¡± Another hiccup. ¡°Who are...? Where¡¯s Kah-oooza. That muscle bitch.¡± Isolde pressed the key-card to the door, watching it slide shut. Then, after a moment, she marched over to Mbale and ripped the chair from under his feet. He slid forward and fell on his bottom, knocking his head against the wall. ¡°What the fuck?¡± he said, voice a little clearer now. Isolde fished the MX case out of her pocket, unlocked it, and pulled out the syringe containing red liquid, virothene. She yanked his arm, finding that he was too weak and unsteady to fight back, and bunged the needle into his forearm, thumbing the plunger quickly, then jerking it back out. His eyes lit up, as if hit with smelling salts, and slowly he began to adjust to his surroundings. Isolde sat on the swivel directly in front of him, and after a minute or so, Mbale looked up at her and said, ¡°Who the fuck are you?¡± Clear voice, steady. The serum worked. ¡°You have information,¡± Isolde said, keeping her voice slightly low, putting on a fake accent, something like Russian, something like Ukrainian. She wasn¡¯t quite sure. ¡°And one way or another, you¡¯re going to give it to me.¡± ¡°Like hell I am,¡± said Mbale. ¡°Do you have any idea who I fucking am? You filthy southside rat. You¡¯re messing with some serious people. People who¡¯ll tear you apart and leave what¡¯s left for the vultures. So go on, play your little tough act. You¡¯ll be begging me to put you down quick once I turn this entire city up on its head to have you killed. Do you fucking understand me, you southside cunt?¡± He¡¯s afraid, said It. I can see it in his eyes. A grown man groveling, seething, a face that knows he¡¯s at your mercy. And now it¡¯s time for you to really let that sink in, Isolde. Don¡¯t be a coward. Isolde opened her neural scanner, displaying the quick-hack list. Many of the quick-hacks had warnings next to them, indicating that high processing power was required, but she wasn¡¯t planning to use anything, not yet. Oh, this was just a test. Her eyes would turn blue, and through the little holes in the Oni mask, Mbale would see that. Indeed, he did. ¡°What are you doing?¡± he said, a hint of fear in his voice. ¡°I have a Mark 4.7 GhostKey, built by the best black-market netrunners in the state,¡± Isolde said, her voice steady, almost casual, though inside, her heart was pounding. ¡°I could wipe your brain stem in an instant¡ªgone, just like that. Or¡±¡ªshe wheeled forward on the swivel¡ª¡°I could do it the slow way. Let it crawl through your synapses, unraveling you piece by piece. You¡¯d feel everything. The static in your head would turn to fire, your thoughts melting into white noise. You¡¯d beg for it to end, but by then, you wouldn¡¯t even remember what you were begging for. ¡°You¡¯re probably used to winning people over with money, with the idea that if they don¡¯t let you live they¡¯ll get nothing. But me? I couldn¡¯t care less if you live or die. I¡¯m not looking for money. I want answers. And you might not think it right now, but I¡¯m gonna get them, whether you like it or not.¡± Mbale¡¯s face twisted, the anger wilting like a flower left too long in the sun. The tough-guy bravado drained from his eyes, replaced by something darker, something small. His lips trembled, just a smidge, barely there, but enough. His eyes flicked to the door, then back to her, the way a cornered rat eyes the trap, knowing it¡¯s already sprung. He swallowed hard, but the sound of it was loud in a room that played nothing but a continuous fluorescent thrum, like a nail tapping on glass. He¡¯s nothing, It said. An insignificant worm. ¡°You¡¯re listening now, hey?¡± said Isolde. ¡°What do you want?¡± Mbale asked, his voice soft, and she could tell he was doing his best to hide the quaver. It could tell, too. ¡°Ourovane,¡± she said simply, leaning back on the swivel, flicking the empty syringe about in her hand. ¡°Where are they?¡± ¡°Ourovane?¡± Mbale said. ¡°What the hell kind of nonsense could you possibly have with them?¡± Isolde tossed the syringe away and leaned forward, her mind hovering over the quick-hack, ¡®Oroboros¡¯, the only one that wouldn¡¯t fry her in an instant, according to the data reading. ¡°Wait!¡± he said in a panicked voice. ¡°I don¡¯t know where they are¡ªthat¡¯s the truth.¡± Liar, It said. ¡°My patience is wearing thin, Mbale,¡± said Isolde. ¡°Either you start spitting what you know about Ourovane, or so help me God, I will make sure you spend the rest of your miserable life trapped in your own mind, screaming where no one can hear you.¡± Isolde¡¯s voice was calm, too calm. She leaned in closer, eyes cold and glinting blue, like twin shards of broken glass. Mbale swallowed hard, his pulse thudding loud enough that Isolde almost thought she could hear it. ¡°I¡ªI swear,¡± he stammered, but the panic in his voice cracked it right down the middle. ¡°I don¡¯t know where they are, but¡ª¡± ¡°But what?¡± she whispered. Mbale¡¯s breath hitched. ¡°I know someone who does.¡± Isolde tilted her head slightly. ¡°Now we¡¯re getting somewhere,¡± she said softly. ¡°Name, Mbale. Now.¡± ¡°Vera Kain,¡± he blurted, the name tumbling out like a dam breaking. ¡°She¡¯s... she¡¯s the broker. Handles their contracts. She¡¯ll know where they are.¡± Liar, It hissed again, curling around her thoughts. She knew Mbale wasn¡¯t giving her the full truth. The name is fake. He¡¯s protecting someone. Isolde chuckled softly, a sound low and dry. She let out a long, tired sigh, the kind that seemed to drain the air from the room. For a moment, everything was still. Then, like a sprung trap, she exploded. The swivel chair shot back with a sharp screech, spinning aimlessly as she lunged forward. Her hand clamped around Mbale¡¯s throat with a vice-like grip, pulling him close. His breath hitched, eyes wide with sudden terror as her face hovered inches from his. His groveling whimpers filled the room, but Isolde didn¡¯t blink. Didn¡¯t flinch. She just held him there, steady, unshaken, like she had all the time in the world. ¡°This is your last chance,¡± Isolde said coolly. ¡°Tell me the fucking name.¡± But he wouldn¡¯t answer; he just shook, whimpered. He was cracking, alright, but a lot more than she¡¯d anticipated. No use, It said. Time for you to take it by force. Isolde was a little nervous about using Oroboros, but she had no choice; this weasel of a man was nearly pissing himself in her presence. She activated ¡®Oroboros¡¯ on her quick-hack list. As soon as it hit 100%, the world around her fractured like cracked glass, shattering into shimmering shards of code. Her vision tunneled, drawn towards Mbale¡¯s wide, terrified eye¡ªuntil suddenly, she was falling forward, plunging into the black abyss. She landed in cyberspace, the air buzzing, thrumming, shaking. Endless streams of red ones and zeroes cascaded around her, forming melted structures that pulsed like living memories, weaving in and out of focus. The ground beneath her boots hummed, translucent, unstable, shifting between solid and liquid with every step. She looked down at her arms, finding that they, too, were constructed of numbers, of code. This space.... It was... strange. Then she felt something¡ªnot alone. From the flowing data streams, a shape began to form. At first, just glitches in the code. But then it solidified. A figure stepped out from the torrent of ones and zeroes, every line of its form pulsing like a heartbeat. Bump, bump, bump. Steady now, adding more and more, fleshing out. It was her. Isolde stared at the figure standing across from her, identical in every way¡ªsame face, same eyes¡ªbut this version shimmered with a cold, digital brilliance. A smirk tugged at its lips, and the eyes burned with something primal, something... evil. It was here, lurking even in this world, a constant shadow she couldn¡¯t escape. ¡°Gonna fail again, aren¡¯t you?¡± It whispered, voice crackling like corrupted audio files as it paced around her in slow, methodical steps. ¡°Always so close, then you choke. That¡¯s what you do best.¡± Isolde clenched her fists, trying to block out the voice gnawing at her focus, but It was part of her, woven into her code, her mind, her past. ¡°We have a job to do,¡± she said. ¡°Wrong,¡± said It, getting close to her face. ¡°You have a job. I am merely giving you directions, methods, solutions. But you never listen. The only way you can take anything in this world is by force. You don¡¯t get to be a weak, little worm if you want to make progress. Do you understand me?¡± ¡°Get out of my fucking face,¡± Isolde said, shoving It aside. ¡°I¡¯m doing what you asked. I need to focus.¡± She turned away, pushing forward through the red sea of data towards the memory unit she needed. But she could feel It behind her, every step, every breath. ¡°Do you even know what you¡¯re looking for?¡± It said. She did, and she could see them. Just there, in the distance. Memory units. They hung in the crimson void like battered filing cabinets left to rot in a basement no one visited anymore. Each one was a distorted block of code, edges twitching and jittering like something barely holding itself together. They weren¡¯t pristine data streams or digital constructs. No, they were ugly things: fractured, rusted in a way that didn¡¯t make sense for a cyber world, dripping long, oily lines of corrupted digits that slithered down their sides and pooled at their bases like blood. Some pulsed, weak, somewhat dim, as if trying to forget themselves, while others glowed too bright, too hot, their surfaces vibrating with the pressure of secrets they weren¡¯t meant to hold, on the cusp of bursting. Along she went, feeling heavy; it was like trying to navigate through wet mud. The units buzzed in and out of existence, half-formed images flashing across their surfaces: half-remembered faces stretched into grotesque grins, distant screams caught in an endless loop, places that never quite solidified before shuddering into static. Oh, how terrifying it all was. But Isolde pushed on, farther now. Farther. Farther. Each unit was a trap in its own right. Touch the wrong one, and you¡¯d feel it, like sticking your hand into a nest of live wires and bad dreams. The data inside them wasn¡¯t just stored. It was technically alive, twitching, writhing, begging to be left alone while daring you to dig deeper. And the worst part? Some of them watched. No eyes, no cameras, just a sense: frigid and crawling up your spine, as if the memories themselves knew you were there, and they didn¡¯t like it. Her eyes scanned the twisted landscape of Mbale¡¯s mind, looking for the right unit, the one that would give her what she needed. That one, she thought, stepping forward, but the unit hissed at her approach, sparks of red code spitting from its corners. It was strange-looking; the face was very much... serpent-like, and directly at the bottom of the unit there was a symbol of a snake eating its own tail. Ouroboros. It had to be this one, just had to be. But it would hurt to access. Would hurt a lot. She sucked in a deep breath, preparing for the pain. And then, slowly, she reached out her hand and the snake bit. She screamed, and her voice echoed through the void, muffled, beating. Her breath hitched as fragments of Mbale¡¯s memories slammed into her like a crashing wave. A dimly lit room. The clink of glasses. Mbale, leaning back in a cracked leather chair, laughing with someone she couldn¡¯t quite see. A voice: raspy, middle-aged, feminine. ¡°Ourovane¡¯s not the type you just stumble across, Mbale. You want access, you come through me.¡± The memory glitched violently, threatening to collapse, but Isolde pushed deeper, forcing her mind through the distorted mush of code. She could feel It watching, whispering, waiting for her to slip. But she didn¡¯t. The scene sharpened. A face. Pale, sharp features, eyes too empty to be anything but dangerous. Platinum hair slicked back, a single black datajack gleaming at their temple. A name echoed through the memory, clear. So very clear. Cieris Marlow. A table. She was sitting at a table. And there was someone across from her. Isolde felt the memory strain against her intrusion, but she held on, desperate for more. Mbale said, ¡°And if I need to find you, Cieris?¡± A smirk. ¡°Paxson, outside Neo Arcadia. The Bone District. Third level. Look for the white neon snake. If you ever decide to branch out overseas. Might be worth considering. The NACP are looking for some innovative tech companies.¡± ¡°The Bone District,¡± It said. ¡°Paxson. But you know the place well, don¡¯t you, little Isolde Crane?¡± Oh, she did. All too well. It was the place she had clawed her way out of, the place where she was born. ¡°I do appreciate you handing over these schematics, dear friend,¡± said Cieris, tapping the documents on the table. ¡°But I have to make you aware, this is strictly business. If anyone finds out about this, and if you send anyone after us, you will be terminated. I know you might think you¡¯re safe in that corporate powerhouse everyone likes to deem as unbreakable, but we can just as easily wipe out your entire workforce. Do you understand me, Mbale?¡± ¡°I do,¡± his voice echoed, and he offered her a handshake. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t tell anyone. It¡¯s my job on the line, my life on the line. I have no reason to.¡± ¡°So, you¡¯re a man of your word?¡± said Cierus, cocking an eyebrow, accepting his handshake. ¡°Absolutely,¡± he said. ¡°You don¡¯t get far in business by cheating your partners.¡± Funny, said It. All that man ever does is lie and cheat. They always do. Isolde couldn¡¯t believe it: finally, a significant lead. This was a huge step. Paxson, her home-town, the place she¡¯d departed, the place she¡¯d met... Rhyce. The memory unit convulsed, the cabinet splitting open as red code sprayed out like arterial blood. Isolde staggered back, jerked her hand away just in time as the entire unit shattered into digital shards that disintegrated before they hit the ground. But that was okay. She had what she came for. It was close now, too close. She could feel the breath on her neck, hear the distorted laughter crackling in the static-filled void. ¡°Finding her won¡¯t be an issue,¡± It said. ¡°But negotiating with an old ghost... now that¡¯s something you¡¯re gonna have to figure out. You better hope she¡¯s not dead, not buried in some dumpster under a bridge.¡± The crimson code began to fracture around her, Mbale¡¯s mind rejecting her presence. She felt the pull, the violent snap of reality dragging her back. Then, like being hurled through a pane of glass, she was out. The security office swam back into focus. Mbale groaned beneath her grip. Sweat slid down from her brow and dripped under her mask. She wanted to puke, but she couldn¡¯t remove her mask for any reason, so she just barely tipped it open, sucking in fresh air. Cierus Marlow. Bone District. She had a name, a place. But her gut continued to twist, to churn. Because It was right. Finding her wouldn¡¯t be the hard part. Negotiating with her would be. do not fray the ribbons edge - 6.1 Part 2 If They Sharpen the Knife, Dull the Edge ¡°I am not interested in power for power¡¯s sake, but I¡¯m interested in power that is moral, that is right and that is good¡± ¡ª Martin Luther King Jr.
6.1 The man with the pink-cross optics and tawny belt-bound leather pauldron shuffles back and forth, quickly now, minding his step and eying me up and down, seething, growling, as if measuring the space between us in blood, calculating the exact moment he¡¯ll lunge: when my guard falters, when my breath hitches, when the glare overhead brightens just enough to shadow his intent. He¡¯s so large and quick that if I don¡¯t move now he might flash forward and¡ª Whack! His fist collides with my ribs, and it¡¯s like something inside collapses. Bone scraping against bone, nerves shrieking, a deep, sucking agony that coils up through my side and burrows under my shoulder. Then comes the pulsing: a heartbeat hammering and swelling with every breath. And I feel it again. Pain. I struggle to find my footing, stumble, hit my head off the slab of reinforced concrete that forms the ring¡¯s outer edge. The impact rattles through my skull, sending sparks across my vision. The ring isn¡¯t much. Just a hollowed-out atrium in the belly of the apartment complex, where maintenance lights twitch and exposed rebar juts from the walls like rusted fangs. The floor is nothing but steel plating and old laminate, uneven, wrapping around and around in a series of long steps, and at the end of them the crowd roars, as if watching animals rather than two southsiders trying to make some eddies. They scream for violence. They pound their fists against the mesh. What have I gotten myself into? ¡°A heavy hit on Mono,¡± the commentator shouts, sitting on her little throne, microphone in hand, mohawk and red visor catching the glitz like a bad holo-ad. Her smile is wide, sharkish, full of teeth too white to be real, and her voice, grating, electric, juiced-up on synthetic enthusiasm, thrums through the wall-bolted speakers. ¡°That one¡¯s gotta hurt like a motherfucker. Yes sir-reeee!¡± The man with the tawny belt-bound leather pauldron throws his arms in the air and roars. The crowd is loving this shit, considering most would have bet against me. I could call it quits now and walk away ten thousand eddies lighter. My own damn fault. He looked half-starved, itching for a challenge. I figured he¡¯d be easy money. My spoofer backed it up, too: no netrunning software, no dermal plating, nothing that should¡¯ve given him the edge. But even with the strength of my cybernetic arm, I can¡¯t keep up. He¡¯s just too damn smart. Every time I attack, he attacks right back. Not at my face, not at my chest, not even at my legs. No, he goes for the gap. The empty space where my right arm should be. He waits until I throw a punch, then steps just out of range, forcing me to overextend, to shift my weight where I don¡¯t want it. And the second I do¡ªbam¡ªhis fist hammers into my exposed ribs, my shoulder, the vulnerable hinge of my left elbow. Every hit shoves me further off balance. He¡¯s not stronger than me. He¡¯s smarter. But I can¡¯t hack my way out of this one. No netrunning allowed. No implants. Just grit. I pick myself up to my feet, looking unsteady, feeling unsteady. He turns to me. ¡°Still haven¡¯t given up?¡± He marches forward, one heavy stomp at a time, not even bothering to protect his face. I get a couple steps in, moving towards the right side of the slab, but then he raises his arms again, and I can¡¯t hit him. There¡¯s no opening. ¡°Come on, punch the bitch,¡± a man yells from the crowd. I try to get one hit in, just one, but he sidesteps again, and again, and¡ª Another punch to my left side. This time I manage to grab onto his arm, and like before when I woke up in the circuitery, on the brink of death, I try to crush his ulna and radius, but he slithers out of my grasp and I¡¯m left holding the cuff of his sleeve. He punches me again, and I fall, head bouncing, once, twice, three times. ¡°And down she goes again,¡± the commentator says. ¡°Seems this is a one-sided match, after all, folks. Now let¡¯s make some fuckin¡¯ noise, hey?¡± The man¡¯s still cheering, still playing to the crowd. I feel the micro-shifts in his weight, the way his stance slackens, that sliver of arrogance just before he moves in for another strike. He thinks it¡¯s over. Now. My fingers twitch. The sleeve coils tight around my cybernetic hand. The second he shifts forward, I yank. The sudden force drags him off-balance, his footing slipping just enough for me to roll out of the way. His knee juts forward as he tries to catch himself. And that¡¯s when I strike. With my only arm, I slam my fist into his kneecap. A choked yell rips out of him as his leg buckles, his weight crashing down wrong, his body folding in on itself. The crowd oohs. ¡°And Mono is showin¡¯ some fuckin¡¯ life,¡± the commentator shouts. ¡°Look at her go, go, gooooooooo!¡± I don¡¯t give him a chance to recover. I go to finish him off, foot poised for a knockout blow, when something clamps onto my wrist. Not him. Them. Arms, fingers, nails biting into my skin through the cage. Holding me back. ¡°Get off,¡± I shout. They can¡¯t do that. It¡¯s against the rules. It has to be. But it¡¯s too late. The man with the belt-bound leather pauldron picks himself up, whirls forward, and whomp. I go helplessly sprawling, like a marionette with half the strings cut. Down now, back and back. Something heavy battering the back of my skull. The cage. The ground leaps up to meet me, smashes into my ribs, drives the breath from my lungs in one sharp, sucking oof. Face-first. I¡¯m out. There¡¯s no chance. More cheering, more roaring, and the voice of the commentator is so muffled through my disorientation that she sounds like a radio tuned to a station too far. ¡°Okay,¡± I shout. ¡°You win!¡± ¡°Oh no you fuckin¡¯ don¡¯t,¡± the man yells. ¡°Hey now,¡± the commentator says, a hint of concern in her voice. The man with the belt-bound leather pauldron rushes forward, moving with a slight limp, and kicks me in the shoulder. The crowd are all for it, but the commentator shouts again: ¡°Hey, the match is over. Let off, Ernie!¡± But the man comes down on me again with that heavy foot; he¡¯s about to stomp on my skull. Then¡ª Ernie stops in place, and a spark shoots out from the cyberware embedded in his forehead. He shakes, as if being electrocuted, then falls flat, hitting the ground with a loud thunk. The crowd groans, disappointed no doubt. When I look through the cage, catching my breath, I see the commentator standing upright on the chair, one leg on the armrest, hand to her temple. She¡¯d short-circuited him. Thank God for that. ¡°It was just getting good,¡± an onlooker whined, walking away. I push myself to my knees, and then to my feet. I waste no time reaching into my pocket and pulling out my MX inhaler, taking a puff. It hits the spot, though I¡¯m still a little dazed. This was such a stupid idea. I should have never challenged him to a fight just for some money, but he was such a loudmouth, such an asshole, that I found it hard not to. And I have such a huge problem in close hand-to-hand combat; it¡¯s so easy for someone to exploit the fact I¡¯m missing an arm. All they have to do is wait for me to strike first, step back, and hit me. That¡¯s it. How am I supposed to compete with that? Betters move fast. No hesitation. They don¡¯t wait for the dust to settle; they¡¯re already collecting. A handful of them gather near the payout station, a repurposed bar counter where a rail-thin bookie sits behind reinforced plexiglass. His fingers fly across an old, grease-smudged holo-tablet, numbers shifting on the display as he registers the results. Next to him, a mounted scanner hums, reading the embedded chips of the winners, transferring credits in real time. And there¡¯s shouting. A heated argument near the back, two men accusing a third of hedging bets, of tipping the fight. One of them pulls out a shock-knuckled glove and swings, cracking the guy across the jaw. Another is demanding to see the bookie¡¯s logs, yelling about ¡®fraud, rigged odds, bullshit.¡¯ Security, a pair of aug¡¯d-out bouncers with subdermal plating and dead stares, steps in, and within seconds, the whole thing is shut down. None of it is professional. It¡¯s all makeshift, thrown together in the dark, buried beneath the apartment complex like a secret no one wants to admit exists. The fights echo up through the walls, a steady rhythm of violence I¡¯d hear every time I stepped outside. It¡¯s funny, really. The complex itself is decent: spacious, not too cramped. Not rich or fancy, but comfortable enough. You wouldn¡¯t think a place like this would have a fight pit rotting in its foundation. But here it is. And now, I¡¯ve learned something about myself. I¡¯m not all that tough. Not all that strong. If I was a fighter in my past life, I sure as hell don¡¯t remember it. Maybe that¡¯s because, back then, I had two arms instead of one. Ten grand lighter. A big blow, though luckily I still have a fair number of eddies left in the bank. I¡¯d been cautious about my spending over the past month, only buying the necessities, as well as some helpful bits. I approach the commentator and reach out my hand. She smirks, then chuckles, a low, knowing sound. With a quick motion, she unplugs the red visor from either side of her temple and hands it back to me. As soon as it disconnects, the colour drains away, fading to nothing. ¡°Good try,¡± she says. ¡°But you sure as hell ain¡¯t no fighter. I¡¯ve seen a lot, and you don¡¯t got it.¡± ¡°Didn¡¯t ask for your opinion.¡± I take the visor, fitting the left side to my temple first, then the right. The moment it clicks into place, my vision is swallowed by the familiar blue spoofer haze. ¡°Stabilising,¡± the voice in my head says. The visor is a ZennTek Spectra-V3, designed specifically for netrunners. It wasn¡¯t my first choice, but when I told Dr. Maelstrom about the trouble I ran into on my last job, back on the cargo ship, he insisted. The decision to fully embed the spoofer into my cyberware wasn¡¯t made lightly, to be perfectly frank. It¡¯s a gamble, sure, but I needed a solution that wouldn¡¯t leave me scrambling in the middle of a fight, fumbling with a loose connection when every second mattered. With it hardwired into my system, there¡¯s no risk of it slipping, no chance of dislodgement, no desperate moment of relying on someone else to jack it back in. And I understand the risk. If it malfunctions, I¡¯m screwed. A glitch at the wrong moment could fry my optics, lock me out of my own interface, maybe even scramble my neural pathways if things go really bad. But the alternative? Being caught without it, helpless, blind in a fight where losing isn¡¯t an option. Yeah, I took the risk. And whatever comes next, I¡¯ll handle it. So far, no issues. Though, to be fair, I haven¡¯t taken on any big jobs in the last month. Just checked in with Fingers and the crew for updates on the M-Gate plan. The festival is only a couple nights away, and they¡¯re really dragging things out. Beyond that, I¡¯ve spent my time scouring the net for anything I could find on Ourovane or this Cierus Marlowe. Nothing. Not even a breadcrumb. If anything useful exists, it¡¯s been wiped from the usual channels. Scrubbed clean. I¡¯ve looked into the dark web, too, but from what I¡¯ve gathered, I¡¯d need a specialised rig to even access it. Not an option. At least, not yet. Doesn¡¯t matter. I already have a lead: Paxson. And on that place, there¡¯s plenty of information. Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. I push away from the crowd of betters, navigating through the crush of bodies. Shoulders knock into me, paths cross and tangle, and for a second, it feels like I¡¯m fighting just to move forward. The air is thick¡ªso thick. Dark, smoky, laced with something bitter and dry that clings to my throat. And the worst part? I can actually smell it now. It¡¯s still strange, having everything back. When Dr. Maelstrom reconnected my central nervous system to my primary operating system, it was like a switch flipped. Everything clicked into place. Sensations I¡¯d forgotten came rushing back, overwhelming in ways I wasn¡¯t prepared for. It comes with its drawbacks, for sure, but I feel alive, healthy, strong. Well, maybe not so strong after getting my ass handed to me, but sturdy enough to stand on my own two feet and acknowledge that everything is okay. That everything is green. That I¡¯ll live. I step into the elevator shaft at the far end of the pit, exhaling slowly. It¡¯s wide, square, and could fit fifty people at once, probably more if you started stacking bodies. Despite that, it groans upwards, creaking, while the plasma-screen televisions mounted to the sides play news stations and commercials. Nothing too important, just general information about overseas wars, the usual stuff. At least my face isn¡¯t up there. There is a point made about the implementation of androids in the workforce, thanks to some recent upgrades in their hardware which allowed them to handle more complex tasks. I¡¯m guessing those bots in the cargo terminal and ship were part of the same programme. Funny. No mention of the incident. No reports about how a simple short-circuit turned one of them into a human meat grinder, slicing through crew members like they were nothing. You¡¯d think the government would slam the brakes on production after something like that. A recall, an investigation. Something. But no. They want more. And why? Eddies. Plain and simple. At the end of the day, safety is only a priority until it gets in the way of profit. If there¡¯s money to be made, regulations don¡¯t just bend; they shatter. This society is digging one massive grave for itself, and it¡¯s thanks to those three-piece-suited bastards with their holo-polished smiles and algorithm-fed policies, feeding the machine while the rest of us choke on the fumes. While the rest of the south chokes on the fumes. Even as the elevator rises, I can see it. The apartment complex keeps going up and up, a winding series of levels squaring around a single courtyard of patchy, trodden grass. At its centre, a fountain trickles, the water murky and somewhat foamy, the once-smooth stone streaked with grime and graffiti. The children play around it, dressed in those same sun-bleached, threadbare hand-me-downs: shirts clinging to their thin frames, riddled with holes that have been stitched and restitched with whatever scraps of fabric their families could scavenge. Some wear jackets long outgrown, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Then, near the back, movement. A tall man steps into the courtyard, receding brown hair slicked back, shoulders slouched under the weight of a battered cardboard box. The children freeze for a second, eyes locking onto him like hungry strays catching the scent of food. Then, they swarm. Hands reach up, grasping at the box, tugging at his sleeves, bouncing on the balls of their feet as they plead for first pick. His tired expression softens just a little as he kneels, cracking open the top, revealing a jumble of half-worn sneakers, dented tin toys, plastic-wrapped rations, and clothes. Who is this man? I don¡¯t know. I see him every week, swinging by with supplies. Sometimes food, sometimes toys. Always carrying more than he should, always with that quiet, unshakable smile. He isn¡¯t their father. The children are all different: different faces, different skin tones, different parents who come by to collect them when the sun starts to dip. No, he¡¯s something else entirely. I¡¯ve never had the chance to quick-scan him, to pull up his data and see who he really is. And even now, he¡¯s too far, out of range, slipping between the signals like a ghost. But does it matter? Somewhere deep inside me, past all the logic, past the cynicism, past the part of my brain that picks apart every interaction like a puzzle, there¡¯s something simpler. A quiet certainty that, whoever he is, whatever he¡¯s done, he¡¯s got a good heart. It¡¯s not something you can put into words. It¡¯s just one of those hunches, those feelings, the kind that settles deep in your gut, needing no proof or logic to justify itself. A feeling that, for all the things wrong in this city, this man isn¡¯t one of them. The elevator rumbles to a stop on the eighth floor, and I step out into a wall of stale sweat, cigars, and bottom-shelf booze. The kind of smell that clings to the walls, seeps into the floor, becomes part of the building¡¯s DNA. A few drunks linger by the ledges, nursing dented beer cans, their eyes glazed and half-lidded. Down the hall, some poor bastards are wrestling with a vending machine, shoving and kicking at it like it owes them rent. It doesn¡¯t last long. Two NACP officers come in heavy, black-clad and broad, their armour bulging at the seams like they were built for war instead of crowd control. Their boots hit the floor, clack-clack, thick-soled and punchy, the cold weight of the law crashing down with every step. And their helmets: visors drawn low, polished like oil-slick glass, reflecting nothing and everything at once. In the hallway shimmer, they look almost liquid, like a black void stretched across their faces, a place where expressions go to die. And they don¡¯t need to speak. They just stand there, and that¡¯s enough. The vending machine thieves back off first, hands raised, muttering curses under their breath as they slink away. The drinkers follow, peeling off like rats sensing a storm. Creepy-looking officers. Dangerous-looking officers. A quick scan of their bodies reveals they have some pretty nifty cyberware, with completely bullet-proof armour. Defence systems in place to ward off quick-hacks, ICE, in particular, and something called ¡®Overclock Spinal Relay¡¯. No idea what that is, and I certainly would not like to find out. My apartment is not too far from here. Just around the corner, and I¡¯m there. I press my hand to the scanner-lock and it recognises my print even through the blood and dust. The door slides open and I step inside. It¡¯s nifty, spacious enough. To the left, my bed is tucked neatly into an alcove. To the right, a TV and a well-worn sofa sit opposite each other, the cushions slightly sunken from use. Down the middle: an en suite bathroom, small but functional. The kitchenette blends into the living space, compact counters joining wonderfully with the sofa area. Across from it, in a recessed nook, my computer hums, the screen dark except for a blinking status light. A couple of empty soda cans sit beside the keyboard, waiting to be cleared. Next to it, my wardrobe stands half-open with neatly folded clothes and a single, spare jacket hanging from a hook. Everything I need. Nothing less. Nothing more. I strip off my clothes and step into the en suite, letting the warm water wash away the blood, grime, and sweat. The pressure is good, steady, the temperature just right: not scalding, not icy, just that perfect middle ground that soaks into tired muscles and makes the world feel a little less cruel. I lather up, the scent of bergamot filling my nostrils, something cheap I¡¯d grabbed from the convenience store across the street but nice enough to almost make me forget the last few hours. Steam rises, fogging up the glass, blurring the edges of my vision. I reach for the shampoo, flip the cap open, squeeze a handful onto my scalp, then place it back. The second I start scrubbing, I swear, it¡¯s heaven. I could stand here all day, just letting the heat sink in, letting it all melt away. Then, a sound. Something low. Muffled. Buzzing. Is that...? My phone. It¡¯s ringing. I groan, blindly shuffling, sliding the shower door open. Water drips onto the floor as I fumble for my towel, rubbing just enough from my eyes to see, but the moment I step out, my foot catches on the carpet. I go down hard. A grunt, a muffled curse, palm slapping against the floor as I scramble back up, still dripping, still half-dazed, still very much naked as I stagger towards my desk. I grab my phone, flip it over, squint at the screen. Fingers. I swipe right to accept the call, but my thumb is still wet, so I wipe it off the towel, then swipe again. The call connects, and I put it on speaker. ¡°Yeah, Fingers?¡± I say, a little agitated. ¡°You doin¡¯ alright, Mono?¡± she says. ¡°Just about.¡± I place the phone on the desk and pick up the towel, drying my face off completely. ¡°You called at a pretty bad time.¡± She chuckles, her voice cutting out slightly. ¡°Why¡¯s that?¡± ¡°The shower, I was in it.¡± ¡°Had a feeling,¡± she says. ¡°I can hear the water running in the background.¡± I groan, rubbing the towel through my hair. It¡¯s awkward trying to have a conversation while dabbing at my face, especially with soap still dripping into my eyes. I press the towel against my brow and hold it there, exhaling. ¡°Let me guess,¡± I say, voice muffled through the fabric. ¡°You want to meet up?¡± ¡°An hour from now,¡± Fingers says matter-of-factly. ¡°You got a car now, right?¡± I do. A basic, nothing-special model. Old, but reliable, one of the few things in my life that still works when I need it to. Carburettor-fed, gas-guzzling, built before self-driving rigs took over the streets. No fancy AI, no remote overrides, just a hunk of metal and rubber that responds when I tell it to. Low-end security, no autopilot, barely any onboard systems beyond a cracked digital dash. The kind of ride no one would bother to steal, and if they did, I¡¯d probably find it abandoned five blocks away, still running. ¡°Yeah,¡± I say, shaking out the last bit of water from my hair. ¡°Where? Old Mill, I¡¯m guessing?¡± ¡°You call it the Old Mill?¡± Another chuckle. ¡°HQ. Dash Two. As always. Whole groups gonna be there. No pizza this time. Very important you show up.¡± ¡°No pizza?¡± I feign offense, pressing the towel to my face. ¡°Then what the hell¡¯s the point?¡± ¡°See, this is why no one trusts you with logistics. You think a tactical op is just an excuse to eat like a teenager.¡± ¡°Yeah, well, maybe I work better with a full stomach.¡± ¡°Then grab a snack on the way, because this ain¡¯t that kind of meet.¡± Her tone dips just a little. ¡°Christ,¡± I say. ¡°Ever heard of a joke?¡± ¡°Just be there, alright?¡± ¡°I got it,¡± I say, sighing. ¡°I''ll be there. Just give me a minute, will you?¡± ¡°Tick-tock, Mono,¡± she says. ¡°Tick tickity tock. See ya around. Later.¡± The line goes dead. I walk away from the desk, throw the towel aside, and switch the water off. Then I go back, grab the towel again, and finish drying myself off. It¡¯s a far enough drive from the apartment complex, about half an hour, so I best get a move-on right away. I throw on a pair of stretchy cargo pants, combat boots, and a white, sleeveless vest. Then I slide into a slim winter jacket, because outside the temperatures have dropped to the low forties. That¡¯s the sort of cold I don¡¯t like. I catch the elevator down to the first floor, just above the pit-fighting grounds, and make my way to the parking lot, if you could even call it that. It¡¯s not some neat, paved expanse with painted lines and security cameras keeping watch. This place is a half-collapsed, oil-stained cavern where the ceiling sags under a tangle of rusted pipes and stuttering bulbs that cast more shadow than light. The ground is cracked concrete, pocked with rain puddles and tire ruts so deep they could swallow a small dog. Good thing this is an animal-free zone. I spot my car near the back, tucked between a black transport van and a stack of discarded steel beams that look like they could come crashing down with the wrong breeze. In front of the van, there are plenty of brown boxes. And everything is quiet, empty, but then I hear something, someone. A tall figure steps out from behind the transport van, moving with an easy, practiced sway as he swoops down to gather the scattered boxes. He carries them towards the side door, one after another, like he¡¯s done this a hundred times before. It¡¯s him. The man from the courtyard. I pull out my car key, press the button on top. My car beeps open, side mirrors unfurling with a soft mechanical hum. He doesn¡¯t notice me¡ªtoo focused on his task¡ªbut now that I¡¯m up close, I get a better look at him. Older than I thought. Late sixties, maybe. Long face, strong chin, even longer nose. Something in his features feels weathered, not just by age, but by time, by life. I know I¡¯m on a tight schedule. I know I should keep moving. But against all reason, I stop. ¡°You need a hand?¡± He glances up from behind the van¡¯s hood, eyes sharp, assessing. Then, in a deep, rasping voice, he says, ¡°If you wouldn¡¯t mind. I¡¯m not holding you up from work, am I?¡± I smile. ¡°Not at all. I¡¯m unemployed anyway. Just got some errands to run.¡± He exhales a short chuckle. ¡°Well, that¡¯s okay, young lady. I wouldn¡¯t mind the help. The city could always use more helping hands.¡± There¡¯s something about the way he says it. Steady, knowing, like he¡¯s seen enough of the world to mean every word. I start helping him pack the boxes away in the side of his transport van. They¡¯re somewhat heavy, but they¡¯re closed off so I can¡¯t see what¡¯s inside. I presume they share similar qualities to what I saw in the courtyard earlier. ¡°You¡¯re new around here,¡± the man says. ¡°I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve seen you. Green hair is a unique colour.¡± ¡°Yeah,¡± I say. ¡°I just rented a place out a month ago. It¡¯s nice.¡± ¡°Well, that¡¯s good,¡± the man says. ¡°Most people who show up here complain about the landlords. Just pay your rent and you¡¯ll be in their good graces.¡± I laugh, more out of politeness than anything. ¡°I believe it. Have you seen those people up there? Drunks? Druggies?¡± He sighs. ¡°Yeah. Unfortunately, it¡¯s been like that for some time now.¡± I pick up another box, manoeuvring it the way I always do: with a little patience and a lot of practice. Sliding my left hand underneath, I press it tight against my chest, using my body as leverage to balance the weight. It¡¯s not graceful, but it works. The trick is in the angle: tilt too far forward, and the whole thing slips; lean too far back, and I lose control. My shoulder takes some of the strain, my core does the rest. I¡¯ve gotten used to it. Had to. You learn fast when there¡¯s no other option. ¡°You been here long?¡± I ask, shifting the box into the van, careful not to let it topple. ¡°Me?¡± he says. ¡°Well, I don¡¯t actually live here. I just stop by to drop off supplies for the kiddos.¡± ¡°So, I take it you¡¯re a delivery driver?¡± I say. He shakes his head. ¡°Not at all.¡± I cock an eyebrow. ¡°So, who owns this stuff?¡± ¡°Well, I bought it from the market down on Lower Elm Street,¡± he says. ¡°The kids here, they¡¯re struggling just as much as the parents. I work a little shop down the road, and whenever I can, I pick up bits and pieces.¡± I smile again. ¡°So, you¡¯re just an awesome person?¡± He guffaws. ¡°Not at all. I¡¯m old. I just think if you can help, you should. Simple as that.¡± He lifts another box, setting it into the van. ¡°World¡¯s got enough people looking the other way. Figured I¡¯d try being one of the few that doesn¡¯t.¡± I nod wordlessly, and he lifts the last of the boxes into the van, then slides the door shut, clapping the dust from his hands. ¡°And what¡¯s your name, young lady?¡± ¡°Rhea,¡± I say. ¡°Rhea Steele. And you?¡± ¡°Silas Harbor,¡± he says. ¡°If you ever want to help out, you can find me in booth seven, Lower Elm Street. Or, if you need anything. I know you said you¡¯re out of work at the moment, but keep your head on your shoulders. The city¡¯s got a way of grinding people down, making them feel small, making them think they don¡¯t matter. But that¡¯s a lie. You matter. What you do, what you choose to do¡ªthat matters.¡± He leans against the van, crossing his arms, watching me like he¡¯s measuring his next words. ¡°The world doesn¡¯t need more people tearing it apart. It needs people who hold it up, even in the smallest ways.¡± I take moment to digest his message, to try understand where his words are coming from, and something deep in my subconscious feels it: a place of experience, like he¡¯s seen the world at its worst, people at their worst. ¡°Thanks,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯ll, uh, I¡¯ll remember that. Nice to meet you, Silas.¡± I offer my hand and he shakes it. He has a soft grip; there¡¯s no force behind it. ¡°I¡¯ll be sure to remember your name,¡± Silas says. ¡°Rhea Steele. You remind me of someone.¡± ¡°Oh yeah? Of who?¡± ¡°An old friend of mine,¡± he says. ¡°The scent you¡¯re wearing. Bergamot. My, the world was hard on her.¡± ¡°What happened?¡± I ask, curious. He takes a deep breath and heads around to the driver¡¯s-side door. ¡°I¡¯m afraid that¡¯s not my story to tell. But I thank you very much, Rhea. I¡¯ll be seeing you around. You have a lovely day.¡± He pops the door open. I watch as he climbs into the van, moving slow, deliberate, like a man carrying more weight than just the boxes in the back. He gives me one last nod before pulling away, the van rolling off, leaving the parking lot. I stand there for a moment, the scent of bergamot still clinging faintly to my skin, and wonder if the world¡¯s already decided to be hard on me, too. do not fray the ribbons edge - 6.2 6.2 ¡°Shouldn¡¯t be too much of a problem,¡± Dance says, not bothering to turn as I step in, his focus fixed on the blue hologram kicking up from the mini circular projector on the coffee table, the light catching on the crisp white button-up stretched across his shoulders and the slacks hanging loose on his frame, one leg propped against the sofa¡¯s arm, hand raking absently through his wild mess of hair. Seems overdressed for the occasion. Not like him to go fancy. The usual suspects are also here: Vander, Raze, Cormac O¡¯Cormac, and, of course, Fingers, all standing around, waiting, eyes flashing my way the moment I step in, but I¡¯m not late, not early either. Right on time, not a minute past the hour, not a second, and without reeking of pitfighter sweat, thank the Lord. I hadn''t been to HQ since getting my senses back, and now that I have, everything smells dusty with a trace of chemical, a peculiar scent that comes in bursts rather than a steady drift. Honestly, not bad. For a run-of-the-mill gang on the south side, it¡¯s probably even good. ¡°Well, we¡¯ll find out now, mmmm, won¡¯t we?¡± Cormac says. I approach the table. ¡°Start the presentation already?¡± ¡°Wouldn¡¯t dream of it, lefty.¡± Raze and that damn cigar, blowing it everywhere. And yeah, I can smell that, too, especially when he gets all close and personal. At least he has enough sense to shower, unlike some people in this city. ¡°You look weird with that visor.¡± ¡°Has to look the part of a netrunner, wouldn¡¯t you say?¡± replies Cormac, then he gestures to the hologram. The hologram is blank, just a blue glow in the dark, but then Dance steps off the arm of the sofa, grabs the remote off the table, and presses a button at the top. Soon, the image shifts, digitises, transforms, showcasing a map of Neo Arcadia, just like before. The aerial view zooms in on a blinking orange convoy travelling along the outskirts of the city, where it then catches the highway into the city centre, heading north towards the canal. It travels through busy Luminara streets, past all the kiosks and dancers and popping champagne bottles, moving with a cartoonishly sped-up pace, stopping. Right there, before the bridge. Time is frozen, and then the bridge is highlighted in gold. ¡°Righty-ooooooo mates,¡± says Dance. ¡°Keepin¡¯ things simple, did some ironin¡¯ out with Fingers. This is gonna be a tough doozie, but I¡¯m sure many of you knew that already, because this isn¡¯t the low-end, gang dookie stuff we normally deal with. This is corporate America, and these people are elite.¡± I unzip my jacket and place it over the head of the sofa, keeping it pressed there, fiddling with the fabric, feeling a tad nervous. Just how serious are we talking? ¡°So, pay attention,¡± he continues. ¡°Convoy¡¯s runnin¡¯ a hard-fixed route. Not just ¡¯cause it¡¯s corporate, but ¡¯cause these blokes can¡¯t afford to change paths on the fly. See, high-priority cargo like M-Gates? They don¡¯t just roll through the streets like a cheap haul from the black markets. They¡¯re on a scheduled, encrypted route, one that¡¯s pre-approved weeks in advance by the corp¡¯s logistics AI. Every intersection, every sector gate, every damn traffic signal? Pre-coded. Locked in. No deviations. No backtracking. That¡¯s why we know exactly where they¡¯re gonna be.¡± ¡°Is it not dangerous for them to travel through the city during the Luminara festival?¡± I ask. ¡°I see they¡¯re coming from the south side, so I¡¯m guessing the M-Gates are outsourced.¡± ¡°Might be dangerous for you or I,¡± says Dance. ¡°But these are some pretty decked-out units. We¡¯re talkin¡¯ overclock spinal relays, ghostkeys, you name it. Ain¡¯t nothing even the strongest southsider could do.¡± ¡°Uh-huh,¡± says Raze, folding his arms. ¡°So how do we fare?¡± ¡°Glad you asked.¡± Dance presses another button and suddenly the bridge flashes red, the two halves parting where a boat would normally travel under. ¡°We stop them in their tracks.¡± ¡°A drawbridge...¡± I say. ¡°Didn¡¯t even know that thing could lift up,¡± Raze says. ¡°It happen often?¡± Fingers juts in. ¡°Not at all,¡± she says. ¡°Boats rarely travel through the canal anymore. Was more common back in the 2080s, before you showed and stunk everything up.¡± Some laughter. I admit, it¡¯s pretty accurate. Raze scoffs. ¡°Go on then. How do we lift it up?¡± Dance presses the remote again, and this time the hologram shifts towards an area on the north side, across the canal, to a medium-sized building, and I mean medium by city standards. Big enough to turn heads, but not so big it swallows the skyline. It¡¯s got the opulence of a rich man¡¯s hotel, but the structure leans more towards corporate fortress than anything inviting. And at the top, words take form, revealing a name: ¡®The Ghost in Satin¡¯. Before I can even ask what that is, Dance continues: ¡°An avant-garde performance hall. Not sure many of you would¡¯ve heard of it, but it¡¯s pretty popular ¡¯round Luminara. Dancers, opera singers, plays, the whole kit and caboodle. And underneath?¡± He clicks the remote again, and the hologram fizzles out, revealing the levels beneath, as if peeling back the city¡¯s skin. Under The Ghost in Satin, the curving layers of its sublevels appear, at first the foundation, then the cavernous underbelly of maintenance shafts, storage rooms, and finally, deeper still, tunnels. Actual tunnels. ¡°You''re looking at a relic of the old North,¡± Dance says, pointing. ¡°Before this place became a playground for the rich, back when industry actually mattered, these were maintenance tunnels. Originally for wirin¡¯, plumbin¡¯, and service access when the power grid still needed human hands. You followin¡¯?¡± I scan the map, noting the distinct lack of straight lines. The tunnels twist, double back, some leading into dead ends while others seem to spiral. Some corridors are wide enough to fit vehicles, service trams, maybe, while others are so narrow that someone broad enough would have to turn sideways to squeeze through. They look like veins. Small, pulsing, electric veins. ¡°So, I¡¯m guessing this is all linked to a power source of some kind?¡± I say, thinking it would only make sense that it would be underground. Dance snaps his fingers. ¡°Bonus points to Mono.¡± Another click of the remote, and the hologram drifts towards the far-left end, where a large though featureless room lays dormant. ¡°Electrical substation, underground, controlling the entire sector on not just the north side but also the south, and in the middle: the drawbridge. So, step one of the plan: enter The Ghost in Satin, access the tunnels, access the electrical substation, and activate the drawbridge right before they¡¯re about to cross, stopping the convoy.¡± There are a lot of questions to that plan, such as how we would be able to access The Ghost in Satin, the tunnels, everything, especially without drawing any security. I ask him, keeping it straight, and he answers pretty quickly, as if already considering all angles: ¡°That¡¯s where you come in, my dear netrunner friend,¡± Dance says. ¡°We¡¯re going to stage a little ¡®electrical fault¡¯ before the Luminara festival starts, and we¡¯re going to draw out some electricians to the area.¡± ¡°Right,¡± I say. ¡°The fault will be in the side alley, disrupting the external grid connection to The Ghost in Satin, juuuuuust enough to cause a panic but not enough to shut the place down. We don¡¯t want that.¡± Dance waves a hand, and the hologram zooms in on a cluster of tangled power lines and junction boxes nestled against the side of the theatre. ¡°Now, here¡¯s the trick.¡± He leans forward, grinning like a devil with a good idea. ¡°It won¡¯t look like sabotage; it¡¯ll look like wear and tear.¡± ¡°Old wiring?¡± Vander asks. Dance winks. ¡°Old wiring, voltage inconsistencies. Hell, maybe even a dodgy transformer if we wanna make it convincin¡¯. It¡¯s gotta look natural so the theatre calls in their trusted electricians instead of triggering corporate security. Bad enough to call in two, maybe three electricians, but not serious enough to have a whole squad wonderin¡¯ what the hell the problem is.¡± Fingers chimes in, flipping a coin. ¡°And while those poor bastards head out to check the electrical supply, you¡¯ll take care of ¡¯em, spoof their IDs to match up with your fake names, and simply walk on down to the electrical substation posing as the electricians carrying out maintenance, telling them it¡¯s an internal fault.¡± ¡°Take care of them?¡± I ask, discomfited by the phrase. Surely, they couldn¡¯t mean... Raze chuffs out smoke and does a cutting motion across his neck. ¡°Iced.¡± My eyes flash wide. ¡°Hold on a second. I don¡¯t know about that.¡± ¡°Know about what?¡± Fingers asks, sounding snippy. ¡°I understand the whole ¡®kill-or-be-killed¡¯ method when it comes to dealing with other criminals, like Li Wei and that asshole on the cargo ship,¡± I say¡ªand not to mention Nyah Boba-Strider. ¡°But innocent workers? These people have families. I¡¯m not just going to kill innocent people trying to do their jobs.¡± Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. ¡°Knew she¡¯d start bitchin¡¯,¡± says Raze, letting out a loud sigh. ¡°Looks like this plan¡¯s a bust because New Girl doesn¡¯t want to co-operate.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t put words in my mouth.¡± I let go of my jacket and step away from the sofa. ¡°I didn¡¯t say I don¡¯t want to co-operate. I said I don¡¯t want to kill innocent people. Maybe start listening for once.¡± He scowls. ¡°Don¡¯t get so ballsy with me, kid. You¡¯re here a month and pulled off one job successfully without shitting yourself.¡± ¡°Relax,¡± says Fingers, then she lets out a sigh of her own. ¡°Look, if we let them live, they¡¯ll alert security one way or another, and then we¡¯ll all end up screwed. Possibly worse. And I don¡¯t want to think about that.¡± ¡°I understand,¡± I say. ¡°But surely there has to be another way? I mean surely?¡± ¡°She has a er point.¡± Vander reaches into the pocket embedded in his sleeve and pulls out a ChapStick. Gently, he starts rubbing it over his dry lips. ¡°It¡¯s not often we just er kill off innocent workers. I mean, push comes to shove, sure, I¡¯ll der anything, but we could prerbably just knock ¡¯em out and tie ¡¯em up or somethin¡¯.¡± ¡°Yes,¡± says Cormac, ¡°but indeed what if they wake up? What if someone hears them, wherever you decide to hold them captive? You are placing undue pressure on yourselves, where eliminating them entirely and hiding the bodies provides a permanent solution.¡± ¡°Listen,¡± I say, ¡°I¡¯m not killing innocent workers. So, we may as well scratch that off the drawing board. Crooks? Criminals? Sure. But not people doing nothing wrong.¡± Cormac massages his metal chin with his steel fingers, making eerie little taps that set my teeth on edge. ¡°It appears we¡¯re at a conundrum.¡± ¡°Fuck me,¡± says Raze. ¡°Why don¡¯t I come with you, Dance? I¡¯ll fuckin¡¯ do it.¡± ¡°Need a netrunner,¡± Dance says. ¡°The plan is me and Mono accessing the electrical substation. I¡¯ve already set the rest of you up. Look, it¡¯s fine, mate.¡± He turns to face me. ¡°Thought you might have an issue with it. I can cook somethin¡¯ up that¡¯ll keep ¡¯em knocked out for hours. We tie ¡¯em up and keep ¡¯em someplace safe but quiet. That sound fair to you?¡± It did, very much so. The fact that it wasn¡¯t the first option is absurd. I get that, as Fingers once explained, they usually operate by a ¡®kill-or-be-killed¡¯ MO, but that should only apply when absolutely necessary. Even then, I¡¯m not sure it¡¯s something I¡¯d want to be part of unless my life depended on it. ¡°Yeah,¡± I say. ¡°But why do you specifically need me?¡± ¡°The electrical substation unit has to be overridden,¡± he says. ¡°I can¡¯t do it. Fingers can¡¯t do it. No one without a spoofer can do it. That leaves you. Make sense?¡± There¡¯s a hint of peevishness in his tone, but I¡¯ve come to realise that¡¯s just how he talks, and he doesn¡¯t seem to care much either way. I shift my weight, scanning the holo-tunnels. ¡°Once we make it to the electrical substation,¡± I begin, ¡°then what? We just override the controls for the bridge and lift it up when they arrive? Stop them in place?¡± Dance flashes a toothy side-smile, the kind that makes him look like he¡¯s just walked off the poster of some retro-futuristic action flick. I know the style, the badboy beer-can-and-shades look. ¡°You follow along well,¡± he says. Then, as if suddenly coming to mind: ¡°Mate.¡± Raze smothers his dying cigar against his jacket, then swings a leg over the side sofa, snatching up an ashtray and letting the ember fade inside. ¡°What about after that?¡± Suddenly, Fingers drops something heavy onto the coffee table with a dull thud. A silver case. Big, bulky. Familiar. She flicks it open, and there it is: the spider-bot from before, nestled in a foam cutout like it had crawled in and curled up to die. The way spiders often do. She reaches into the side compartment of the case¡¯s interior and brings out the control shard, and I expect her to hand it off to Dance for another demonstration, for an explanation, but to my surprise, shock even, she passes it over to me and says, ¡°Slot it in.¡± ¡°Me?¡± I say. Not waiting for a response, I slot the control shard into my neural port. ¡°Suspicious data identified,¡± my neural AI says. ¡°Are you sure you wish allow this access to your primary neural system?¡± I think it¡¯s safe to say I¡¯ve gotten used to saying ¡®yes¡¯ in this city. So, I do. My perspective shifts. A window opens, flooding my vision: a dark rectangle at first, glitching at the edges. Then, slowly, the top half peels away like a camera feed booting up. And the first thing I see? Dance¡¯s ass. I can see everything the spider sees, and I can feel it. Controls lie at the top right, but they¡¯re indeed a lot more complicated and precise than something like, say, the crane head trolley. Really a lot of this is just a feeling, a sensation of thoughts where the spider¡¯s movements reflect my will. I picture raising the spider¡¯s front right leg or pincer¡ªfrankly, I¡¯m not sure what you¡¯d call it¡ªand it responds, pretty accurately, too, with little buffering. ¡°As a netrunner, you¡¯ll be able to control the bot from a strong distance,¡± Dance says. ¡°And, more importantly, for a while. Your software is designed to handle high processing power for longer durations than most; yeah, that¡¯s right, mate.¡± ¡°It feels weird,¡± I say. Dance says, ¡°Don¡¯t I know, mate. Point is, this little doooooozie is our ticket to inserting the spoofers into the M-Gate visors. See, mate, when that bridge is raised, Fingers will drop off the bot someplace nearby, top of an apartment complex on the southside. You¡¯ll tap into it, climb in the back of the vehicle, and slot them in.¡± ¡°Seems impossible,¡± Raze says. ¡°Corpo-shits everywhere. It might not be a huge bot, and it might be quiet, but they¡¯re gonna see it if it tries to pry itself into a convoy.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll get to that in a minute.¡± I ease the spider-bot out of its foam cutout and guide it off the table, metal legs clicking as it creeps onto the floor and around the sofa. At first, the movement is erratic, jerky, like trying to steer a vehicle with loose suspension. But gradually it steadies. Maybe I¡¯m adapting to the bot, or maybe it¡¯s adapting to me. One thing¡¯s certain, though: I¡¯m going to need a hell of a lot more practice. Especially with the Luminara festival only a couple of nights away. I bring the spider-bot up along the wall, up to the ceiling, looking down on us. I can see myself tapped in, the visor glowing blue instead of pinkish red, and a new option pops up on the top right: Spin. Curious, I press the button and the spider suddenly drops. Shit. But it stops just before it hits the ground, moving with a slight bounce before settling into stillness. An outline of the spider¡¯s body appears on the bottom right, showing the entire anatomy, and at the back a single line appears, going up and up. A web. The bot is held in place by thin threads of metal. I ease the spider up, slowly this time, then drop it back down onto the floor. The web retracts behind with a smooth, whispering slide. ¡°Already gettin¡¯ the hang of it,¡± says Dance. I remove the control shard, and my vision stutters. Static, distortion. Then clearing. Hazy at first. Sharpening. Solid. Clear. ¡°I get it.¡± I rub the back of my neck. ¡°But how am I supposed to match my ID to the electrician¡¯s? Even if the names line up, they¡¯ll still flag me the second they scan me¡ªbecause, according to the system, I¡¯m dead.¡± Dance smirks. ¡°That brings me to my next point.¡± He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a small, familiar-looking case, identical to the one Rico used for his money shard. Sliding it open, he takes out a slim shard and holds it up between two fingers. Then, extending his other hand, he says, ¡°Wire.¡± For a second, I feel like I¡¯m back in Flux, cutting that deal with Rico. I pull out my wire, and he takes it, plugging it into the side of the shard. A notification pings at the top of my neural display: ¡®Uploading Data¡­¡¯ The progress bar creeps forward, fills to 100%. A new quickhack materialises in my interface, the name glowing in the left corner of my vision: Gossamer Sig. ¡°Fresh addition to your toolkit,¡± Dance says. ¡°Gossamer Sig. Big in the netrunning scene; that¡¯s right. Temporarily alters your or anyone else''s body signature. Name, age, status, whatever you need to pass as someone else, even a legit civvie. And here¡¯s the fun part: I already picked out a couple of real electricians from Neo Arcadia for us to spoof.¡± I nod. ¡°Alright. And those names are?¡± Dance straightens up. ¡°I¡¯m going to be Reeve Calder,¡± he announces with a flourish, like he¡¯s proud of it. Then he turns to me with a grin. ¡°And you, my dear netrunner choooomie, are gonna be Juno Harlyn. Disabled veteran turned electrician. Yeah, that¡¯s right. Disabled. No arm.¡± I let out a low chuckle, leveling him with a stony stare. Either this guy is completely insane or an outright genius. Maybe a bit of both. He has a knack for solving problems that seem impossible, though I suppose it makes sense. Netrunners have been around for decades, and with them, technology has evolved to the point where almost anything is possible. It¡¯s just a matter of knowing where to look, what to exploit. Good thing Dance and Fingers put their heads together for this one, covering all the angles, or at least, most of them. I¡¯ve already come to learn that things rarely go to plan, but we really can¡¯t afford to make any mistakes with this one. On the southside, things are different: the NACP don¡¯t give a flying damn about crooks unless they¡¯re a serious threat to the community or national security. Here? We¡¯re on their turf. If anything goes wrong, it¡¯ll come back to haunt us. No question. This isn¡¯t some under-the-radar cesspit like Quick Bites. This is a performance hall, a place where the city¡¯s elite gather, where the most expensive, meticulously crafted shows take place. No space for wrong moves. No shot in the dark, as Rico likes to say. Dance runs through the rest of the crew¡¯s roles, and it¡¯s clear that everything needs to go off without a hitch if we even want a chance at pulling this off. From what I gather, once the bridge lifts and the convoy is forced to a stop, Cormac and Raze will act as a pair of southside drunks, creating a distraction while Fingers positions the spider-bot. That¡¯s my cue: I¡¯ll slot in the control shard from underground and take over. The key move will be sneaking the spoofers into the M-Gate visors at the back of the convoy while the units are distracted, slipping out unseen, then triggering the bridge lift to make it look like a temporary outage caused by a festival power surge. Meanwhile, Vander will be monitoring the inside and outside of The Ghost in Satin through a hand-held computer, and we¡¯ll tap him into the building¡¯s camera network through the spoofer. Vander will also take the electricians'' unconscious bodies somewhere quiet, carrying them in the trunk of Raze''s car. Fingers will keep watch on the convoy, stepping in when needed to guide me while I control the spider-bot. And since the bot doesn¡¯t have Chroma-Skin, I¡¯ll have to be extra careful. One wrong move, and the whole thing falls apart. Timing is another issue. We¡¯ll need to arrive early, but not so early that the electricians have a chance to wake up, and not so late that the convoy crosses the bridge before we reach the electrical substation. Every second will count. Once that¡¯s done, the only thing left will be resolving the ¡®temporary electrical outage¡¯, a simple fix with access to the electrical substation. Reactivate the side panels, make it look like a routine reset, and walk away clean. By then, it¡¯ll be early morning, probably around one o¡¯clock, maybe later, depending on how smoothly things go. After that, it¡¯s just a waiting game for the M-Gate visors to activate. Once they do, we¡¯ll have a front-row seat to classified corporate meetings, siphoning off any crucial intel we need. Job done. Money made. A lot of money. Fingers says Quillon Bennett is offering over a million eddies to the gang that can get him the intel he wants, and lately, his focus has been locked onto one thing: Elydrine. Or, as I¡¯d seen at the cargo terminal: that inky-blue coolant running through the androids. Supposedly, it¡¯s rare. Valuable. And no one seems to know much about how it¡¯s made, except that a scientist named Isolde Crane created it. Techstrum, of course. I don¡¯t know who she is. I don¡¯t know what she left behind. But I have a feeling that one of these days I¡¯ll find out. do not fray the ribbons edge - 6.3 6.3 Orchid. I¡¯m guessing that¡¯s the company behind the show. No special chrome, just a basic joe-schmoe with a little bit of a belly and a pair of suspenders. Probably the kind of guy who spends more time buried in logistics than on the floor. He¡¯s got that tired, overworked look, the kind that says he¡¯s here to keep the gears turning, not to watch flashy lights. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. GridOne Services MODEL: Techstrum S-107 ¡°Vigilant¡± CORPORATION: Techstrum Systems International LLC. AI: Seraph-1 (Limited Autonomy ¨C Tier 3) CONNECTION STATUS: Remote-linked via Encrypted Relay (Control Tower: 07) TASK ID: EL-923285A: Routine Power Grid Diagnostics ¨C Subsector 17 STATUS: In Progress PRIORITY LEVEL: Moderate NEXT ACTION: ... Assess transformer relay stability ... Integrity Sweep: Ready Quantum Trace: Ready AI Protocol: Oscal-7 Active Steady now. Breathe. do not fray the ribbons edge - 6.4 6.4 The corridor slopes gently downward, red wool carpet soft underfoot, muffling every step. After a while, the right-hand wall drops into a half-partition, opening up the view beyond. There¡¯s the stage: a circular steel slab, packed in tight by hundreds of northsiders, and, to no surprise of my own, they¡¯re all sunk deep into their velvet thrones, faces lost in shadow, swallowed by the sweeping arc of overhead LEDs. Watching. Always watching. Onstage, figures sway: limbs bending, bodies folding, silk gliding over metal. Blue qipaos shimmer as they spin, while glowlit ribbons carve neon parabolas through the air, leaving faint afterimages in my vision. Fingers flick, releasing thin filaments that unravel, curling and stretching before catching onto one another in midair, forming shapes that pulse in time with the music. Patterns in constant motion, never still. Too perfect. Too precise. Androids? Yes. They. Are. The piano beats on, and the woman sings beautifully¡ªshe sings: ¡°Metal hands, a lover¡¯s grace... Ghosts behind a frozen face... Ticking hearts in hollow chests... Spin and bow at their behest.¡± And the crowd: they ooh. But if I were them, I wouldn¡¯t be so enchanted. Not when a single malfunction, a tiny circuitry error, is all it takes to set them off. Maybe it¡¯s a disgruntled patron slipping past security scanners. Or maybe it¡¯s someone like me, a netrunner from the south, tapping into the wrong system at the wrong time. A short-circuit. A power surge. And then, something stirs. A programme that was never meant to run. A presence that was never meant to wake. And after that? Death. There are a couple of security officers dressed in all-black uniforms, a pair of pistols holstered at their sides¡ªbecause two guns are surely better than one¡ªleaning over the partition, relaxed, as if they don¡¯t have to worry about things going wrong. The north have a history of following the ¡®rules¡¯, after all. Beyond them, a separate corridor stretches on, and as we pass, I hear snatches of their conversation. ¡°Big finale¡¯s at midnight,¡± one says, tapping his comm. ¡°They¡¯ve been running diagnostics all week. Last thing we need is another ¡®stage incident.¡¯¡± ¡°Yeah, well, those things are sharp as hell,¡± the other mutters. ¡°You saw what happened last time. If they don¡¯t sync right¡ª¡± ¡°Not our problem,¡± the first one scoffs. ¡°That¡¯s for the techs to worry about. It¡¯s their money, their reputation, at the end of the day.¡± They chuckle, unconcerned. I keep walking, but something about the exchange sticks with me: the way he said those things, the edge in his voice, like a man who¡¯s seen something he¡¯d rather forget. It¡¯s... unnerving, and I¡¯m not sure why. Just as we step into the hallway, the stagelights twitch. A sharp stutter, a breath of darkness swallowing the circular slab below. A second later, they hum back to life. I guess Dance was right: the tampering¡¯s minor, just a hiccup in the system. No full blackout, no alarms blaring, just enough to make people notice. Enough to make it feel like something¡¯s off. A few groans ripple through the audience, some muttered complaints, but nothing more. The hallway leads on, bearing offices to either side, and I even catch glimpse of that man, Kenzo Chowdhury, through the window of a door, spinning idly on a swivel chair, looking up at a large plasma screen displaying a grid of security camera feeds, hand to his temple, perhaps talking. Doesn¡¯t seem suspicious, thank God. If he was, he¡¯d already be out of his chair, demanding to know why a pair of human workers showed up instead of androids. But that¡¯s the thing about these shifts in the workforce: most places don¡¯t even realise certain industries are being phased out until long after the transition is complete. And even when they do, I¡¯m sure it wouldn¡¯t be unusual to see human crews still being sent out. Shortages, malfunctions, logistical screw-ups; there¡¯s always some reason. Because at the end of the day, machines are built by people. And people? People screw up all the time. Even the smart ones. Down we go, passing out employees who hadn¡¯t bothered to go outside for a smoke break, stinking up the place with that awful throat-stinging ash, and as we come near the end, I see a pair of blinking strobe lights overhead something wide and metal: an elevator, spotless, clean. We step into it, finding that, although it looks much more expensive than something you¡¯d expect to see in the south, it is awful cramped, with just enough space to fit in maybe six people. Dance presses ¡®Maintenance¡¯, a long strip of a button on the selection panel, and the elevator eases downward with a smooth, electric hum. We decide it¡¯s best to keep quiet until we reach the bottom, just in case that man in the office can overhear our conversations through the cameras. To him, we¡¯re here to do business, not to chat. When the elevator hits the bottom and the doors part, I see the tunnel area, and it¡¯s a lot darker than I thought it would be. The kind of dark that feels thick, like it¡¯s pressing against your skin. But as we step out, the fluorescents buzz to life, flickering in slow, mechanical ripples, chasing the shadows down the corridor. It stretches far into the distance, vanishing into a haze of dim light, with several turns branching off to either side. The air is stale with a bite of old wiring, like something that¡¯s been sealed up for too long. Pipes snake along the walls, rust-choked joints weeping, each droplet landing with a hollow plink... plink... plunk. The sound echoes down the tunnel, stretching thin before fading into an uneasy thrum. Overhead the elevator, there¡¯s a camera latched to the corner. I scan it and use ¡®Server Locator¡¯ to find out what it¡¯s connected to. Sure enough, it leads back to the office, and I flesh out an entire review of the server, snapshot it with my optics, and upload it into the cloud room. After a moment, as Dance and I follow the path leading to the red-blinking room on his mini-map, a noise comes from the cloud, static at first, then solidifying: ¡°I¡¯m in,¡± says Vander. ¡°Terk a bit of time, but the software had no prerblem finding the server ID.¡± ¡°You can see us now?¡± I ask. ¡°More,¡± he says. ¡°I can flip through the cameras.¡± ¡°You see the substation?¡± asks Dance, and I follow him around the corner, where the tunnels branch out. At the next crossing, there¡¯s an old cot that looks like it was once used to push someone, or something, along. After a moment, Vander says, ¡°I think, but it¡¯s too dark. Once yer inside, I can shut off the camera. Doubt the guy checkin¡¯ it will notice since it¡¯s prerctically all black anyway.¡± ¡°Cool worms,¡± Dance says, wheeling the cot aside. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t be too far ahead.¡± We keep walking and walking, turning here, turning there, and eventually, after only a couple of minutes, the tunnel widens just enough to make me feel like we¡¯ve stepped into the throat of something bigger. Ahead, a large metal door looms, the paint around its edges bubbled and peeling. A faded yellow sign bolted across the centre reads: ? MAINTENANCE PERSONNEL ONLY ¨C UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY PROHIBITED ? On the right side there¡¯s a scanner-lock with a hand-shaped inline. Standard. Shouldn¡¯t be too much of a problem. I scan the lock, activate ¡®Manual Override¡¯, and¡ª (Authentication Required)
D3 B2 E3 A2 B2 B3 F1 B1 C2 A2
E9 B4 A4 A1 E7 B9 C3 E9 C4 E9
D8 D3 F6 D8 E7 A3 F5 F6 E8 B9
A2 D9 E6 D1 B9 B2 C5 B7 E9 D4
B7 B8 F6 E3 A3 A5 A1 E7 A2 A3
Shit. This isn¡¯t good. ¡°Dance,¡± I say. He¡¯s still looking at his little digital map. ¡°Yeah?¡± ¡°Firewall.¡± ¡°So, use your auto-cracker and bypass it, mate,¡± he says nonchalantly, still looking at the minimap, zooming in on it with a swipe of his thumb and forefinger. ¡°I don¡¯t have an auto-cracker,¡± I say. ¡°Everything¡ªit¡¯s all manual. I have to override it myself.¡± Dance sighs. ¡°And you don¡¯t know how to crack a code?¡± This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. I eye him coldly, not responding for a moment. ¡°What do you think?¡± He glares back at me, then pockets the small device. He walks over to the hand-scanner, purses his lips, and says, ¡°Alright. Snapshot the firewall and upload it into the cloud room.¡± I¡¯m unsure of what his plan is, and frankly a little frustrated, but I don¡¯t argue. I snapshot the puzzle with my neural display and upload the picture into the cloud room as ordered, and he fingers his temple, causing his eyes to glow silver and twist. He lets out a sharp laugh. ¡°That¡¯s a babywall, mate,¡± he says. ¡°Just do what you have to do, Dance, seriously. We don¡¯t have time for this shit.¡± Dance hums for a second. ¡°Righty. Select: D9, B9, E8, A4¡ª¡± ¡°Slow down,¡± I say. ¡°Alright. D9, B9, E8, and A4.¡± I input the selections. ¡°Then?¡± He speaks slowly: ¡°B2, B8, F5, B7, C3, and... A2.¡± I enter them into the passbox one by one. Once done, each of the selections flash green and a female voice plays out from the scanner-lock: ¡°User authorised.¡± The firewall vanishes, and the doors to the electrical substation begin to slide apart, moving with heavy, industrial cogs. ¡°How did you...?¡± I say. Dance retrieves the hand-held device from his pocket, points it forward, and it starts beeping. He twists a knob at the corner and the sound turns off. ¡°Trust me,¡± he says. ¡°That was nothing. Basic level security. Don¡¯t need to study any firewall-cracking patterns to solve that dookie. I¡¯ll show you sometime.¡± Still, someone like him, a man who spends most of his time doing chemistry, knowing how to crack the code just like that? I guess he is knowledgeable with an interest and understanding of technology. Could be that he¡¯s just a jack of all trades, though I find that highly unlikely given his precision in dealing with complex matters that any other ordinary person would no doubt struggle with. The doors to the substation finally pull open fully; it¡¯s not that dark inside, thanks to the light from the tunnel, though most of it is in shadow. When we step inside, the lights switch on, just like before, and, as expected, the place is full of... of... No, not what I was expecting. All around the place there are rows of towering server stacks with very dim, very insignificant blue-highlighted panels. They go up and up, bending like live oaks over country roads, not from the weight of age or nature¡¯s will but from the deliberate incline of their design. Thick power conduits snake along the walls, feeding into junction boxes covered in faded labels, and the place smells like stale coolant and ozone; a scent you''d expect in a space designed for electricians¡ªyet somehow, it still feels eerily off-kilter. And then I see something strange, something out of place. Pods. A half-dozen of them, lining the far-right wall like upright coffins. Glass-fronted, reinforced, sealed airtight. Some are still coated in a thin film of dust, while others look pristine, polished, like someone came down here recently and gave them a once-over. And inside of each one there¡¯s a body. Not human. Androids, each dressed in the same blue qipaos I¡¯d seen the others wear onstage, and they stand motionless, breathless, but the tubes, those thick, snaking cables coiling into the tops of their pods, throb with electricity. Th-thmp. Th-thmp. Beating, ever-so-softly, like a human heart. Are they charging? They must be. That means this isn¡¯t an electrical substation, and it¡¯s not abandoned. It¡¯s a charging station for the machines, the performers, and perhaps a few spares, ready to replace any that malfunction onstage. At the very centre of the room, there¡¯s a large pillar-like device, standing like the spine of some long-dead colossus in those old fables where gods built machines too powerful to control. The wires and conduits stretch outwards, and along them I can see, and hear, the flow of electricity. Near the very front of the substation, there¡¯s a black-and-yellow catwalk leading from the far-left side to the far-right side, and in the middle where it pushes out, there¡¯s a control panel. I scan it and activate ¡®Server Locator,¡¯ revealing its connections to everything nearby: red lines converging at the power box near The Ghost in Satin¡¯s entrance and extending even farther, tracing a path beneath the bridge. I check the time. It¡¯s been an hour since we initially damaged that power box. Still on schedule, thank the Lord. ¡°Had a feelin¡¯ they might have repurposed this place,¡± Dance says with startling vehemence. ¡°That slip the darknet, I take it?¡± Dance heads up the catwalk, one heavy clank at a time, sliding his hand along the dusty railing. ¡°Could¡¯ve, yeah,¡± he says, voice lazy but sharp. ¡°Ain¡¯t like they got some bloke sitting around in here all day, keeping tabs. These joints only get a tune-up every couple years, if that.¡± ¡°It¡¯s strange,¡± I say, following him up and looking at the pods. ¡°I¡¯m guessing these are supposed to be some back-up models in case the performers break down.¡± ¡°Not really,¡± Dance says. ¡°More likely that they just cycle between them every show. Either that or these could be used for a later performance.¡± ¡°Later performance? That means there¡¯s gonna be people down here to bring them up? To activate them?¡± Dance shrugs, as if that isn¡¯t a huge issue, and places his toolbox on the ground before approaching the panel. It¡¯s old, the kind of clunky, industrial tech that was probably state-of-the-art decades ago but has since been patched, rewired, and jury-rigged so many times that no one really knows what¡¯s original and what¡¯s not. The metal casing is scratched and heat-warped, once-sleek plating dulled to a greasy, matte finish. The buttons along the lower panel are mismatched, some newer, bright plastic replacements standing out against older, metal-rimmed switches, and a few are missing entirely, leaving exposed gaps where wiring sticks out. ¡°No skin off our back, mate. We¡¯re maintenance, remember?¡± ¡°Still,¡± I say. Dance presses his spike. ¡°Vander, mate?¡± Static. ¡°Yer?¡± Vander says. He releases the spike. ¡°Fuckin¡¯ yer.¡± Then he presses it again. ¡°Did you blind the camera yet?¡± ¡°Already did before you went in,¡± he says. ¡°You gonna be okay with that panel?¡± Dance presses the power button, but it turns out it was already on, so the screen simply wakes up, cycling through outdated system logs and power readouts. ¡°Ehhhhhhhhh,¡± he says. ¡°Why you ask, big man?¡± ¡°I know a thing or two ¡¯bout those old panels havin¡¯ er worked as an engineer,¡± Vander says. ¡°Dat one in front of you, is it an er H-Series? Maybe an old Techstrum build?¡± Dance squints at the holo-display, tapping the side of the screen like that¡¯ll knock some sense into it. ¡°Ahhh¡­ nah, mate, it¡¯s a Westron C9, looks like. Real ancient piece of shit, too. Feels like I should be wearin¡¯ a bloody hardhat just to stand near it.¡± Vander whistles low. ¡°C9? Dat thing¡¯s er held together with prayers and duct tape. Tell me it ern¡¯t got one of those manual override switches.¡± Dance glances down. There it is: a rusted old toggle switch, half-covered in grime, labelled ¡°MANUAL OVERRIDE ¨C EMERGENCY USE ONLY.¡± He smirks. ¡°Oh, it¡¯s got one. And it¡¯s beggin¡¯ me to flick it.¡± ¡°Funny,¡± says Vander. ¡°But what you¡¯ll wanner do is er navigate to the system root first. Thing¡¯s old as hell, so it won¡¯t let you toggle the bridge controls without logging in first.¡± Dance rolls his shoulders. ¡°Right, system root. And where¡¯s that sittin¡¯, big man?¡± ¡°Bottom left corner of the screen. Should be a under a prompt, might be er labelled ¡®Admin Functions¡¯ or some other corporate jergon. If it¡¯s greyed out, you gotta er wake up the system first.¡± Dance scrolls through the options, frowning as the interface lags behind his inputs. ¡°Bingo. Got an ¡®Access Hub¡¯ option, that the one?¡± ¡°Yer, yer. Select it, then check for a sub-mernu called ¡®Bridge Operations.¡¯¡± ¡°A sub-what?¡± ¡°Mernu.¡± ¡°Sub-fuckin¡¯-what, mate? Speak English.¡± ¡°Menu,¡± I say, putting my toolbox down and approaching his side. It¡¯s a fairly complex screen, with layers upon layers of dropdowns. ¡°Look for something called ¡®Bridge Operations¡¯.¡± We scan it for a second, and near the bottom, I see it. ¡°There.¡± I tap it. The screen glitches, then loads slow as hell, lines of outdated system logs crawling upward. Dance snorts. ¡°Christ, this thing¡¯s older than my mum¡¯s telly,¡± he murmurs. More static. ¡°Should be able to er find the bridge controls in der,¡± Vander says. Dance flicks through the options, past power distribution settings, floodgate management, old maintenance logs dating back decades, and there it is: Bridge Operations - Last Override: 07/28/2087 11:07. I press my spike. ¡°Yeah, we got it.¡± ¡°Alright, now lersen close,¡± Vander says. ¡°Once you select dat, you should see an option for ¡®Manual Elevation Override¡¯. Dat¡¯s the one you want. It might ask for a confirmation code, but if the system¡¯s as busted as I think it is, you can bypass it.¡± Dance taps the option. The screen freezes for a second, then a new prompt appears: ? WARNING: THIS ACTION MAY DISRUPT TRANSPORT ROUTES. CONTINUE? [Y/N] ¡°Ohhh, buddy,¡± Dance grins, ¡°it¡¯s askin¡¯ me nicely. Who¡¯da thought?¡± I press my spike. ¡°Fingers?¡± A moment later, she says, ¡°Copy.¡± ¡°Is the convoy nearby? How far, roughly?¡± ¡°They¡¯re about thirty minutes away,¡± Fingers says, her tone flat, edged with that dry amusement that usually means trouble. ¡°On schedule. Why? Everything goin¡¯ alright?¡± ¡°If Dance manages to avoid pushing buttons, including mine,¡± I say inexorably. ¡°We have access to the drawbridge controls. Want us to test it out? See if it works?¡± Fingers hums thoughtfully. ¡°Yeah. Just a temporary test. Raise the bridge, and I¡¯ll have a look.¡± With that, Dance presses the button. No confirmation code, thankfully. Not that that would¡¯ve been much of an issue. Suddenly, the cables stretching along the walls and ceiling pulse, their thick insulation shuddering as power surges. A sharp, spitting hiss crackles from somewhere behind the panel. Not the steady hum of a system working as intended, but the angry, stuttering snarl of overworked wiring, like something straining past its limits. A single hot spark snaps through the air, fizzling out before it even touches the ground. Burnt dust, scorched metal, something dangerously close to overloading, I¡¯m sure. I wait for a minute before saying, ¡°Well?¡± ¡°It¡¯s rising, but it¡¯s slow,¡± she says. ¡°We¡¯ll probably want to lift it three minutes before their arrival, maybe a bit before that just in case the AI decides to break the speed limit.¡± Satisfaction. Pure, raw satisfaction. ¡°Awesome,¡± I say. ¡°What¡¯s next?¡± ¡°Bring the bridge down again. Then, I guess we wait. You wanna slot in, test your connection? I have the spider-bot in position. Might be worth your time to get used to the controls again. Just in case.¡± I reach into my pocket and retrieve the control shard. ¡°Sure, gimme a sec.¡± I slot it into my temple port and sit against the railing, rubbing my hand under my thigh, waiting for the spider-bot screen to boot up. Eventually, it does, and when I glance up, Fingers is staring at me. We¡¯re on top of an apartment roof, no doubt about that. HVAC units everywhere, and the rooftop feels old, like a patch of repairs on top of repairs, tar-paper seams running like scars under her feet. Fingers stands near the edge, hands stuffed into the pockets of a brown jacket that¡¯s clearly too big for her, the sleeves swallowing her forearms, the fabric bunched up at the shoulders like she stole it off someone twice her size. The wind tugs at it, rippling, but she barely notices, just keeps staring like she¡¯s trying to decide if she should say something or not. I control the bot quickly and easily. Thanks to the last few days of practicing, my movements are smooth and respond perfectly. I rotate the bot, finding that it¡¯s also placed on top of a HVAC unit, climb down, and run along the rooftop¡¯s outer edges. I tip up over the side, zooming in on the city below. The bridge is rising, slow but steady, splitting clean down the middle like a wound opening over the canal. When it rises fully, Dance presses the panel again and slowly brings it back down. The roads at either side of the intersections are blocked off with traffic redirected. A private, scheduled route, after all. Dancers spin along the sidewalks, street vendors flipping skewers over open flames, children clutching greasy food trays and bottles of cheap soda. I turn the bot towards the south side and flick through the zoom, scanning the city arteries leading towards the bridge, searching. No sign of the convoy yet, as Fingers said. But soon. Very soon. All we have to do is wait. That¡¯s it. Though I will have to travel quite a distance. We decided it was best to plant the spider-bot on the rooftop because, anywhere lower, it was likely someone from the south might have stepped on it, stolen it, or interfaced with it in ways we couldn¡¯t have predicted. We also considered placing it under the bridge, near or within the circuitery, but realised how badly that could turn out¡ªa pair of scavengers could and would come along to take it, no hesitation, no second thoughts. It¡¯s a little more awkward, sure, because I¡¯ll have to climb the whole way down, scurry across the street, stay low and fast, but it¡¯s not far. It¡¯ll get where it needs to go. And when it does, when the convoy stops at the raised bridge and the spider-bot finally makes its move, there won¡¯t be a damn thing they can do about it. do not fray the ribbons edge - 6.5 6.5 Dance¡¯s mapping device tells us the convoy is only three minutes away. No sudden stops, no deviations. Just a straight shot towards the bridge. Now or never. Dance keys in the command on the panel, and the system hesitates, just for a second. I tap into the spider-bot and scurry along the outer edge of the rooftop, careful not to lose control, and watch as the two sides of the bridge begin to lift once again. Little by little, second by second. A little too slowly for my tastes, but it will do. No traffic, of course. The whole route had been cleared for them, wiped clean of obstacles, the way the corps like it. No unexpected cars, no wandering drunks, no chance of some clueless civilian rolling through and ruining their perfect little procession. When the bridge parts fully, I move to the opposite edge of the rooftop, zooming in on the main street, searching, waiting. And there. Three Techstrum Armadillo jeeps. Black, smooth, polished enough to please the corporate eye but built tough enough to take a hit. Boxy frames, reinforced plating, sliding air vents lining the roof for heat regulation. Not massive, not military-grade, but armoured enough to say the cargo matters. Down below, the southsiders pause, turn their heads as the convoy rolls towards the intersection, creeping up slow. The roads on either side are already blocked, redirecting festival traffic away. Then, as expected, the convoy stops. Wasting no time, I scurry the bot along the apartment wall, heading down, legs locking and unlocking, sharp little limbs clicking against the red-brick. I skip around the exposed piping, gripping tight to the corroded metal before shifting to the next section of wall. Air vents jut out at uneven angles, some old, some spewing weak streams of recycled air. I adjust, climbing over one, ducking under another, quick, careful. Oh-so-very-careful. A narrow balcony ledge below. I jump for it, land hard, then push forward, across the graffiti, across a row of loose electrical conduits, and down, farther, farther, but not too far. I keep from dropping into the pedestrians and head for the junction, sideways, wait for the path to clear, and... Now. I drop off the apartment wall and pitter-patter along the cross walk, keeping close to the barriers blocking off the right exit of the junction, manoeuvre around the railing preceding the drawbridge, and hide behind one of the metal posts, looking. The three vehicles are stopped past the checkpoint, sitting pretty in the dead space before the bridge, right where we want them. Engines humming low, a steady mechanical purr, headlights washing over the asphalt, throwing long white streaks. No movement from inside, no rush to push forward. Just idling, waiting. Then, a door creaks open, and someone steps out, boots clacking against the pavement. He turns his head towards the bridge. A broad man, thick beard, large bullish neck. Goes by the name of Kevin Blunt, sergeant, and he¡¯s sure dressed the part. His armour is pure corporate tech, midnight black with a subtle iridescent sheen, layered in overlapping composite plating, built to absorb impact, built to break bone on contact. A spinal device hums at the base of his neck, small status lights blinking in cold blue, probably feeding him live system diagnostics, tactical overlays, maybe even heartbeat readings from his team. His gloves are thick, steel-knuckled, the kind that can fracture skulls like that. My spoofer runs another scan, trying to peel him apart, trying to find the weaknesses, but there¡¯s too much going on. Too much hardware, too many unreadable subroutines, things I don¡¯t recognise, things I don¡¯t want to recognise. I do not want to alert this guy. Not even for a second. Kevin presses a finger to his temple, and his eyes pulse yellow. After a moment, he says, ¡°The damn is goin¡¯ on here? This bridge hasn¡¯t risen in over fifteen years!¡± The other units step out of the vehicles, but not before locking them down tight. No risks, no openings. All NACP officers, all wrapped in that insectoid armour, faceless behind those soulless visors. Some carry pistols, casual, sidearm-ready, while others hold full-on rifles, grips firm, fingers near the trigger but not quite on it. I have to admit, Raze had a point: this is a hell of a lot of firepower for a simple delivery. But now I get it. They¡¯re not just hauling visors. They¡¯re hauling information. Or, at the very least, access to information. A voice crackles through the holo: ¡°You can slide in through the ventilation window on top.¡± Fingers. And yeah, I know. I¡¯d already been considering that. The other possibility would be manually overriding the lock, but something tells me that would be hidden behind a firewall. Likely a pretty strong one, too, and I¡¯m not sure Dance will have a whole lot of time to crack each individual code before they begin to notice. Another voice: ¡°You ready, New Girl?¡± Raze, of course. I can hear the cigar through the damn intercom. I take a deep breath, creep around the metal post, remaining hidden under the side of the bridge. ¡°Ready.¡± Fingers juts in: ¡°Make a start, and please, for the love of God, don¡¯t be stupid.¡± More static. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about a thing, madame.¡± Cormac. ¡°I do find myself to be quite the actor. Oh yes.¡± I wait. One breath, two, three. Nothing happens. Then, from the far left, I catch movement: a slow weave through the festival crowd, a ripple in the sea of bodies. Two figures stepping out of the neon, masked, poised, walking like men who forgot how to move their legs. Cormac and Raze. Each wears half an Oni-mask, one red, one blue, split clean down the centre, leaving their mouths exposed, letting the world see their easy, sloppy grins, the loose sway of their heads, the dull glaze in their dotted eyeholes. Raze is decked out in a pair of slacks, a white dress shirt untucked, sleeves pushed enough to show ink along his forearms, his build lean, relaxed, like a man who hasn¡¯t thrown a punch in years but never forgot how. Loafers scuff the pavement, his steps slow, heavy, a half-second delay between thought and motion. Arm in arm with him, Cormac matches his sway. Same semi-formal get-up, a little too polished for a man this drunk, but the right kind of dishevelled. They lean into each other, stumbling, overcompensating, laughing at something neither of them actually said. A pair of drunks, loose, harmless, drawn by the flashing lights, the sudden disruption, the raised bridge, the blockade. A couple of guys looking to see what all the hubbub¡¯s about. And the enforcers? They¡¯re already looking. ¡°Awwwwww, here we fuckin¡¯ go,¡± Kevin says. He removes his finger from his temple. ¡°Damn southsiders are gonna swarm us like rats.¡± He points at one of the officers. ¡°You. Contact the maintenance sector and find out where the override controls for the drawbridge are. Clearly, there¡¯s been some malfunction.¡± ¡°Got it, maaaaaan,¡± he drawls, leaning against the bonnet of the jeep, sounding more like a surfer waiting for the next wave than a cop responding to a critical infrastructure failure. His face is mostly shadow, only the beardless bottom visible, lips curved in something between amusement and mild irritation. ¡°Just so you know, man, bridges don¡¯t just lift up on their own. There¡¯s, like¡­ a process. A request. A whole chain of authorisations. Even if maintenance did screw something up, we would¡¯ve seen an alert.¡± Another enforcer smacks him on the back of the head. ¡°Just do your damn job, private.¡± Kevin turns to Cormac and Raze, who just about cross the line separating the beginning of the bridge from the intersection. ¡°Move along,¡± he shouts. ¡°This route is off-limits.¡± ¡°Now, what is all this commotion?¡± says Cormac, exaggerating his British accent. ¡°A raised bridge? In N.A.? It¡¯s been so long, I do say!¡± ¡°Tell me I ain¡¯t seein¡¯ this,¡± yells Raze, pointing at the bridge. ¡°You guys raised the bridge for the festival? Love the effort, but defeats the whole point of a road. Thought you guys had this entire...¡± Hiccup. ¡°... place closed off for your vehicles, like you¡¯re a special parade or somethin¡¯. Those don¡¯t look like no floats to me, and I¡¯ve seen floats. Lots of ¡¯em.¡± All the NACP officers close in, bodies shifting towards the disturbance, not attacking, but focused enough for me to move. I climb over the ledge, drop down light as a whisper, and scurry toward the nearest jeep. The bot pads along the wheel, scaling the smooth black plating, claws hooking into tiny gaps in the armoured exterior. I slip past the side mirror, press low against the door frame, then stretch the legs wide and pull myself up, flattening against the roof. The ventilation window is right there. Small, vulnerable. I scan it, flick through my options, then trigger ¡®Manual Override¡¯. A hiss. The panel slides open. I creep forward, limbs curling, body folding, slipping through the opening in perfect silence. And just like that, I¡¯m in. A little dark, but the light through the windows and shaft give me a good idea of what I¡¯m looking at, and strangely, it¡¯s not only an assortment of neatly secured cargo; there¡¯s a wooden coffin with a glass strip down the middle, and inside of it there¡¯s a golden android. Not the blocky, utilitarian kind meant for factory work or heavy lifting. This one is refined with thin, elongated limbs folded neatly against its metallic torso, head tilted slightly to one side as if caught mid-thought. The chassis gleams a burnished bronze, polished to a mirror finish, and it¡¯s smooth despite the segmented parts. The face is smooth, too. No nose, no mouth, no features carved into the metal. An unbroken surface of gleaming gold alloy that curves from its high forehead down to where the mouth should be. And where the eye slit should sit, there¡¯s something else: a visor, a thin strip of deep, unreadable black cutting across the face like a surgical incision. The M-Gate. I know by the shape. And even though the visor is dark, unlit, the whole thing powered down and lifeless, I swear I can feel it watching me anyway. I activate ¡®Spin¡¯ and ease the bot down over the coffin using the web. Careful now. Don¡¯t want to cause too much noise. I can still hear the enforcers, can still hear Raze and Cormac. Shouting. Slurring. Falling over. As long as they keep them busy, it shouldn¡¯t be too much of a problem. It¡¯s locked behind a basic mag-seal, nothing heavy-duty, nothing military-grade. A corporate-standard biometric latch, the kind that expects a technician¡¯s handprint or an encrypted signal to verify access. Good thing I don¡¯t need either. I activate ¡®Manual Override¡¯, which prompts another firewall, but this one is different. (Authentication Required)
N3 R5 (X)2 K1 A2 O1 C2 M0 (X)1 U2
I6 J6 U8 C3 R7 R1 C1 Y3 I1 U8
Q5 F8 F9 T1 F2 O9 R5 N5 S7 (X)9
N3 S2 Y4 G9 K5 A5 F7 N1 B7 Y2
I1 R4 (X)1 J4 A4 R5 F4 (X)5 B9 A1
K4 I6 X8 K4 R4 X5 J1 L1 S4 M8
This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. Some of the letters are missing. Interesting. I snapshot the cipher and upload it into the cloud room, and Dance takes some time to solve it. ¡°Ahh... this one¡¯s a bit clunky mate,¡± he says. ¡°Give me a second, will ya?¡± I wait, slightly nervous, listening to the outside chatter. Everything is a bit muffled so I can¡¯t exactly make out the words. Too far, and this bot doesn¡¯t have the greatest receptors. After a couple minutes, Dance reads out the solution, slowly: ¡°Right, you ready? It''s N5, R4, I1, K4, A1, O9, C3, M0, I1, U8.¡± I input the selections. Sure enough, they flash green on the firewall, and the seals pop open. ¡°It worked,¡± I say, relieved. ¡°Thank goose monkeys for that, mate,¡± says Dance. I climb up to the ceiling of the jeep, web down, latch the spider¡¯s pincers under the rounded edge of the seal, and ascend. Slowly, the coffin opens, and I can see the entire body. I place a finger to my temple, tapping into the holo. ¡°In. But where¡¯s the access port? Bit hard to see in here. And the bot is made of gold. Actual gold.¡± Static. ¡°Under the er actuator,¡± says Vander. ¡°Back panel, left side. Should be a er recersed pert. Might have a er security latch.¡± I ease the bot over towards the left side of the android¡¯s head. Luckily, it¡¯s already rotated towards the right, so I don¡¯t have to tilt it that much. Right there, as Vander described: there¡¯s a panel that looks like a cross between an external hard drive and a ventilation slit, designed to blend in, I¡¯m sure. No screws, no latches¡ªat least, not from what I can see. More of a thin indentation, meant to be accessed only by the engineers who know it¡¯s there. Good thing Vander is one of those engineers. I reach a pair of tiny pincers into the access slot and slowly pull out the data shard, keeping it suspended on one leg for a moment. I reach under the bot¡¯s rectangular abdomen and release the spoofer card, using two legs to pass it forward and another to lift it up. Sticky grip. Makes things simple. In the card goes, right through the access port. Swapped, in and out. Success. I place the data shard into the spider-bot¡¯s underpouch and scurry up the ceiling. Down I go with the web again, pulling the coffin lid back over the android¡¯s body, locking it with ¡®Manual Override¡¯. Click. The mag-seal is shut. ¡°Done,¡± I say. ¡°Two more,¡± Fingers says quickly. Ideally, one should be enough, but as Dance argued, there¡¯s always a chance one of these bots might not be used, or that they might malfunction. Just because it¡¯s fancy tech doesn¡¯t mean it¡¯s immune to deficiencies. I climb out through the ventilation shaft of the jeep, keeping low, shutting it behind me with ¡®Manual Override¡¯. And Fingers tells me to wait, that there are enforcers blocking the path I need to travel in order to access the next jeep. I slowly crawl towards the edge in a prone, then slip down one of the doors and hide in the shadow underneath, looking, always looking. I see Cormac and Raze standing unsteadily next to one another. ¡°We¡¯re not doin¡¯ anything, officer,¡± Raze says, still keeping that clipped, hiccupy drawl, the kind that slurs. ¡°Just a couple of curious citizens. Ain¡¯t seen the bridge raise in years.¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Cormac adds smoothly, placing a cold, unsettling steel hand on Kevin¡¯s shoulder. ¡°And how very curious we are.¡± Kevin doesn¡¯t hesitate. He shoves Cormac hard, sending him flying backwards, but Cormac catches himself like it was nothing, metal arms flexing, absorbing the momentum like an elastic band snapping back. He straightens, smooth as ever, brushing himself off like Kevin had barely touched him. Kevin¡¯s hand shoots up, finger jabbing the air, face twisting with rage. ¡°Any closer and I¡¯ll crush your fucking¡ª¡± But then he stops, like something short-circuited in his head. His expression shifts, not anger, not suspicion. Something cold as if he¡¯s scanning old memory files. Then, in a low, deadpan voice, he says: ¡°I know you.¡± ¡°Indeed,¡± Cormac says. ¡°It¡¯s so very nice to meet you again... Kevin.¡± I speak out loud, but not to anyone in particular. ¡°They know each other?¡± ¡°Uh, sir,¡± the officer with the surfer drawl says, stepping off the hood. ¡°They flagged the nearest maintenance company. Apparently, OneGrid sent a couple of bots to the performance hall across the canal, but they, uh¡­ they lost signal. Haven¡¯t heard a thing back. Guessing it¡¯s a technical fault. Reception desk says a pair of human workers showed up to fix a technical fault in their maintenance tunnel. Something like that. There¡¯s some confusion, so the company¡¯s sending a replacement crew to check it out.¡± Shit. That tightens the clock even more. And I still can¡¯t move. Not yet. Three enforcers stand in my way, blocking the path from this jeep to the next. No gaps, no easy openings. I could try slipping past, but the second I climb up, one of them is bound to¡ª ¡°Cormac O¡¯Cormac....¡± Kevin tilts his head back, eyes locking onto him like he¡¯s spotted a ghost. ¡°Uh, man,¡± the officer mutters, shifting awkwardly. ¡°Who the hell is this guy?¡± Kevin¡¯s shoulders start to shake. At first, a low chuckle, then a full, sharp, wheezing laugh that comes straight from the gut. ¡°I can¡¯t believe it,¡± he says, wiping at his face. ¡°Cormac O¡¯fuckin¡¯Cormac. I heard you were dead. Heard you lost it, went coo-coo and started spinnin¡¯ yarns about how Techstrum was trying to control the NACP with some device. Shit, what¡¯s the name?¡± He snaps his fingers a couple times. ¡°Sarah Device? That it? Tell me.¡± Cormac doesn¡¯t blink. Doesn¡¯t flinch. Tilts his head slightly, like he¡¯s hearing an old story told wrong. ¡°Seraph Device,¡± he says. ¡°That night, when that woman lost her child, I admit... it changed me.¡± ¡°Changed you?¡± Kevin laughs. ¡°You were a legend among the force. Scary motherfucker. I used to look up to you back when I was a private. Scared shitless of you. But look at you now. Some half-baked, metal-armed ghost in a cheap button-up, slumming it with drunks and thieves. You¡¯re not a legend anymore, O¡¯Cormac. You¡¯re another broken-down has-been, clawin¡¯ for scraps in the gutters of the south.¡± The enforcers laugh, moving away from the jeep. Static. ¡°Now!¡± says Fingers. I scurry down the side of the vehicle while their backs are turned, heading for the next jeep, up along the rightmost wheel, over the top, and into the ventilation hatch. This one is already open, so it¡¯s a clean entry. I get to work on unlocking the coffin and inserting the spoofer into the M-Gate. All the while, I can hear everything outside. ¡°Tell me, Cormac,¡± Kevin says. ¡°Why is it you quit and abandoned your platoon? Was it really that old folktale?¡± ¡°Your ignorance was always your greatest misdemeanour, private,¡± says Cormac. ¡°It¡¯s sergeant now,¡± Kevin says. ¡°And you don¡¯t get to tell me about ¡®misdemeanours¡¯. You cackled every time you put a cyberpsycho down and crushed their brains with those bitch-mittens you like to call ¡®snakes¡¯.¡± ¡°You have a fair point,¡± Cormac says. ¡°And yet¡­¡± he continues, voice even, conversational, as if they¡¯re discussing the weather instead of the past. ¡°There are things even a man like me cannot unsee.¡± Kevin snorts. ¡°Oh yeah? A little death? As if you didn¡¯t see that every Tuesday of the week.¡± ¡°You asked me why I quit,¡± Cormac says. ¡°I suppose I could tell you it was the bodies. The orders. The weight of it all. Maybe that¡¯d be a pretty lie you¡¯d swallow. But no, sergeant.¡± He says the word flat, worthless in his mouth. ¡°It wasn¡¯t any folktale. It was a job. Another corporate wet cleanup. Same as all the others. Merc work. Quick, efficient, sanctioned. Go in, put down the problem, clear the scene.¡± Some silence as Dance cracks the code again and I unlock the coffin. ¡°I never knew her name. The little one. Didn¡¯t need to. She wasn¡¯t the target.¡± A pause. ¡°A cyberpsycho got access to Shine, yes. Though back then it was uncontained, unstable. They sent us in to clean it up, wipe out the threat.¡± ¡°Uh-huh,¡± says Kevin. ¡°Get to the point.¡± ¡°A mother called on me to help,¡± Cormac says, and for once, his voice doesn¡¯t dance. No lilting rise, no slow, curling cadence wrapping around each word. Steady now. Cold. Creepily still, like a pendulum that¡¯s finally stopped swinging. ¡°And I... ignored her. Had I known, had I listened, my platoon could have dealt with the threat, and I could have saved her.¡± More silence. Then, in a low, rasping voice: ¡°And her face.... The mother....¡± Kevin scoffs. ¡°You¡¯re telling me that¡¯s what did it? One civ casualty and you lost your mind?¡± Cormac says, ¡°No, sergeant. I¡¯m telling you that the woman will never forget it. What I done to her, to her child. That kind of grief lingers, stays, grows into something monstrous. Rots. Becomes something else entirely.¡± He sighs. ¡°And one day, sergeant, I¡¯ll answer for it. And you will, too.¡± That¡¯s it, done. Second spoofer¡¯s inside. I move the coffin cover back into the place and creep outside again, down along the side, underneath the vehicle. One more to go, in the back, past all the enforcers, past Cormac and Raze. Kevin cracks into abrupt laughter. ¡°So, you¡¯re telling me it wasn¡¯t the Seraph Device? It was some dead child? Some mother?¡± ¡°You better watch your fucking mouth,¡± a voice cuts in, sharp and low. It takes me a second to register that it¡¯s Raze, and he doesn¡¯t sound drunk anymore. No slur, no lazy drawl. Kevin cocks an eyebrow at him, folding his arms. ¡°And who the fuck are you? Don¡¯t recognise your voice, don¡¯t recognise that pansy crewcut buzz. You¡¯re not military, are you? Never were. Just some low-life out on the bottle.¡± I tap into the holo. ¡°Fingers, we have a problem here,¡± I say. Static. ¡°We¡¯ll need you guys to distract the enforcers away from the jeep in the back,¡± says Fingers. ¡°Then you can climb along the right side, Mono. There¡¯s an opening near the¡ª¡± ¡°Too many children die in the south because you bastards sit on your ass,¡± says Raze. ¡°Signing death warrants with a fuckin¡¯ stylus, calling it ¡®progress¡¯ while their bodies wither into nothing. You really think dead children is a joke? How about sick children, you thick cunt? How about instead of transporting golden androids, you transport some medication to Aegis Node? ¡®Protect and serve¡¯ my ass.¡± Raze takes off his mask, looking the sergeant straight in the eye, and unlike Cormac, he doesn¡¯t back up. And the way he speaks, so low, so rasping. ¡°You don¡¯t serve anyone but the suits who pay you to look the other way. You¡¯re not a soldier, Kevin. You¡¯re a fuckin¡¯ errand boy for men who¡¯d sell your corpse before they¡¯d pay for your funeral. You are, and always will be, nothing but a spineless little bitch.¡± Oh shit... There¡¯s some quiet, the unnerving sort. Then, footsteps. Light, unbothered. The surfer-sounding private steps forward, rubbing the back of his neck like he walked into the middle of a family argument. ¡°Hey, so, how did you know there were gold¡ª¡± Kevin moves. Fast. Faster than he should for a man his size. His hand snaps out, clamps around Raze¡¯s throat in a crushing grip, and in the same motion, he sweeps a leg forward, hooks it behind Raze¡¯s knee, and drives him down hard. An arm swings: long, metal, even faster. It shoves Kevin clean, and he goes flying, body slamming into the side of the jeep with a heavy, bone-shaking thud. The spider-bot stumbles back from the force, tiny metal limbs skittering to stabilise. The enforcers all raise their weapons, and they shout, ¡°On the ground!¡± at choppy intervals, pressing forward, away from the jeep in the back. Raze, still on the ground, grits his teeth, coughs once, then smiles. ¡°Touched a nerve, did I?¡± Then, to my surprise, Kevin shouts, ¡°Lower your weapons.¡± What is he doing? I watch as Cormac¡¯s metal arm releases Kevin, servos whirring as it retracts back into place. He reaches up, fingers brushing the edge of his Oni mask, then tips it off. And suddenly, as the enforcers lower their weapons and close in, forming a loose circle, I feel like I¡¯m watching one of those pit fights at the bottom of the apartment complex: the ones where the crowd roars, the blood hits the floor, and no one steps in until a body''s stopped moving. Only this time, there¡¯s no commentator. No ref. No one to stop things before they go too far. ¡°I¡¯ve always been interested in seeing what those arms could do.¡± Kevin brushes himself off. ¡°And I guess now I did. But I¡¯m not entirely satisfied. I think we should have a little fun while we wait. What do you think, boys?¡± The NACP officers are reluctant at first, but little by little they start to clap before cheering. ¡°What¡¯s going on down there?¡± says Fingers. Cormac cranes his neck creepily, and there¡¯s that eerie smile again. ¡°Been so long,¡± he says, raising his steel arms into a boxer¡¯s pose. ¡°Hope you oiled those snakes well,¡± Kevin says, and he raises three fingers. ¡°Three knocks. Down on the floor three times, you lose, and I book you for assaulting an NACP officer.¡± Raze picks himself up off the ground. ¡°And if he wins?¡± ¡°Then you both walk,¡± he says. ¡°I¡¯ll cut you some slack, given that you clearly had too much to drink and I do not want to go through the process of booking you into a cell. I wanna get across this bridge, deliver the goods, and be done with it so I can fuck off home. Not wasting time on two no-life drunks who are better off dead.¡± Raze snorts, rubbing his throat where Kevin¡¯s grip had crushed in. ¡°Real generous of you.¡± The enforcers spread out, boots scraping against the pavement, voices rippling with low laughter and half-mocking jeers. Kevin steps forward. ¡°Alright then.¡± He cracks his neck, exhales deep, then rolls his thumb along the back of his collar. And I see it again: a thin blue light pulsing along the ridge of his spine, slow at first, then faster, faster, until it flares bright enough to cast faint, ghostly shadows along the road. For a second, Kevin is still, then¡ª Gone. Not disappearing, not teleporting, but moving so fast my brain struggles to track it. The spider-bot''s optics lag a full fraction of a second behind reality. Cormac shifts. Too slow. Kevin is already behind him, standing a little too close, a little too still, like he was always meant to be there. And then, in a voice smooth, low, almost amused: ¡°Try to keep up, old man.¡± do not fray the ribbons edge - 6.6 6.6 Kevin hurls a heavy, steel-knuckled palm against the side of Cormac¡¯s skull, and he goes down, not instantly, not cleanly, but like a toppled monument that¡¯s taken enough damage over the years to finally give way. He stumbles forward, legs folding, crashes to the ground with a sharp clatter of steel-on-concrete, one arm catching some of the fall, the other twisted beneath him. And still, somehow, that smirk is on his face. That eerie, curling smile that seems glued to his soul like a bloodstain that won¡¯t wash out, no matter how many storms try to beat it clean. It¡¯s not pride, not confidence; it¡¯s the grin of a man who¡¯s seen the end coming a hundred times and started laughing somewhere around the twenty-fifth. ¡°That¡¯s one,¡± an officer shouts, and the rest erupt behind him, a pack of drunk gods hurling their fists on the edge of an arena. And these are officers. Men in armour. White crests on their chests. Government-issued killers trained to ¡®protect and serve¡¯, now hooting and hollering, visors glinting with the kind of ugly joy that doesn¡¯t come from justice but from the promise of pain. Bastards. And I¡¯m worried for Cormac, for us. If he loses this, if he goes down two more times, they¡¯ll be booked, dragged off in cuffs, and this whole thing, this delicate house of cards we¡¯ve built with blood, will come crashing down. But I can¡¯t think about that. Not now. Not here. No more worrying. No more second-guessing people¡¯s motives or trying to divine outcomes. No more watching. I creep out, keeping my eyes on the rear jeep, watching as the NACP officers tighten their circle around the fight. Kevin¡¯s still talking: loud, smug, blabbering nonsense I can¡¯t make out over the noise of the crowd. The last officer peels away from the jeep, joining the others, and that¡¯s my cue. I move, sticking to the shadowed side of the bridge. Out of view, out of mind. I climb the front right wheel, grip the edge of the fender, and slip up onto the roof. One quick override later, the shaft window hisses open, and I slide the bot inside. Same setup. Another android, gold-plated. But outside, I hear it, that steady whoosh-whoosh-whoosh, the sound of Kevin¡¯s spinal implant cycling up, spooling heat and speed. Something shoves against the vehicle, not sure what, and it¡¯s not hard, but it¡¯s enough to shift the spider-bot off balance and send me hurtling down onto the android coffin. For a moment, I lose connection, and a red warning triangle pops up on the top right of my neural display. Not sure what it means, but I swipe it aside, crawl around the ceiling, and spin down. Same process as before: I get Dance to decrypt the firewall code and unlock the mag-seal. I pull the coffin''s latch back and then guide the spoofer down with the bot¡¯s pincer. Then¡ª Another shove from outside. Harder this time. Real hard. The kind of impact you feel even through the control tether. The spoofer slips from the bot¡¯s grip, clinks off the edge of the coffin, and I lose visual for a split second. I see it, falling, tumbling, bouncing once, then landing out of frame. The spider-bot slips, rolls off the android¡¯s chest and hits the jeep floor with a thud I can practically feel in my teeth. Outside, the crowd roars again, closer now. ¡°Two!¡± Shit. I lunge for control, fingers twitching, brain barking commands into the link, but it¡¯s useless. Everything¡¯s lagged, seconds too late. ¡°Move,¡± I whisper. ¡°Come on, move, move¡ª¡± The bot tries to climb, legs scraping, scrabbling at the wall of the jeep, but the connection is shot to hell. Weak signal, bad reception. All that corrugated jeep armour must be interfering with the relay. The bot slides back down. Again. Again. And then the screen glitches. Goes red. Flashes: SIGNAL INTERRUPTED RECONNECTING... I grit my teeth. That¡¯s just great. And I wait, listening to the sound of metal striking metal, dreading that number: one, two, and... ¡°One,¡± an officer shouts, a little less enthusiastic. One? Cormac knocked him down? But how? I shake the thought off, realising I¡¯m getting distracted, and tap into the holo. ¡°Fingers, the bot¡¯s messing up. I¡ªdamn connection¡¯s just...¡± I groan. ¡°... a load of shit, and I¡¯m stuck.¡± ¡°In the jeep?¡± she says, sounding breathless. ¡°Alright, try taking the control shard out, wait a minute, and slot it back in.¡± ¡°Won¡¯t work, mate,¡± says Dance. ¡°You disconnect that shard, at this distance, with the bot inside, it likely won¡¯t reconnect at all unless within range. It fall?¡± ¡°Yeah,¡± I say. ¡°Slipped right off the android¡¯s chest. Landed on the floor. I can¡¯t get it up the wall. Connection¡¯s too lagged.¡± ¡°That¡¯s why I said reset it,¡± Fingers snaps, and I hear something whoosh past her in the background. ¡°You¡¯ll have to come up with something, and quick.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t listen to her, mate,¡± Dance says, not speaking into the holo this time. ¡°She¡¯s a right bitch when things start goin¡¯ wrong. But give me oneeee second. I¡¯m about to show you one of the benefits of this doooooozie havin¡¯ once operated under the old north.¡± He presses his temple. ¡°Hey, big man?¡± Static. ¡°Yer?¡± Dance presses one of the buttons on the side of the panel, revealing a new dropdown. ¡°I need to bounce signal priority: the bot¡¯s chokin¡¯ on junk data. This panel routes through both power and comms, yeah? Can I kill traffic to the north block without fryin¡¯ the damn thing?¡± Vander groans, unsure. ¡°What¡¯re you lookin¡¯ at?¡± Dance squints. ¡°Top right¡¯s got a red override tag and a blinking ¡®N7 Sector¡¯ warning.¡± ¡°Right. That¡¯s der one. Yer gonner wanner tab over twice, navigate to ¡®Interlink Routing¡¯, then scroll down to ¡®Peripheral Comm Clusters¡¯¡ªthey¡¯ll be er named something weird, like er ¡®P-COM: Zebra¡¯ or ¡®Kite¡¯. You see those?¡± Dance hums, flipping quickly through the clunky UI. ¡°Kite, Eagle, Pelican, yeah. Whole bloody zoo in here.¡± ¡°Cut ¡®Kite¡¯,¡± Vander says. ¡°That¡¯s the uplink tunnel for public displays, street signs, kiosks, ad junk. Should lighten the digital load and give the bot some breathing room. Won¡¯t last long, der. Need to be quick because the er back-up will override older fernctions.¡± Rerouting the internet traffic. Interesting.... Dance grins. ¡°Righty-ooooooo, throttlin¡¯ Kite.¡± He flicks the switch. Nothing at first, still that endless buffering, then I hear the electrics fizzle and crack-crack-crack, a million short-circuits. After a moment, Vander says: ¡°Billboards are blind.¡± And his voice is strange, not that it was ever normal, but now it has a slight muffle to it, like he, too, is losing connection. And then, finally, something new pops up: CONNECTING... It buffers for only a couple seconds, and then, blink, the signal bar in the top-left corner of the spider-bot¡¯s interface flashes green. Alive. Responsive. Ready. I press my temple. ¡°It worked.¡± ¡°¡¯Course it did,¡± says Dance. ¡°Swert,¡± says Vander. Then, another sound: ¡°Two!¡± A second time. Cormac managed to knock him down a second time. With a sharp inhale and a string of barely formed thoughts, I send the bot crawling once again, grip tight, fast and mean, across the floor, up the inner wall, and then down again in a tight spiral that lands me square on the android¡¯s chest. And just as I latch back onto the frame, the cheer from the crowd outside erupts like a wave crashing through the hull of a ship, so loud I swear I can feel the damn web vibrate from the sound of it. But the spoofer card is down there: deep, wedged beneath the android¡¯s left arm, barely visible in the tight gloom between its ribcage and the floor. If you could call it a ribcage. Just a mess of plated gold and synthetic sinew, and there, flat against the wood like a playing card lost mid-game, is that pulsing little blue rectangle. Must¡¯ve slid down in the worst way. Or maybe the most precise. The kind of fall that feels accidental but hits you like a spell of nasty fate. And the bot¡¯s too small to simply reach in and grab it, not without risking a full-body jam, unless... An idea slips in. A quick one. Dirty. Just might work. I shift the bot, easing it into the narrow channel created by the android¡¯s elbow and its plated torso, the gap no wider than a clenched fist. I twist the spider¡¯s head back until the spine strains and whines like old bones, as far as the rig will let me bend it. Not a full view. Just enough to catch the glow of the spoofer card. I activate ¡®Spin¡¯. And then, slow as threading a needle through a wind tunnel, I lower the web down: straight, steady, a little to the left¡ªno, wait¡ªback. Stick. Got it. I move forward, straighten out, the spider¡¯s pincers working like little fingers, guiding the spoofer up front. The data shard comes out, the spoofer slips in, a quiet little click. Done. Dusted. Now all I have to do is get the hell out of here. Down I go, then back up again, sealing the coffin lid tight with ¡®Spin¡¯. I slip through the ventilation shaft, and slide the hatch shut with a final ¡®Manual Override¡¯. And as I creep down the door of the vehicle, I hear it, that final, worrying¡ª ¡°Three!¡± The cheers start to die off, not all at once, but slow, like a fire starved of wood, sputtering out in bits and pieces. Shouts thin into murmurs, then peter, one by one, until there¡¯s nothing left but the hush. I should move. I could move. But I don¡¯t. I slide back instead, inch by inch, belly to the ground, peering through the narrow gap between the tyres, through the forest of boots and riot-armoured legs. In the circle, there¡¯s only one person standing, and it¡¯s not Cormac. Kevin has him pressed to the ground with a foot, but there¡¯s something strange to the way Cormac moves, or rather, the way he doesn¡¯t. He looks so relaxed, so carefree, as if he hadn¡¯t even tried to win. And yeah, that smiles still there, and he¡¯s looking at me, the spider-bot. ¡°Have to admit,¡± Kevin says, brushing dust from his chestplate. ¡°For a drunk has-been, you sure know how to move those snakes. Years ago, you might¡¯ve even won one of our NACP spars. Hell, you might¡¯ve run the whole bracket if you¡¯d stuck around.¡± He clears his throat. ¡°We still run ¡¯em, you know. Unofficial, mostly. Keeps the edge sharp, keeps the rookies humble. Lotta bruises, busted noses, but no real hard feelings.¡± He tilts his head. ¡°But you? You¡¯re different. You carry your ghosts real hard, O¡¯Cormac.¡± If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. Cormac lets out a deep breath, relaxed. ¡°Sometimes it¡¯s the ghost that carries you, sergeant.¡± A bitter chuckle. ¡°You and your poetry.¡± Kevin removes his foot, grabs him by the neck, and says, ¡°Get up. You two are comin¡¯ with¡ª¡± ¡°Hey,¡± a voice calls from the distance, echoing, high-pitched, feminine. Is that... Kevin pauses mid-step, turning his head towards the intersection before the bridge, and I follow his eyes. A woman. Walking alone, right in the open. Cargo jeans, black T-shirt, posture too casual to be afraid. Her face is covered completely by a smooth, white Oni mask, blank but for the ink-black frown and blood-red horns curling at the edges. And at the very bottom of it, a single strand of blue hair slips free, dancing in the breeze. ... Fingers? I try pinging her, scanning for ID, sigprint, ware-trace, anything, but nothing bites. Nothing at all. No name. No cyberware report. No surface readout. Just a black hole where data should be. That¡¯s not a mask. It¡¯s a damn firewall, and for whatever reason, it¡¯s working. Kevin groans. ¡°The south really flock together¡ªthe sheep.¡± ¡°What are you doing?¡± the woman says, approaching yet keeping a good distance, and the more she speaks the more I find that she is Fingers. The voice, though muffled, still has that unmistakable streetkid fall, that rhythm and bite: up and down, a little to the side of the mouth, a dare wrapped in what only the impoverished could call charm, the kind that says I¡¯ve been kicked, sure, but I bit the bastard on the way down and picked myself up again, and again, and again. That groan. ¡°This is official NACP business,¡± Kevin says, pointing at her. ¡°Keep out, civilian, or you¡¯ll be done for obstruction.¡± ¡°While you get done for Article Nineteen of the Civil Conduct Statute?¡± she says. ¡°You know the one: unauthorised engagement in recreational violence while on duty. Bit of a mouthful, sure, but Internal Affairs loves it. Especially when there¡¯s witnesses.¡± Kevin¡¯s finger hovers in the air, twitches. And Fingers doesn¡¯t move any closer, doesn¡¯t have to. She tilts her head, lets that holo-record icon glow faint red against her palm, her phone. ¡°But hey, maybe I¡¯m wrong. Maybe this was an official NACP exercise. You know¡ª¡®beat the drunk civvy for morale.¡¯¡± She shrugs. ¡°You wanna go ahead and explain it that way to your superiors, be my guest.¡± Kevin lets out a brusque laugh, the kind that¡¯s more habit than humour. ¡°Blackmail, eh?¡± he says. ¡°When did the south grow such a spine?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t see it as blackmail,¡± she says, voice soft, almost pleasant. ¡°See it as a little trade: you let that poor bastard go, and I don¡¯t make sure you lose your fancy badge and end up one of us. Down in the south, with the rest of the forgotten. End of the day, you have no business goading drunks into fights just to prove you can use your fancy corporate tech to outpace someone with a ten-second brain delay and still barely win.¡± ¡°Rich comin'' from scum like you,¡± he says. ¡°Highest crime rate in the city.¡± ¡°Highest reported crime rate in the city,¡± she says. ¡°And trust me, I have plenty to report, bigshot.¡± She waves the phone. ¡°Saved in my neural storage. Not goin'' anywhere, unless you play it fair.¡± Suddenly, I get an idea. ¡°Lower the bridge.¡± Dance doesn¡¯t ask why. Doesn¡¯t hesitate. He moves with that sharp, confident twitch of someone who¡¯s already halfway through the thought. His fingers slide across the panel, and the system responds, but not cleanly. This time, the electrics fight back, stuttering with all the snap and flicker of billiard balls after a hard break, sparks dancing along the conduit housings like angry fireflies. I hear the massive cogs grinding. Kevin turns at the noise. Looks over his shoulder, back at the slowly descending bridge. And for a split second, just one, he looks torn, like his brain can¡¯t decide whether to chase us down or play the good little dog for his corporate leash. Eventually, he lets out a sound, a growl, that defeated, reluctant noise men like him make when they¡¯ve been outmaneuvered. Not beaten in strength. Beaten in sheer narrative. Because that¡¯s what men like Kevin fear most. Not death, not pain, but descent. And not into hell. Into the south. They play the tough guy, toss around terms like ¡°order¡± and ¡°protocol¡±, laugh at starving kids and blocks in ruin, but deep down, there¡¯s a nightmare coiled up in those bones: the fear that one day, they¡¯ll be like us, living in an apartment complex that leaks when it rains, buying knock-off meds for loved ones. Because when the bridge lowers, Kevin won''t see a crossing; he''ll see a damn line, a choice. And in that moment, he will hear something, too: the sound of the suit cracking. He bends down, grabs Cormac by the scruff of his blood-specked button-up, and yanks him to his feet like he¡¯s hauling up a half-dead dog. He shoves him away with a grunt. ¡°Come on. Bridge is lowering, thank God. And O¡¯Cormac.¡± Cormac pauses, turns, hands steepled low. Doesn¡¯t say a word. Doesn¡¯t need to. ¡°Fix your life.¡± Kevin strides off and climbs into the rightmost jeep, what would be the driver¡¯s side, if these beasts had drivers. But they don¡¯t. Not anymore. I don¡¯t even move the spider-bot. No point. They¡¯ll roll out as soon as the bridge locks into place, and Fingers¡¯ll probably¡ª I hear it. That sound. That awful sound. ¡°Aw shit,¡± Dance mutters. The electrics are still giving out, a whining, teeth-grinding screech climbing up and up. I push myself up off the grated catwalk, pulse hammering against my ribs, and look across the substation, right at the pillar in the centre. It¡¯s humming. Not like a machine hum. No, not that clean. It¡¯s a deep, throaty vibration, the kind that settles into your bones and makes your molars ache. The pillar¡¯s still standing tall, blackened with soot in places, cables and fat conduit lines snaking out in all directions. And those wires? They¡¯re not pulsing anymore. They¡¯re sparking. Cracking like whips. Arcs of blue light jump the air. Some of them have come loose entirely, thrashing around like dying eels, lashing the supercomputers, licking the metal with sizzling snap, snap, snaps. It looks alive. It looks angry. And then something loud, a woman¡¯s voice calling through the speakers in the ceiling: ¡°Critical overload. Sector A-2 is now being isolated.¡± The doors to the electrical substation quickly slide closed, and above, the fluorescents shift colour, becoming red. Pulsing. Pulsing. Pulsing. ¡°Turn it off,¡± I shout. ¡°I¡¯m tryin¡¯,¡± Dance shouts back, fiddling with buttons, struggling to navigate the control panel. He presses his temple. ¡°Vander,¡± he barks, ¡°how the fuck do you turn the electrics off? I¡¯m lookin¡¯ at a goddamn fireworks show down here!¡± There¡¯s a burst of static. A pause, and then: ¡°Ehhhrksshhh¡ªk-krzt¡ªEagle cluster¡ªrrkksh¡ªdon¡¯t¡ªdon¡¯t touch¡ªsshhk¡ª¡± ¡°Damn EM interference,¡± Dance says. A pop, the sound of a bulb bursting, and electricity whips forward, so sharp I can see the stroke. Then the smell of smoke. I activate my spoofer on the substation doors, thinking that we have no choice but to evacuate as soon as possible, but I¡¯m hit with another firewall, and this time, oh this time: (Authentication Required)
(X)3 H2 (X)2 (X)2 D3 Q5 V1 Z0 (X)6 E2
T2 W6 P3 M4 J8 N2 H7 A6 D1 C9
U1 (X)5 K6 S9 (X)8 V7 M2 R4 Q3 (X)7
F3 N4 Z9 B6 L3 (X)(X) (X)9 C7 Y2 D1
(X)6 E5 (X)8 K1 D7 S1 Z3 (X)3 T8 D2
R5 H9 U2 D6 F4 L8 E3 H5 V6 B1
This one doesn¡¯t look so simple. It looks downright impossible without an auto-cracker. There¡¯s no time to solve this. No time for Dance to guide me through another wall of blinking garbage code, no time to breathe. The air itself feels electric, thick with pressure, like the world¡¯s trying to suffocate me. There¡¯s only one option: the manual override toggle switch. I reach down, every nerve in my fingers screaming don¡¯t, don¡¯t, don¡¯t¡ªand I flip it. There¡¯s a clunk, deep, like a guillotine dropping somewhere far below. For a moment, nothing. Then the pillar lets out an enormous whine, as if some cosmic being had dug its needy claws into its mechanical body and ripped the iron and steel apart. Screeeeeeeeech. All across the substation, lights explode in bursts of blue and white. Sparks fly, raining down on the metal walkways, the walls, the tops of the pods. The air hisses and howls. And then... pop. The lights go, just like that. A snap, a breath, a blink. Gone. Everything sinks into blackness. What¡¯s left behind are the glisters: soft, eerie pulses of blue bleeding out from the pods¡¯ seams, the cooling vents of the supercomputers, and the exposed wiring crawling across the ceiling. ¡°Crikes,¡± Dance says. ¡°Can''t have one thing work without somethin'' explodin''. You alright, Mono?¡± I take a breath. ¡°Yeah, I just¡ªgive me a second.¡± Dance presses his temple, eyes flashing orange. ¡°Lost signal to the audio cloud. You?¡± I check. No luck. ¡°Yeah,¡± I say, a little breathless. ¡°Gone. Only the group chat. The electrics must have messed everything up.¡± ¡°Betting a lot more than just stagelights went after that,¡± Dance says. ¡°We''ll have to get to work on unlocking that door. They''ll probably send security down any minute now.¡± ¡°Yeah, there''s a firewall¡ª¡± Sound. Something short, but harsh. Bump. Bump. Bump. That sound. Not loud. Like something testing the walls of its cage. What is it? The sound comes again. From the far left. From one of the pods. There¡¯s movement now. A soft hiss. A slow creak. One of the vertical chambers, third from the back, begins to shudder, the glass twitching in its frame like it¡¯s being pressured from the inside. Then the light inside that pod turns red. The glass explodes. Not a burst, not a shatter. A figure collapses out, half-slumped, limbs loose, then jerks upright with a twitch that doesn¡¯t look right. She¡¯s tall. Slender. Draped in a tight blue qipao. She¡¯s wearing a silver owl mask that covers the lower portion of her face, and her synthetic hair sticks. The eyes glow, not red, not blue, but white. A burning, soul-scraped white. And from her skin, blue fluid runs slow, out from the nape of her neck, her wrists, her back. Drip. Drip. Drip. No smile, just the soulless gaze of a machine, a face like a doll staring through the glass of a storefront window long after closing time. It looks as though she doesn¡¯t see us. Doesn¡¯t register us. Stands there, a system caught between boot cycles. And then, Dance lets out a cough. Not even loud. Just a tickle at the back of his throat. The sick bastard. The android¡¯s head snaps towards us so fast I hear the vertebrae pop. Her eyes burn white. And now I see it, what¡¯s in her hands. Ribbons. But not fabric. Not silk. These are strands of some synthetic alloy, long and coiled and oh-so-impossibly thin. One of them lifts. No sound, no warning. Slices straight through the hanging wire above her.It falls. Sparks rain.Another ribbon unfurls from her spine like a scorpion¡¯s tail, lashing the floor, leaving a sizzling line in the metal. I try to short-circuit her, scramble the code, fry her from the inside out, but just like before, back in the cargo ship, a quick-scan¡¯s unavailable, every hack tool I¡¯ve got greyed out. I curse under my breath. I guess I have no choice. I slam open the system tray, shove aside the mess of readouts and warning flags, pull up the substation control grid with a swipe, and focus on the doors. I scan them and activate a fresh ¡®Manual Override¡¯. ¡°Dance,¡± I hiss, pulling the image into my HUD and snapshotting the encryption. ¡°I¡¯m uploading the wall. Can you break it?¡± A couple seconds later. ¡°Uhhhh,¡± says Dance, checking. ¡°Yeh-yeah.¡± The android¡¯s watching me now, moving with that performer¡¯s grace, twisting slightly, smooth. Head tilted. Arms at her sides. That same blue fluid dripping down her legs, darkened by the red mist from the fractured pod. ¡°I¡¯ll keep her busy.¡± I hop off the catwalk, landing hard, knees jarred from the impact, and as I straighten up, I see her again, stepping forward with that unnatural grace, head snapping towards me with eerie perfection. Her shoulders jerk into alignment, click-click, bones resetting. I clench my fist, and the mantisblade shreds through the sleeve of my grey overalls. This is the pitfight all over again. And this time, there¡¯s no one to save me.