The sisters came with me, and eventually, after a lot of complaining, so did Reign.
All four of us took desks in the workshop, stripping and cleaning our guns, our knives, swords, and the rest. Once I’d finished my rifle, shitty handgun, and knife, though, I really got to work.
The shotgun was next. Most of the issues with it were minor. A rusted spring here, some grit that I had to work out of the magazine with a fucking tweezer—that required disassembling the entire magazine, screw by fucking screw of course, because you know, nothing’s ever easy and it slipped deeper every time I tried to grab it.
By the time the mechanical issues were resolved, though? It was time to start the complicated shit.
The electrical systems in the shotgun were fucked. Entire sections were burnt out, relays were dead, and as to the fiddly bits?
They were blackened remnants.
There was, however, a lovely shiny new stock in the spare parts catalog for only eighty credits. Why replace individual electrical components one at a time, when I could simply unscrew, disconnect, and reconnect?
The old stock had a lot of the internal parts that were damaged, including the transmission, comms, and tracking data. I replaced it, then a few sections of the receiver, namely the charging handle, the loading port and finally, when I couldn’t get it to power up, and I damn well knew it should have, I swapped out the safety cutout as well.
As soon as I thumbed the switch this time, the shotgun powered up and registered in my HUD. My RI activated it and registered it as an owned weapon.
I loaded the magazine, buying a full second mag from the armory—again, discounted and at guild rates, which made me happy—and a full spread of twenty solid slugs for it. There weren’t many “fun” rounds for the shotty available, only three, and they were all bolo, so I picked up another ten regular slugs and six fléchettes, then filled the second mag with them and the “fun” ones.
The shotgun was decent. In the receiver, which was one reason I’d had to spend so long on it, was an identification and transmission system, that connected with the stock and then to me.
Basically, it’d register in my HUD what ammo I had in the shotty, and how many rounds I had left.
There was also the option, should I pump it again, when the magazine was powered, to swap the shell out. That way, if it was close quarters, I’d not kill everyone on my side with the blowback from a Devil’s Asshole.
It took me way longer than I wanted to spend on doing this job; I’d been trained in field repairs for my suit, after all, and any and all of my weapons. But generally? That was what the armorers were for. They were dedicated, skilled, and experienced at working literal magic to repair the APS systems.
I just marched in, parked the suit, and fucked off for a shower, usually.
That wasn’t to say that I and the other APS operators were too good for that kind of work. Fuck no. It was simply that we’d sometimes spent days fighting and living in those things.
When we got back? We needed to rest, before we could work on shit.
In older times, the first thing you did as a soldier, much as I had tonight, was to check and clean your gear. You never knew when you’d need it next.
With the APS systems, though, they might take hours or days to remove a single section and replace it. Even reloading could take hours if you got a round jammed and had to strip the system.
That meant that you needed dedicated people looking after them. Much as a fighter pilot didn’t do all the maintenance themselves, but they damn well checked their shit over before they climbed aboard, because out there? It was their ass that was lost if someone fucked up.
That was how it was as an APS operator. We didn’t do the grunt work ourselves, but we could.
Richie could write programs in his sleep—that was why we had him as tech support—but in a pinch? We could all do a little of it.
We had masses of training; downloads of specs, complicated as shit, were stored in our RIs, ready for the day when we needed them.
For some APS operators, the first thing they did when they left the corps was delete all that shit. It took up space, and sometimes we damn well wanted to have some distance from the things we’d done in the corps.
I’d not done that, though, because I was going to get my damn suit back, and soon.
That meant that as soon as the rest of my gear was done, I pulled up the specs for the system I thought I needed, smiling to myself when I dismissed the Classified markers, and finding the similarities I thought I’d recognized.
Hell yes.
I had clearance—copies I had for a legal reason—so fuck them if they saw my marker accessing the file.
I still didn’t dare hesitate, though, skipping to the relevant “field expedient repairs” section, and taking totally unauthorized screen shots as fast as I could.
Just in case.
Seven minutes of access I enjoyed, knowing that retrieving this file would have triggered a monitor program. I was fast, skipping through the boring crap, before a sudden message popped up.
Authorized access revoked.
Please contact your line manager if you believe you should still have access to these files.
Note: APS Server access revoked. APS Access to Ident 99238657543, Harry James Kabutt, blocked.
We were told that any and all our files, once they were unlocked to us, were available for access at any time. Primarily because a lot of the APS Corps ended up working for the corpos after retirement. As a bodyguard, we needed to be able to keep it going in the field when we were protecting their asses or using that particular equipment, and they had their fingers in writing the contracts.
That I’d been revoked, without it requiring a full court-martial, meant that Tyrannus was fucking with me again.
That was fine, though, because given that he’d actually been stupid enough to blacklist me from the server? All living APS personnel were permitted access for life, as most of the upgrades and tweaks were done by retired specialists, the forces being what they were now. This meant that officially, I had no access, and the walking turd had ensured, in cutting off the APS Corps’ last official connection to me, that they in turn couldn’t access my gear, should they have a need.
I checked the shots I’d taken, and yeah. They’d do.
Comparing them to the device spread out before me, damaged, I nodded, spreading it out further, and mentally marking up and identifying the connective systems.
It looked as though it’d been built around something originally, something oval shaped when I tried to reassemble it, and I grinned when I spotted the likely shape.
A hand.
The goblins had probably dumped the hand after looting the system.
I paused, rethinking that. The gobbos wouldn’t have taken this; they’d have no reason to. Why fight a specter and steal this, then dump its fucking hand? They were fighting specters down in the depths on occasion, and if they knew what this was, they’d know why the specters would keep coming after it. If they didn’t?
Why carry it?
Why choose to take what looked to the untrained eye like scrap?
No, they’d not done this, I decided, looking it over. “They stole it from someone else,” I muttered, nodding to myself. It made sense. Someone else had been down there, either to steal this or trying to use it, and that had drawn the specters.
They’d locked in on it, and they’d gone mad trying to get the fucker; then the gobbos had seen something shiny and grabbed it. Probably shanking the original thief as part of the deal. That was why the specters had followed us. And if I took this back down there? They’d come for it again.
That…could be useful, though. Use it, maybe figure out a way to shield it or to hide it. Some kind of armoring maybe? Then when we’d gotten all we could carry, and we were ready, set up a trap. Uncover it, and draw the specters in. Slaughter them over and over, strip the mods. Rinse and repeat.
Could it be that simple?
Could I really do this?
I’d definitely need a team if this was what I thought it was. I couldn’t do this alone, and there was no fucking way I was going to try. Realistically, neither was there any chance I was going to tell Lucky about this and let him “help” with his gangbangers.
I didn’t know Julius, and despite the good feeling from the last few hours, and the offer I’d made Reign, Luna, and Gessh, I sure as shit didn’t trust them with this either.
Not yet.
No, I needed to test this, and I damn well needed to make sure that it actually worked. I needed credits. I needed to earn as much as I could, upgrade my gear, and I’d keep the team together for now. We worked well so far, after all.
I’d test them, one by one, somehow, and if they passed? Well. We had a chance to really make some serious credits.
By the time I’d finished connecting the various systems, and I was ready to try powering it, the others were long gone. The sisters had gone home, promising to be back at the guild for noon—it was getting light outside already—and Reign had done some maintenance, then got up as if she were going to the toilet, and just never came back.
I was at fifty-fifty currently whether she’d pawn the grazer or use it in a card game straightaway, or if she’d deal with her demons on her own and keep it.
I know which I’d prefer, as a grazer was a hell of a weapon. And for a sniper? I’d definitely prefer her to be there by my side. What would be, would be though.
Dressing quickly in my now-clean armor, I nodded my appreciation of a job well done. They’d even polished the helmet, and considering how many cracks ran through that right now, that couldn’t have been easy.
I needed to replace it, realistically, as it wasn’t much use as it was, but it’d do until I could find another. As well as hiding my face, it kept the rain off.
Stolen story; please report.
Settling back in the cab, I watched the city roll past. The rain streaked down the side of the glass, and the lights beyond flared and blurred.
It was a waste to spend so much on a cab, it really was, but I needed to get some sleep, and if I’d stayed in a guild rack, after ignoring Lucky so much, it’d look like I was avoiding him, if not full-on running.
As if the thought of him was a talisman, a fresh message dropped to me from him, along with an image.
Lilith better be dead and soon.
That was it, along with a set of coordinates. I groaned, pulling the image up: a smiling woman, deep-purple hair, impressive cleavage, and glowing purple nails. It’d been taken while she was talking to someone. The image zoomed in to show her leaning on the shoulder of a massively modded man. The arms looked to be tier two at the minimum, maybe three. Chrome all the way, artistically layered with “muscle.”
He was clearly armed to the teeth, mostly standard-issue crap, but a nice-looking HK-TT slug thrower on his hip. I could see a few others to the sides, laughing, and…
I checked the image, finding it was zoomed in, but not locked. I rolled the point of view back a little, seeing a dozen idiots with her. Most were like Lucky’s lot, gangbangers who thought that a willingness to use uber violence was the same as being lethal adversaries.
It wasn’t, and the condition of their guns when I zoomed in on them made it clear they were amateurs. Most of them were filthy, and a few even had the red warning light of low-zero ammo blinking.
They were walking round with empty or low weapons, and didn’t do anything about it. Idiots.
Most of their weapons were melee, as near as I could see—electro-shock knuckles, batons, blades—and the bodyguard had discharge plates on his knuckles when I zoomed in on them as well.
Yeah, that was a nice set of arms.
I was ready to ignore it, to head straight back to the apartment, until I saw the last figure.
It was an older man, one who wore the same tattoos as some of Lucky’s gang, and he was laid on the floor to one side. A trail of blood led from him to the bodyguard, while another ganger counted out credit-chips.
They’d moved into Lucky’s territory, he’d said, and I guessed this image was supposed to make me believe they were the aggressor, and that they were attacking the innocent?
No. They were selling drugs and stims, I betted, zooming in and out of the image at different points to confirm. They were the same level of scum that Lucky and his people were, but they also had credits, and I had slightly more reason to kill these people.
Besides, it’d be a shame if someone else got those arms.
Send me the job details…
I sent the message to Lucky, and a few seconds later, a new message popped up, making me sigh as I read over it, nodding and confirming the coordinates attached.
Job: Update!
Kabutt will carry out five [5] contract hits for Lucky, including and limited to the following:
· 2 x Standard Assassinations:
· [Lilith, Floor 72 – Market District – Location attached]
· [Unconfirmed]
· 2 x Chemist lab raids
· 1 x Assassination of [Stinger]
Supplemental:
· 1 x Recover 100,000 credits worth of Specter Mods
In exchange, Kabutt will receive:
· 47,500 x direct credit transfer
· 30,000 x store credit for Lion’s Chop Shop
· ? x Additional bounties
· 4 x gang members will be dispatched to Kabutt’s choice of location to act as a distraction
Job Accepted
I ordered the cab to divert to the current coordinates, and three minutes later, I was pulling up to the south entrance of my accommodation block.
“Huh?” I mumbled, climbing out of the cab and yawning as I looked around. The locals glared as they saw someone rich enough to afford a cab, and I saw the convenience of having my target in my damn building.
I could go straight to bed afterward.
The glares vanished as soon as I popped the trunk on the cab and dragged out my shotty, slotting it into the sheath on my back, then the rifle, connecting up the restraining harness and double-checking my gear.
I nodded after a few seconds and closed the cab’s doors, before setting off.
No real grenades. A man just felt plain naked without at least one decent grenade on him, and here I was, without any. I shrugged, resolving to buy some more, as I slid my helmet on, and walked in the nearest entrance.
This entrance was slightly nicer than mine—less piss in the corners, and the crazed old lady was noticeably missing, which was also a bonus. The lift had a guy passed out in the corner, though, and I activated the code that Reign had given me yesterday. It changed the assault on my olfactory senses to a pleasant vanilla and coconut mix and I relaxed, smiling to myself.
Why the hell had I never thought to ask Richie for a damn code like that before now?
The lift doors opened a few floors up and the family who stood waiting took one look at me, heavily armed, assault rifle held ready and with my face hidden behind a black, glossy and clearly cracked helmet.
“We’ll get the next one,” the dad, presumably, said, frantically stabbing a finger at the Close Doors symbol on his side.
“Good choice,” I agreed, as the doors closed again, and I whooshed upward.
This goddamn lift even started to play music, for fuck’s sake, and I shook my head in disgust. It was terrible music, admittedly, and I was fairly sure that it was actually law somewhere that all lift music must make you want to gouge your ears out with rusty spoons, but still.
That wasn’t the point.
The lift paused again, and a pair of drugged-up gangers stared at me in confusion.
“You here for Jenny?” one asked after a minute, fingering his gun.
“No.”
“Cool.”
That was it. The doors shut, and I was whisked higher. Minutes passed, until finally the relevant floor dinged, and the lift slowed again.
This time when the doors opened, I was hit by a wave of music, laughter, and smells, as the entire floor was revealed to be a single huge market.
I stepped out. The throng of people moved this way and that, quickly enveloping me as I moved deeper. The coordinates clearly updated as a directional marker appeared on my HUD.
Hundreds of people surrounded me; meals were cooked in woks and on grills, self-heating trays of food were bought up at counters, and arguments raged as people jostled each other, fighting to get through the madhouse.
I felt a hand trying my pocket and I slapped it hard. My metal left hand registered a crack of bone as I beat it aside; a shriek echoed from someone unseen in the mass.
Moving deeper and deeper, I passed counters and seating areas, tables and bars. There were bands playing music, dancers and lights, screens showing various sports being played—mostly fights—and people begging or stealing.
I saw people passed out in corners—some clearly still breathing, others whose condition was less certain. One body was slumped half behind a curtain; a leg stuck out, twitching over and over as they accessed something, a thick cable plugged into the side of their neck.
It was a mess, a madhouse, and it was like every other slum market in the city: a mix of screaming lunatics, laughter, and an attempt to get through the goddamn day.
I moved through the mess slowly, stunned that this was even here.
My shitty apartment was a handful of floors below this level, and although I knew intellectually that these places were in the arcology, I’d not been here until now.
I noted a few places in passing, bars that looked like they might be actually all right, and a place selling noodles that looked and smelled amazing. The only thing that put me off? A sign outside that proudly proclaimed they served “real meat.”
Real fucking meat? I’d had it once, and that was in a posh restaurant on a date. With the amount of stims the meal was laced with? If they’d served up a block of cardboard, I’d have been none the wiser.
For this place to be advertising it? There was no way they were getting supplied by the people who sold the real meat; it was for corpo scum only.
That meant they were catching something themselves—probably rats, but who knew—and serving it to people who were paying good credits.
Fucking low-life scum.
I kept moving, catching a second pickpocket a few meters farther on. I clamped my metal hand on his wrist, hauling him out of the stream of citizens, and glared down into his single eye.
“Please sir…I’m just hungry…” he started, dangling from his left wrist. His right reached up behind his back for something.
“Try using whatever weapon that is, and I’ll rip your hand off,” I said flatly, getting a glare of hatred back from him.
“Lemme go!” he snarled, twisting and trying to yank his hand free.
“What gang controls this floor?” I asked, only to grunt in pain, dropping him and spinning as someone darted out of the crowd to my rear and stabbed me, a tiny scalpel in hand.
I had to play it back to even see it, they were that fast, but a tousle-haired mop of a child—perhaps seven or eight years old—had sprinted out of the uncaring press of people, stabbed me in a joint between my body armor and lower back, then vanished again, as another figure dragged the attempted pickpocket away.
It was done in seconds, and I was left snarling, reaching back and pressing a hand to the wound. Little shit had only made a minor wound, but still.
It damn well hurt!
I glared after them. The direction they’d taken off in was the same one my HUD was showing me, and I sighed, knowing damn well what was coming.
I checked my gear, making sure, and grunted as I found a “safe” trigger clip had been pressed into both my handgun’s trigger and my fucking shotgun.
How the hell had some little bastard managed that?
I plucked it free and slipped it into a pocket, torn between annoyance and admiration. The sheer skill and outright brass-fucking-balls it took to do that?
Moving through the crowd, I cursed and activated my RI with a counter-insurgent “identify and assess” package. It was overkill for the situation, or so I had believed, and it took most of the operating cycles I had available for the RI. But when it kicked in after thirty seconds?
Fuck my life.
The program washed the colors out of my vision, muting the vast majority, and enhanced the colors of those it identified, using a complex mix of tracking algorithms, data and transmission hacks, and a load of code I really couldn’t be arsed to figure out.
The basic premise, though, was that it made those it identified as following or paying excessive attention to me much more identifiable—without slapping a massive flashing marker over them and making it obvious when the eye was naturally drawn to the change.
What concerned me, though, was that six figures were picked out immediately, and two of them weren’t with the other three gangbangers. The last? I mentally marked as neutral and to be watched.
I mentally tagged them, focusing on their faces, and a second later, the three were picked out as idiots who worked for, or at least had been around, Lucky.
They were moving through the crowd, following me, and the other two were doing the same thing.
It was almost comical that there were two groups, utterly unaware of the other, trying to sneak up on me. It probably would have been hilarious, if they weren’t all heavily armed.
As it was? I sent Lucky a message.
Scouting target. Tell your monkeys to fuck off before they ruin it.
There was a long pause. Then, predictably, he denied all knowledge of them.
You need to do as you’re told, Kabutt. You were supposed to kill her last night, and my people are nowhere near you.
I snorted and sent him images of the three, deliberately picking out the most stupid stills I could get as I paused and leaned against a wall, letting the RI examine the crowd.
Really? Then these three just happen to be right behind me? Also, how do you know where I am? To be able to say that they’re nowhere near me? Is there something you want to tell me, Lucky?
A few seconds passed before all three turned heel and headed off.
Good boy. Now, you try that shit again? I’ll not be happy. I put up with it on the train and since then because you’re an idiot, and you needed to be sure I wasn’t running away. Right now? I’m too tired for this shit, Lucky. I don’t run, and I don’t backstab. Remember that. I judge.
I set off again, pushing through the crowd, coming to a wider section around a set of ornamental outdoor tables, the ceiling painted and implanted with tiny lights that were supposed to resemble the night sky, and dozens of concentric low walls with space in the top for drinks and so on to be placed.
If it was anything like the versions I’d seen growing up, it was vandalized probably inside of the first hour that people moved in, and had never been fixed since.
Watch yourself, Kabutt. Keep this shit up, and I’ll cut my losses…and your throat.
“Promises, promises.” I sighed, dismissing his message as I strode into the middle of the mosaic, noting the attempts to improve it over the years by people signing it, and replacing entire sections with new lights, ones that proclaimed that such and such was a stud, or a gonk or whatever.
The location marker pinged to say I was at the target, and I sighed. The kid from before darted out of a small building and ran for it, having clearly passed word on of my arrival, even if the others tailing me hadn’t.
I focused on the buildings, checking them out. A half dozen of them were in the concentric rings, made to look like old-style houses: all white plaster and curved windows around the center, doors opening this way and that.
In other versions of this I’d seen elsewhere, this was used as a market, one that people claimed a spot in for a day or two; as soon as they moved, another took their place. Here, though? They were all empty, making it clear that this was a forbidden area, considering how everyone on the rest of the floor was pressed cheek by jowl.
A handful of figures sat around on the seats, including a couple of the gang I recognized from the photo earlier. They all turned to me as I walked into their midst.
“Stop right there.” One of them sighed, shaking his head and holding up a hand. “What, you thought you could just rock right up? That we’d not know you were coming?”
“Where’s Lilith?” I moved across to a chair that had a seemingly solid stone low wall right behind it. The figure in it glared up at me, and I grinned, already in a shitty mood, and seeing only one way that this was going to go. “Move, or be hurt,” I said softly.
“Get fucked, you—” He reached for his drink, and I grabbed him by the back of the head, slamming his face into the table with an audible crack of breaking bones.
He managed to get out one scream—a truncated, pain-filled thing—then I did it again. The second impact rendered him unable to add anything more to the conversation.