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 old wooden post reading OLD MILL, she presses the body of her car key against the underpart of the intercom. The door buzzes open and we step in from the cold, dragging slides of mud—and perhaps blood—along 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 silent. Awkward. Unnerving.
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—Raze smoking a cigar while Vander balms his lips—Cormac, 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 green 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.
He 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, still rubbing his neck. He stands, then stretches his arm over towards me, grabbing his jacket off a coatrack that had been perched up against the door. At the same time, he tips the door closed.
“Suppose so.” Dance clears his throat again, only this time he hawks up a wad of phlegm and spits it into a nearby sink. He runs the water, then squeaks it off. “So, wanna fill me in? You got the chips, so what’s next? We move on to the suits like I said?”
I twist my head. “Suits?”
“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. 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—”
“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—together. That’s where the money is.”
He scoffs. “Why don’t you get the rest of us to get the suits? 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—cheatin’ that guy?—failed. 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—well, 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.
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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. I reach into my pocket and pull out the small gun I’d nicked off Red’s dead body. It still has his blood on it, as does my entire arm.
A cyberjunkie.
Like that muscular man, Nyah. His blood was different. Maybe there’s a link. A genetic modification that allowed him to handle more operating systems than would normally be deemed safe. Maybe all of them did.
“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 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—”
“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”—he pushes himself away from the desk and slides back on the swivel—“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 right shoulder. “Look familiar?”
The picture zooms out again, but not so far as to cover the entirety of the truck—instead, 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.