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—is it that obvious?—and 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—of course there is—and 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—her 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—they, whatever—shrugs 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.
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
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 million ’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—I 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 imbedded in that pretty chrome dome up there.” He taps his temple. “That true?”
It takes me a bit to respond. The nervousness is passing, albeit quite slowly. I know I 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 side of one container, a jagged, abstract symbol that looks like a cross between a snake and a circuit board.
This is no ordinary cargo; it’s something special, alright—something valuable, something dangerous. The kind of cargo that people kill for.
“She’s a dead drop for high-risk cargo—stuff that needs to disappear off the grid. Weapons, black-market cyberware, experimental bio-matter—if 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 locate it 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 twenty-five thousand each.”
“Thirty,” says Fingers.
He leans back, eyes wide. He cogitates, looks at her sternly, as if insulted, but says, “Thirty it is. But only if you bring it back in good condition, and without drawing attention to either yourselves or me. Especially me.”
I raise my hand, like a schoolgirl waiting for the teacher to stop speaking. “Hold on a second. When does this need to be done? They look like 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.”