4.2

It’s a quarter past one in the afternoon. Fingers figured this would be the best time to hit the terminal—most 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—basically 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—just 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—that we just wait—but 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 one 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—trust me, I’m good at that. You just worry about controlling the firmware.”

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

“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—” —we 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, little 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—most 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—until 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—well, as flat as the cramped space allows—and 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—scan 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—for 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—I just can’t wait to get out of this deathtrap—but 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—nothing 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—freedom.

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—and 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—the ones who were lazily sipping coffee by their motorcycles earlier—are 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—that 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—or we’re done for.