currents beneath steel - 4.3_Bitstream

4.3

The containers sit in tidy, colourful rows—hundreds arranged in a metallic mosaic—while the androids hoist smaller units onto forklifts, muscling them into place with the brute-force precision only an AI collective could command.

As the magnet descends, none of them seem to notice—or care, for that matter. Fingers’ prediction that they’d treat abnormalities as standard routine, lacking the critical thinking to question them, appears to hold some merit. Still, we should err on the side of caution: just because the androids aren’t paying attention doesn’t mean any human workers, if there are any, won’t start asking questions.

I halt the cranehead’s descent just as we align with a nearby stack of containers. Fingers steps to the edge, tipping her foot over before taking a long, fluid stride onto the top of the container. Without hesitation, I follow her lead.

A metallic grinding echoes across the central hold, drowning out the clatter of forklifts and the whirring of android servos below. The noise is so intense it nearly silences the voice in my head. Glancing up, I spot the claws descending, though ‘claws’ doesn’t quite describe them. They’re enormous, disk-shaped magnets, like oversized burgers with segmented steel edges that flex and shift. Pistons brace their every movement, and faint blue arcs of electromagnetic energy flicker at their edges. As the magnet lowers, its segments expand and contract, latching onto a container with a loud thunk. The whole contraption jerks slightly as it lifts its load, swinging it smoothly through the air before depositing it on a higher stack. The motion is both precise and predatory, and I can’t help but feel like we’re being watched by an enormous metal creature tending to its lair.

There are four of them, I’m sure—two ahead, two behind—and the ceiling is designed in such a way to facilitate their movement. A network of sliding rails and intricate track systems, crisscrossing in perfect symmetry. The metal beams stretch across the hold, a kind of mechanical spiderweb, supporting a lattice of thick cables and pulleys. The rails are slick, almost too smooth, designed specifically for the magnets to glide along without a hitch, and they do. Compared to the cranehead, these are much faster, whipping from one end, around the gap of the flood gates, to the other, and when they do, that same shipmind plays out:

“Unit 9-Q-1-3-5-7 is now en route to Grid C-12, Tier 6. Estimated time to position: 14 seconds.”

The magnet sucks up a crate from the metal floor, ascends, and slides to the other end, placing it slowly on top of a stack.

A sharp voice cuts through the din, echoing from the elevated steel walkway that encircles the interior like a suspended square balcony, offering a commanding view of the sprawling central hold below: “What is it doing, ah? Why is it down here?” An African accent. Difficult to tell who it’s coming from.

I keep low, hiding behind a crate stacked unevenly at the top.

“Manual Control says the crane’s been acting up,” an employee says. He wears heavy blue overalls, paired with a bright yellow high-vis vest. In his left hand is a clipboard and in his right is a small, rectangular object. He presses a button on the object and points it up at the cranehead. A beam of blue light sweeps over it, scanning it. The object beeps and the employee looks at it. “Hm. Yeah. Seems there’s an issue with the circuits.”

Shit.

“Has it grown a mind of its own, ah?” shouts the African man.

I catch a good look at him when he steps past the employee and snatches the scanner from his hand, inspecting it for a second. The man is imposing, I admit, his tall frame draped in a sleek brown business suit that somehow manages to look more like armour than clothing. His skin is deep black, gleaming under the harsh industrial lights. A vibrant, green visor sits over his right eye, flickering with streams of data and scanning lines as if constantly calculating, constantly watching. On his left arm, a gauntlet device hums softly with energy, its metallic surface glowing faintly at the seams. When he raises it, the air seems to tighten, and with a faint hiss and mechanical whine, the cranehead above jerks to life. It rises slowly, almost reluctantly, as though acknowledging a master it cannot defy.

I quickly scan him using the spoofer, and his details show up on the data cube:

Name: Obadele Kanyama

Affiliation: Meridian Transport Co.

Wanted For: N/A

Weakness(es): [[Suppressed]]

Resistant To: Quick-hacks (87%)

Below the scan, something new flashes:

WARNING: Subject equipped with high-tier ICE (Intrusion Countermeasures Electronics) and Netshield Mk-IV. Any unauthorized network activity will trigger immediate retaliation protocols.

Further down, a secondary alert flickers:

ADDITIONAL WARNING: Subject gauntlet detected with Override Capability.

An anti-quickhack defense mechanism? Who is this guy, and what’s he doing working on a cargo ship? That’s some serious cyberware for a simple supervising role.

“Jesu,” Obadele yells. “You go and tell Manual Control to keep it in the port, eh? If that thing comes back here, I will destroy it myself. It is too much risk for our security, especially when it starts moving on its own. Go now—tell them, sharp-sharp!”

“Yes sir,” says the employee, hurrying along the platform, pressing his neural port.

“Mono,” Fingers rasps, her voice low, and I look around. It takes me a moment to find her outline, so I squint to save time, finding her crouched next to me, behind the container. “Need you to start scannin’. Don’t worry about him. We don’t have all night.”

“Sorry,” I say. “Where do we start? There’s hundreds of units.”

Fingers raises a frustrated hand. “That’s your job,” she says, again quietly. “Eyes on the steel, get movin’.”

“What if that man sees us?” I ask. “He has a retina scanner. Embedded spoofer. If he squints, he’ll see our outline.”

“Then we’ll keep out of sight,” she says. “Now, look around, do you see the snake symbol at all?”

First, I scan all of the crates on this side of the central hold, particularly the tops, because I can’t scan any underneath, what with them being blocked off. There’s nothing.

“What’s the tag again?” I ask.

“5-22-9-12,” Fingers says.

5-22-9-12. Remember that.

I peek around the corner of the unit, observing the other side of the central hold where hundreds upon hundreds of other units reside, catching glimpse of Obadele, who hasn’t moved from his spot. He just stands there, hands behind his back, observing the workers, the claws, the system. Regardless, I keep my head low and begin scanning the crates on the other side, using ‘Server Locator’ to get a better snap function as I sift through the data of each crate individually. It’s a little awkward from this angle, because every time I lock onto a new crate, I struggle to remember if I’ve already scanned the one before it. My memory’s sharp, but not sharp enough for this.

After a while, I say, “Look, we need to move to the other side and see if it’s on top.”

“Why?”

“It’s impossible to tell from this angle,” I say, once again keeping my voice quiet. “I’m sorry, but my memory’s not cut out for this shit.”

Fingers takes a deep breath through her nose, thinking carefully. She looks over my shoulder, towards the other end. We might be able to navigate to the other side. The only problem is that man, that asshole, with the retina scanner. He’s not moving, not budging one bit. It’s almost eerie how much he can stand in one place; it’s as if he’s daring us to come outside, for him to spot us and put an end to this whole operation.

Given the spoofer’s description of his spec, this isn’t someone we’d want to alert.

“Okay,” Fingers says. “Here’s the plan.” She points over to the employee on the metal platform, who’s leaning over the railing, forearms tucked into one another, eyes blue, possibly on a call. “See that guy, over there by the stairway?”

I nod. “Yeah, what about him?”

“Short-circuit him,” she says matter-of-factly.

“... What?”

“Just trust me,” she says, placing a hand on my shoulder again. “Short-circuit him. The brown-suit will get distracted, and we run for the other side.”

“Okay,” I say, “here’s the problem: if I short-circuit him, he’ll put this place on lockdown. He knows what a short-circuit looks like, surely, and he’ll know a netrunner is out there.”

She shakes her head. “You think cyberware doesn’t spontaneously malfunction?” She stops herself from going any further on that train of thought. “Listen, do what I fuckin’ say. Short-circuit him, now.”

I hesitate for a moment—this could go very, very wrong—before the hum of my neural interface pulses to life in my mind. With a thought, I activate ‘Short-circuit’. The upload bar blinks on my neural display, its progress bar rising steadily, faster than I expected, shooting up to 100%.

In an instant, the employee's body jerks as if struck by an unseen force. His eyes flicker, pupils constricting to pinpricks, and his limbs stiffen for a second, before he slumps back against the railing with a low groan. The steady pulse of his internal systems begins to glitch, his cyberware shorting out, triggering an overload of electrical feedback in his nervous system. The faint whir of his internal systems grinding to a halt is drowned out by the sudden rasping breath as he tries to recover, but it’s too late—he’s twitching in place.

My heart bumps. Please, oh Lord.

Obadele hurries over to him. “What happened, eh? What are you doing?” he shouts.

“Move now,” says Fingers, and we hop off the crate stack, landing with a clang. Thankfully, like before, the android workers don’t care. It makes sense, too. This place is nothing but clangs and crashes; we blend right in.

Following Fingers’ outline, I make my way to the far side of the cargo hold, climbing one of the stairways in the far-right corner and leaping across the gap to the tops of the stacks once more. This side is cluttered with uneven crates, some blocking the view ahead. As I crouch behind the nearest crate, I check on the employee and Obadele—the short-circuit has worn off, and the employee’s now pulling himself up from the rungs.

Obadele shouts, “Are you stupid, ah? I told you the company needs all staff to monitor their cyberware capacity, but you didn’t, isn’t that right?”

The employee catches his breath, holding his cybernetic arm. “I monitored it. This isn’t normal.”

“Liar,” Obadele says. “If it was up to code, it wouldn’t have malfunctioned, yes?”

“Look,” the employee says, getting loud but not quite shouting, “my cyberware is up-to-date. I didn’t skip out on that. There’s something jamming signals in here. Think about it: the crane malfunctioning, the mislabelled crate, and now this. Something’s goin’ on, Mr. Kanyama.”

My heart races, faster than ever.

Obadele snatches the employee’s arm and inspects it.

“Hey,” he says, shouting now. “Let off man. You can’t do that!”

He keeps scanning the man’s arm, possibly wanting to identify any abnormalities or outdated hardware.

“Mr. Kanyama. Please sir—”

“Shut your mouth, eh?” says Obadele. “So long as you’re working for me, I can do whatever I damn want with you. You don’t forget, Jesu, you’re just noise that blowed up from the southside. You are lucky I even let you in this place at all, ah. You’re nothing but a cog in my machine. A speck of dirt I keep around for convenience. So, don’t get smart with me, ah. You hear me, boy?”

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

The employee opens his mouth, but Obadele holds up a hand, cutting him off.

“Don’t even start,” Obadele sneers, clicking his tongue. “You think just because you somehow managed to crawl your way up here, you're better than the filth you came from? No. You’re still the same, just dressed in cleaner rags, standing in a room full of fools who think they can escape their fate. Your fate.” His words slice through the air like a whip. The venom in his voice isn’t just anger—it’s something more primal, something bred from years of watching the world play out in predictable, ugly cycles. He lets go of the employee’s arm. “Now, get out of my sight. Down to Tier 7 and monitor the workers, and don’t forget where you came from.” His eyes don’t shift from the employee’s face, and for a moment, the smaller man looks as though he might argue. But he doesn’t.

The subordinate takes a slow, reluctant step back, his head low, the tension in his shoulders hardening with the uncomfortable obedience that is born from years of silence. Years of ‘Yes sir’ and well-contained anger on the teeter-totter of bursting. The employee turns and retreats, heading towards the stairwell, his steps heavy with resignation, not daring to look back.

Obadele watches him leave, his posture almost regal in its arrogance. He turns to face the android workers below. “What are you all looking at? Move!”

What an asshole.

I didn’t realise there was such a sense of classism to certain individuals. I’m guessing that these workers from the southside are paid significantly less than their northern counterparts. Terrible. Absolute robbery—a robbery of opportunity, of dignity, of hope.

No wonder so many people resort to crime, stealing from those in power. What other choice do they have when the system is rigged to begin with? That asshole wasn’t just degrading that southsider’s worth: he was enforcing a system that keeps people like him at the bottom, no matter how hard they try to climb.

But what use was there in fighting? Who out there could put a stop to it all?

There has to be someone, surely. Someone to walk the circuit, to dig deep into the roots of this broken system and tear it all down. Someone who can expose the lies, unearth the hidden power plays, and give the people something to believe in again. Someone for whom it isn’t about finding a way to climb, but about finding a way to burn the whole damn ladder down.

Though, that’s a fight for someone braver than me, stronger than me, smarter than me. Someone with more at stake than survival.

I just need money—that’s all.

Still, seeing such cruelty.... It can be difficult to ignore.

I shift my focus to the task at hand, scanning through the crates with a much clearer view this time. After about twenty minutes and over a hundred scans, I finally spot the container with the snake symbol etched across it. It’s darker and thinner than it looked in the video, but then again, that footage was made for clarity and emphasis, not accuracy. There had been so much the camera missed.

I scan the snake crate and, sure enough, the data cube pops up with that same tag: ‘WAT-93F-522912’.

As Fingers predicted, it’s in an awkward position, wedged in the centre of four parallel units. Now, things should be a little easier, although not completely. I look up at one of the claws; it rumbles overhead, as if waiting for a request. I highlight it with the spoofer, use ‘Manual Override’, and see the same options as before, although with some notable extras: Up, Down, Forward, Back, Left, Right, On, Off.

A bit more complex, but it shouldn’t be much of a problem. With a series of thoughts, I guide the claw over to the crate, careful not to let the connection slip, and position it directly over the snake crate. I instinctively rub my temple, as if that would help. Just a calming measure. Breathe. Relax. Down the claw goes, steady now, and...

When the magnet touches the container, I select ‘On’, which causes the magnet to attach itself to the metal roof. I guide the crate up. As I do, the forks pitch down and lock it securely in place.

“Doin’ good,” says Fingers.

Slowly, very slowly indeed, I bring the crate towards us, lay it squarely at the top of a closer stack, and bring the claw back up. Like nothing, ever, happened.

The android workers continue on with their business, across the grated walkway, along their tracked bases, around the vicinity in their forklifts. All just part of the day-to-day routine.

And that man, Obadele, is none the wiser, observing his machines, doing nothing.

I feel satisfied, though I understand that it’s not quite over yet. Fingers and I creep over to the snake crate and I scan it with the spoofer, selecting ‘Manual Override’ to unlock it, but I’m faced with a different screen this time, one I’ve not witnessed before:

(Authentication Required)

It’s a firewall. Fuck, this isn’t good.

“Another problem,” I say.

“Yeah?” says Fingers.

“Rico forgot to mention the crate is locked behind a firewall,” I say, my throat dusting up and sounding slightly hoarse. “And I don’t know how to crack this. I’m sorry—”

“It’s okay,” Fingers says. “And stop saying ‘sorry’, for fuck’s sake. You’re getting on my nerves. Now I want you to listen to me very carefully, like last time, okay?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“Now, no arguing with me, no ‘what ifs’ or ‘buts’,” she says. “Just, please, for the love of God, do what I fuckin’ say: see that claw?” She points up at it.

It’s the same one I used to move the snake crate. I say, “Yeah?”

“You’re gonna pick it up again,” she continues, once again placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. “You’re gonna bring it all the way over to the centre, below the gap where all the space is, where the crane normally drops off units. And you’re gonna drop it—hard.”

“Won’t that damage it?” I ask—and cause a pretty significant crash, gathering the attention of the entire place, but I’m not going to argue.

“It won’t,” Fingers says, though I’m not sure she’s so certain about that based off her deprecatory tone. “But that doesn’t mean the personnel won’t open it to give a look-around, to make sure everything is still intact, know? It sounds dumb, but we’re taking a risk here. There are only two ways we can get into this thing: either they open it for us, or we get the scanner key, but guess where that is.”

I squint at the unit’s dial-lock, use ‘Server Locator’, and track the red line all the way over to the grated metal platform. It leads right into Obadele’s gauntlet.

Of course.

“Okay,” I say, understanding her point. “So, what then? What do we do after it falls? How do we get into it without anyone looking?”

“It depends on a few different factors,” Fingers says, “but I’ll let you know. For now, just get it done. Drop the crate from a nice high distance, as high as the rig will let you, in the centre near the flood gates.”

An astute nod. “Got it.”

Once again, we hide behind a unit, out of sight. I control the claw, pick up the snake crate, and direct it beneath the flood gates, watching as rain shoots down over it. I can only get it so far before the pulley network veers off around the square opening; I keep it to the left, pull the crate up as high as possible, just like Fingers said, and—

‘Off.’

The snake crate falls immediately, crashing with an enormous, earth-shattering clang. It’s deafeningly loud, echoes for a solid four seconds.

“Unit 5-2-2-9-1-2 has lost connection to the database,” the female shipmind announces, its voice calm but unyielding. “Please ensure all contents are securely maintained and return the unit to its designated position.”

I watch as the red line connecting the dial-lock to Obadele’s scanner key disintegrates into digital dust.

“What happened, eh?” bellows Obadele, and soon all the androids gather around the fallen crate, joined by some of the human employees who, by the looks of it, had been solely monitoring the machines.

“Just dropped out of the sky,” says one worker.

“Gave me a damn heart attack,” yells another.

“What is goin’ on tonight, ah? What in goodness gracious is happening!” Obadele storms down the stairwell and approaches the snake crate.

At the same time, Fingers and I hop off the stack and creep over to the area beneath the flood gates, watching from behind pallet of metal sheets coated with bubblewrap.

Obadele pulls out his scanner key, presses it against the dial-lock, but gets a red beep in response. Too damaged. Unreadable. He steps back, eyeing the androids for a moment. “Well, what are you waiting for, ah? Open it!" He points at the crate doors, and two androids step forward, sinking their pinpointed claws into the gap and prying the unit open.

The doors peel away with a horrifying metallic screech. It takes a couple jerks, but eventually the androids rip the doors off.

Obadele steps inside, scans the unit, and after thirty seconds or so, says, “Jesu. Thank goodness. Where is that boy?” He turns, seeing the same employee from earlier, the one he’d belittled. “You.” He grabs him by the vest. “Go up to my office and turn on ‘operator mode’. You’re going to take over the claws tonight until we figure out what’s wrong with the AI.” He lets go, and the employee stands there. “Well, move!”

The employee hurries away, towards us, but passes up the stairwell, towards the office. Had he possessed any form of scanning technology installed in his optics, he very well might have seen us. Thank goodness some luck is on our side tonight.

“The rest of you,” shouts Obadele, “get back to work. This isn’t an excuse to take a break.”

Just like that, the employees and android workers get back to their duties, and Obadele takes control of the claw with his gauntlet, bringing it down slowly to the snake crate.

“Quick, move up,” rasps Fingers, perhaps louder than she should have, though not loud enough for anyone to hear.

I follow her towards the centre space beneath the flood gates, and when we hide behind another pallet, she points to the crowd of androids on the far right, who are already setting up to return to work.

“Short-circuit one of them,” she says, again quite loudly.

I waste no time, not bothering to question her methods anymore. I scan one of the androids with the heavy pinpointed claws, select ‘Short-circuit’, and watch as the upload bar whips up to 100%.

The second the upload bar hits 100%, the android jolts violently, its claws trembling. A sharp crack reverberates through the space, followed by a hiss of static from the android’s vocal emitter. Its eyes flicker erratically from a steady white to a disjointed red, and it convulses. Sparks spit and sputter from its joints, illuminating its battered frame in brief flashes. The other androids pause for a moment, their sensors swivelling towards the malfunctioning unit. The short-circuited android jerks once more, collapsing to its knees with a groan of grinding metal.

A slow, dark trickle begins to seep out from its abdomen, pooling beneath it—a viscous, inky-blue fluid, synthetic oil. It slides in thin rivulets along the floor, mingling with the dust and grime.

“I give up, ah,” Obadele says. “We need to put this place on lockdown. All the AI is malfunctioning. Must be the damn storm, eh!” He doesn’t move from his spot.

Shit! That didn’t work!

“Fingers,” I say, slightly loud.

The claw comes down and attaches itself to the snake crate, the magnet sucking it up.

“Clean up the mess, Jesu,” Obadele says. “Take it out back—not an android. You. Yes, you, southsider scum.” He points at a human worker with a free hand, and the worker goes to pick up the android.

The snake crate is lifted, and it's clear he's planning to take it somewhere remote, maybe leaving it there indefinitely for the rest of the night.

“Fingers...” I say, losing hope.

“Just let me fucking think, Jesus Christ!” Fingers whisper-shouts.

I glance at the dead bot again, watching the employee grab it by the shoulders, when—

A loud slash, followed by a crack. The employee’s head splits open, revealing the pinpointed claw of the android.

His arms go limp, his body slack.

Suddenly, another worker shouts, “Huh?”

The android drives its claw through the dead worker’s skull, finishing the job, then stands up. The illuminated line across its face flickers from red to white, finally settling into a cold, unyielding blue.

The other worker gasps. “Rogue bot! Rogue bot!”

He bolts, as do the others, but the android catches him, slicing through his chest and tearing him in two.

Obadele turns from the crate, his attention snapping to the bot as the workers scatter. The remaining androids stare, frozen, unsure of what to do.

The rogue bot tilts its head, detached and unfeeling. It pivots towards the remaining crowd, claws slick with a gruesome mix of synthetic oil and blood.

Obadele raises his gauntlet, a sharp command on his lips, pointing it at the rogue bot. But nothing happens. The android twitches, then jerks violently, turning on one of its own, claws ripping through the machine like paper.

Obadele’s voice cracks, fury giving way to disbelief.

It doesn’t stop.

The AI wasn’t malfunctioning.

It couldn’t be controlled.

currents beneath steel - 4.3

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