1.2
There’s another person waiting in the alleyway when I go outside. A young, timid woman who doesn’t make much eye contact or respond to my greeting. She hurries into the building, arms folded. This must be the two-o’-clock Vance was talking about.
Nevertheless, I pull out the electronic map to take a look. It’s only a portion of the city, and sure enough the tracking device shows up as a small blinking blue dot, right in the alleyway on Carter’s Street. Across the bridge there’s a series of buildings, one of which is circled in orange marker; it’s a good distance away yet. That must be it.
Once I get this sensory issue fixed, I’ll have to start saving up for a place to stay, and a ride, because walking everywhere in a city this large is just asking for problems. Especially if I’m supposed to have been a part of a gang. What if I committed some unspeakable act and someone I’ve wronged spots me on the street, ices me there and then? A person who thinks I’m dead.
Worrisome, for sure.
I do my best to ignore the thought. I make my way through the city, over the bridge, and towards the buildings as indicated by the directions on the map. The rain isn’t as heavy on this side of the city, though the wind certainly doesn't hold up. I look at the time displayed on the top right-hand side of my neural interface and see it reads 14:47. Working hours, but the roads and sidewalks are chock-a-block. People don’t seem to relax in Neo Arcadia. Maybe they have upgrades that render their need for unproductivity obsolete, or maybe this is just one of those cities that never really rests.
I wish I could remember. Having twenty-one years, every last spot of recollection, wiped from your system may as well be death, a very peculiar sort to the name. You almost might call it ‘rebirth’.
The pedestrians thin out greatly when I follow the map through a series of twisting alleyways and low-hanging metal sheets, on top of which metal bars hold grated balconies against apartment windows. I kick blowing litter from my path and look out for a sign that reads, ‘Old Mill’. That’s what it says on the address, but it reads nothing about it on the map. The buildings are all blank save for the apartment complexes. I walk on, beneath the orange sodium-vapour lamps, across neon signs showcasing Japanese words on steel shutters, and up ahead, where a knot of wires pulls off to the side, over a blank, cyan LED screen barred out from a closed building, I see a wooden post nailed to a wall. It’s hard to make out the letters from a distance, but when I approach it, I can see the words OLD MILL scribbled in black paint. Only the building it’s attached to looks nothing like a mill, and neither does it look old. It’s comprised of metal with some red bricks wedged between cracked cement. The front door looks like the sort of airlock you’d expect to see on a shuttle or spacecraft. To the right is a buzzer with an intercom neatly squared above it.
Is this an apartment? It doesn’t look very gangy. Is this really the right place?
I double-check the address written on the piece of paper, and then the circled area on the map. This is it alright. No doubt about it.
Still, I’m a bit nervous. Has Dr. Maelstrom spoken to that man.... What’s his name? Fingers. Has he spoken to Fingers yet to let him know I’m coming? Because if not....
Static rasps from the intercom, and a voice plays out of it no more than a second later: “State your business.”
My heart skips a beat. The sound caught me off guard. “Hi. I, well, Dr. Maelstrom sent me. He.... Well.... He said....”
The voice in the intercom chuckles. “This is what he sends? Seriously?”
Goosebumps pimple my arm and legs. “Listen, I have experience.” I’m technically not lying. “Besides, I’m not unequipped. I have—”
“Yeah, we know,” the voice says. “Ain’t a very special strap to have, but it’s better than nothing. Name’s Rhea, yeah?”
I nod. “Yeah. Rhea Steele. I was told to ask for Fingers.”
There’s a grumble and a cough. A few seconds later, the door buzzes open, and the voice says, “Take the elevator to Dash Two. Fingers is waiting for you. And no touching anything.”
I'm quiet for a moment before I start moving. Nerves are still catching me. The inside is well-lit by fluorescent bulbs drilled above dirty aluminium doors. There’s an old washing machine next to some oxygen canisters up ahead, outside someone’s door, and leaning over it is a gaunt-looking man dressed in raggy clothes. He opens the top of the washing machine and retches inside it. Disgusting. Must have had one too many bottles. Or maybe one too many needles. It’s hard to say.
I keep walking, avoiding eye contact as he glances up at me. He starts to slur but drops hard on the floor before he can get another word out. I step around him and continue towards the elevator at the end of the corridor; the wall surrounding it is cracked and falling to pieces at one side. Graffiti that says THE BLUES FUCK US RAW!!! stretches across the elevator doors in bright-white paint. Seems someone has a bone to pick with authority, which makes sense if I understand the concept of a gang: people who get together because they deny societal expectations, people who’d rather take the government down than work a simple nine-to-five.
Was I like that at one point? I certainly don’t feel any of that energy now.
I press the elevator-call button and wait as it screeches up to my level. The sound is so horrendous that I’m having second thoughts about stepping into it. The thing might collapse under any sort of pressure, even from a thin five-five woman like me. This theory is disproven when it arrives and the doors open, because a tall, stocky man wearing all black strides out, his hand carrying a gymbag of some sort, only I can tell he’s not looking for a workout. He says, “Watch it,” then brushes me aside and heads for the exit. I didn’t even realise I was standing in his way. Stupid me. That’s my fault.
I step into the elevator, which houses a large mirror in desperate need of a polish, and select “- 2” on the floor panel. It rumbles to a start and screeches downward at a snail’s pace. I turn and look into the mirror, observing my bloody scavenger clothes and my non-functioning arm which has been turned into the side pocket of my leather kutte. It’s stiff and doesn’t dangle, thank God, but I really should look into getting it chopped off, just for conveniency’s sake. There’s so much on my bucket list right now that’s it’s nearly overwhelming. For the time being, I should focus on getting enough creds to make sure I’m healthy. I can figure the rest out as I go along.
The elevator comes to a screeching halt and the doors jerk open slowly. There’s another corridor, only this time there aren’t any apartment doors, and it’s not so bright; there’s only a single bulb hanging from a string. That’s it. There’s a leak in one of the low-ceiling pipes. Thick metal sheets secure grated steel walls, and through them reside other rooms: ones with lots of space, furniture, and technology. They’re hard to make out exactly from this perspective but I can tell they have a lot going on. There are voices up ahead to the left. So, I walk. And walk. And eventually I turn the corner into a dark, windowless room full of smoke and red light.
It’s sort of like a living room, sort of like an office, with a leather sofa and cotton chairs, all circling a large wooden table at which three people are sitting, legs sprawled. Three men, each with heavy cyberwear embedded across their bodies. Cybernetic arms, glowing optics, necks laced with titanium and Kevlar.... And their clothes: strikingly simple and of no similarity. They wear light jackets, the sort you’d expect to see in slightly cold climates, with cargo jeans to match. One of them, however, stands out as having long metal fingers. Like really long. That must be him.
The only other person is off in the far-left corner is a woman sitting and flicking a jackknife in and out. She has bright blue hair shaved at one temple, thick fingerless gloves, and a set of dark clothing. She’s the only one who looks out of place in here. Aside from myself, of course.
“Seriously?” the man sitting on the right says. His arms are relaxed on the sofa chair, legs kicked up on the table. He has tightly cut blonde hair and a deep, smoker’s voice. Sure enough, he also has a cigar in his mouth. He takes it out, drops his feet, and dips his head. “You’ve got to be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.”
“You’d be surprised what Neo Arcadia has out there,” the man with the long fingers says, tapping them methodically on the table. He looks at me with a stupid dog grin. “Always nice to see new talent.”
“Talent?” the blonde-haired man says, looking at him sternly. He gestures to me with a dismissive hand. “You call that talent?”
“I dunno,” the other man to the left says. “I thought you said someone experienced was gonna show up, Fingers.” His hair is pulled back into a brown ponytail. He wears a thin silver band around his eyes which are bolted to either side of his temple. When he presses his neural port, it lights up and turns blue. “For someone experienced, you do manage to er, well, avoid all sorts of wanted lists. Would at least like to see ya on a list by now. Or are you that good?” He smirks, showing teeth that are only half there.
“I.... Excuse me?” I crease my brow.
The blonde-haired man stands up and approaches me. He takes a puff of his cigar, gets real close, bends over slightly, and blows a thick plume of smoke in my face. I can’t help but cough and turn away.
“Tell me,” the man says, “have you ever been shot before? Ever killed someone? Ever...” He chuckles. “... done anything? Anything of value?”
Something small and spinney whips past my shoulder, causing me to jump and turn. A knife. It landed right in the bull’s-eye of a dartboard.
“Knock it off,” a feminine voice says.
I turn and see the woman in the corner stand up and approach us.
“Telling you Fingers,” the blonde-haired man says, “don’t get what you see in this girl. But it’s your loss if she ends up fuckin’ us. I say we throw her out.”
“I think he can think for himself,” I say bravely.
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“He?” The man chuckles, stands up straight, and then sits back down on the sofa chair.
I look at the man in the middle with the long fingers.
He’s shaking his head.
“He’s not Fingers,” the woman says, pulling the knife out from the dartboard. “I am.”
“Oh,” I say. “I won’t lie to you: I thought because of his hands....”
“I know exactly what you were thinking,” she says coolly. “Don’t worry about.” She pats my shoulder. “Nice to see another woman, so I won’t be too harsh on you. Won’t be too nice either. You wanna work with us then I’ll have so see some credentials.”
“Credentials?” I say, confused. This isn’t what Dr. Maelstrom talked about.
She nods. “Not a CV or flashy piece of paper. I mean, real credentials. How you hold up in real situations. You following me?”
I stare at her blankly. “I think so,” I begin. “You want to see what I’m like in action? Is that it?”
Another nod. “Bingo. Right on, Rhea. That is your name, right? I’m talkin’ to the right girl?”
“Yeah,” I say, not even bothering to mention my surname. It’s frankly not important.
“Hm,” she says. “Well, some introductions then. The guy with the long fingers behind me is Cormac. To his left is Vander, our explosives enthusiast, and the grumpy guy to his right is Raze. You’ll figure out who’s who with time.”
“Got it,” I say. “Cormac, Vander, Raze, and you’re Fingers.” I contemplate asking her why they call her such a name if her hands look pretty normal, at least from what I can see, but decide to leave it for the time being.
She looks me in the eye, smiles, and pats me on the shoulder. Then she steps out of the dark room and beckons for me to follow her. The others get up from their seats, but she immediately tells them their presence won’t be needed.
“Don’t care.” Raze quenches the cigar bud on his jacket and tosses it into the ashtray on the table. “I’m gettin’ sick of sittin’ around. Have to stretch my legs. ’Sides, I wanna see what this kid is all about. Sure all of us do. Not often a lady shows up at our door lookin’ for a job.”
“I’m more for the air.” Cormac coughs, stretching his rotator cup. “Raze and his bastard cigar stinkin’ up the place really does a number on me.”
“Pretty sure you just haven’t had a shower in a while, Corn,” Raze replies quickly.
“Where’s Dance anyway?” Vander picks up a water bottle from under his chair and takes a sip.
“Probably off fuckin’ some BD slut,” says Raze, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
Fingers beckons me forward again, and this time I follow her. “Dance isn’t feelin’ well. Said he’s gonna rest up for the day.”
“That lazy prick? Only work he does around here is chemistry, and how often does chemistry help us?”
“More than you think,” Fingers says.
He gives a single sarcastic nod. “Yeah right. Like I’ve ever needed a pick-me-up from that guy.”
Fingers guides me through another section of the underground headquarters, to another door on the other side; the entire area is full of loose cables and metal parts, so I have to tread carefully. She presses her palm on a hand-recognition square and the door opens, revealing an area too dark to observe. Once she steps in, she claps her hands and it lights up, unveiling a large range divided into two sides: one in which a long table holds various pistols and rifles along the undersection, and up ahead: a shooting range of some sort, with bullet holes in black humanlike targets.
This isn’t what I expected when she mentioned credentials, but to be honest, I’m not entirely sure what she meant by that.
“Smell the gunpowder?” Raze says, scratching his fuzzy crewcut.
I don’t, obviously, but responding to that asshole isn’t worth my time. “So, you want me to shoot the targets? I’m guessing.”
“Not just that.” Fingers pats my back and points to a large holographic screen behind. There’s a list of scores on it; at the bottom lies Cormac, Dance, and Vander, and the top two are Raze and Fingers, with Fingers taking first place. She has a score of 2184.
“How long have you people been around exactly?” I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me. “To have a set up like this?”
“Too long,” Raze says.
I look at him, pursing my lips. “Dr. Maelstrom says you’re new.”
He chuckles. “That fuckin’ guy,” he says quietly.
Fingers juts in: “We’ve been at this for the better part of seven years,” she says. “Lost some people, gained some people. Grand scheme of things, we’re not all that old, not all that new either. Compared to other corporations out there.”
“Corporations?” I say.
“The biggest gangs of all, sweetheart,” Raze says, loudly. “Fuckin’ hate that word: gang.”
“Well, what do you suggest?” Cormac says. “Got a better way of puttin’ it? How about ‘organised lawbreakers?’ Rolls off the tongue, dunnit?” He laughs in a weird, squawky way.
“Anything wrong with the word team?” Raze asks, folding his bulky arms.
There’s some silence, and Fingers continues from where she left off. “Back to what I was saying: I don’t just want you to hit the targets and call it a day. I want you to beat that asshole Raze’s score. Two women in the lead sounds far better than one, don’t you think?”
“You.... I’m supposed to.... What?” I start, unable to string together a sentence that accurately conveys my frustration. I look up at the screen again and see that Raze’s score is 1748. There’s no chance I’m going to be able to beat that, not with one arm, and not after being inactive for so long. I don’t even remember how to shoot a pistol, if I ever used one at all.
“If you’re as good as you say you are then this shouldn’t be an issue, right?” Fingers says.
Raze steps up behind me and pats my head. “Ms. Experience, ay? Let’s find out how experienced you really are.” His voice is cold with an undercurrent of sarcasm. He grins widely. “Oh, and what’s the other rule, Fingers? No outside weapons?”
She nods. “Just to make sure you don’t have some smart-lock software installed. You have to use one of our pistols. Understood?”
Like it’ll change anything. I hand her my pistols and she tucks them away in her pockets, but not before making sure the safeties are on. Can’t be too careful. I approach the target range and grab one of the pistols from the shelf underneath. It’s a basic A-22B Pulse, not much different than your standard Glock, only there’s a bronze finish along the slide and the grip feels rubbery.
“If you wanna maximise your chances,” says Fingers, “I’d recommend aiming for the head. I’ll let you know when to start.”
I aim the pistol at the target range, feeling a strange sense of déjà vu, like I’ve done it many times before. The sensation is stuck in the back of my brain like a trapped thought readying to burst free. But it never does.
The humanoid targets start reorganising themselves on the stage. Some pull up towards the ceiling via a long retractable bar, while others duck into cover behind the various obstacles: brick walls, road signs, washing machines, car tyres, and so on. There isn’t really a theme to this place. It looks mostly makeshift, as if someone threw a bunch of stuff together off the street and installed an AI to operate the target bodies.
My hand’s a little shaky at first, but it eases. Fingers starts counting down from three. Once she hits zero, a target flips down from the centre of the ceiling, playing the sound of a woman that yells, “You moron.”
Almost instantly, my hand flicks to the direction of the target’s head and pulls the trigger. I felt disconnected from the movement, like my body executed it on impulse. I’m shocked to see that the bullet lands clean between the target’s eyes.
“Well, I’ll fuckin’ be...” says Raze in a low voice, even lower than his usual baritone.
Such reflexes even caught me off guard. I expected to take a good bit of time to line up the shot, never mind find it instantly and not only the take the shot but also land it perfectly on the target’s head for maximum points.
The target flicks up and another two pop out from behind the obstacles: one from the washing machine and another from the brick wall. Just like before, my hand finds the targets instantly and—
POP! POP!
“I like this girl,” says Cormac, laughing.
The bullets land perfectly again, with so much speed and precision that the AI jerks a little before drawing the targets away and revealing another four. This time it’s different. The targets are moving from one side to the other.
My hand moves again, and I marvel as the targets fall, one head at a time, all within the space of two seconds. Maybe even less.
What’s going on?
“You sure she ain’t cheatin’?” says Vander.
Fingers shushes him.
This goes on for another minute or so. Each round of targets is more complicated and compact than the last. Soon, not only the targets move but also the obstacles, as if being wheeled along on trails, and they’re not smooth movements either; they’re more like jerks. At times the road signs raise off the ground to shield the targets from the bullets, but I sense this happening beforehand, and I prioritise different targets until the shield falls and—
POP!
Another headshot, but when I try to fire again the gun clicks. Out of bullets. Changing the mag with only one hand will take up too much time. Instead, I grab another pistol, thumb off the safety and start firing again. But not even two seconds later the gun clicks off, but for a different reason. There are still twenty bullets in the magazine—I can tell because the exact number shows up on a miniature holographic screen below the sight—but the timer’s gone off, and a strident beeping plays across the range. An AI voice calls out: “Session complete. User, Rhea, has acquired: Two thousand. And. Fifty-five. Points. Thanks for playing.”
Gobsmacked, I drop the pistol and turn to look at the screen. Sure enough, the leaderboard updates with my name in second, below Fingers but above Raze.
It’s oddly quiet. Raze reaches into his pocket and pulls out another cigar. He lights it up and takes a hit. I expect him to say something, but he doesn’t. Doesn’t even look at me. Cormac and Vander do, however, albeit grim-faced.
Fingers approaches me. She’s not smiling anymore. “When Maelstrom said he had experienced talent looking for a job, I didn’t imagine he was talking about a shooter. Tell me: What gang did you work for?”
I stare at her, unable to come up with a satisfying reply, at least one that satisfies both of us. Eventually, I just say, “Well, I can’t remember. That’s sort of the problem. I lost my memory.”
She snorts. “You really expect me to believe that?”
“Scan me. It says I’m supposed to be dead, right?”
She smirks. “I don’t have doc-ocs. If everyone could see each other’s identity, then we’d be in a pretty messed-up society. That aside, you lost your memory... but you remember how to shoot?”
“I know how it sounds, but it’s true.”
Raze uncrosses his arms and walks over to the range, inspecting the two pistols I was using. “You really pulled in a crazy one, ay, Fingers?”
“Crazy or not,” starts Cormac, “that was one damn good show. I’d pay to watch that again. We’re talkin’ professional-hitman level here, Fingers. It’d be stupid to turn her down.”
Fingers pinches her lips with her thumb and forefinger, eyeing me thoughtfully. She looks at the scoreboard again, and then at Raze, who still hasn’t let up on checking the weapons for any signs of cheating software. “She’s clean, Raze. I would have seen it if she put a chip in.”
“Even if she did have a chip,” says Vander, “only experience can er make you shoot with that much confidence. ’Sides it’d want to be some pretty expensive software to hit right between the eyes, and you gotta ask why she’d want a job with us if she can afford that sort of crap. Know?” For the first time he sounds convinced. He pulls a chapstick from his sleeve pocket and starts rubbing it across his lips like a woman getting ready for a night out on the town. He even pouts. Cute.
Raze places the pistols back on the shooting-range table. “Her other arm is broken. Interesting.”
“Only now you noticed?” Fingers snarls. “She’s been walkin’ around like a bodyguard ready to draw at any second. Maelstrom already told me.” She maintains eye contact with me, gives me a once-over, and says, “Alright. Well, I can’t lie to you, at first, I didn’t expect you to match up with the rest of us. I was fully intending on turning you away, because more often than not the people who show up are all talk. Loudmouths. You know the sort, I’m sure.”
I do.
She pulls out my pistols and stares at them. “You have two guns here, but you can only use one arm. Why is that? To quickly whip between the two so you can avoid reloading for forty bullets straight? Not gonna lie, that’s clever. Definitely helped you break the two-thousand mark on the leaderboard.” Fingers’ voice is soft and intense. She hands me the pistols. I didn’t notice this before because it was so dark in the office room, but there’s a silver ring on the third digit of her left hand and a fancy pink-glowing ring on the pinkie of her right. She notices me looking at them and knocks them together, making a horrid little click that sets my teeth on edge. The impact results in a spark. “Beautiful, ain’t they? My sister gave them to me. One on the right cost two thousand creds while the one on the left cost two and a half. Good birthday gift, wouldn’t you say?”
I swallow. For some reason I feel nervous all over again. “Yeah, they are.” I tuck the pistols back in their holsters. “So... I hate to be a bother, but am I in? I really need the creds. Just to fix the stuff wrong with me, that’s all.”
She doesn’t take long responding. “Oh, you’re in,” she says. “Like Cormac said, I’d be stupid to let you go. Guess you can join us for a job tonight. See what you’re really made of.”
I smile with childlike glee. “Thank you,” I say breathlessly. “And yes. That’d be perfect. What sort of job is it?”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” she says. That’s about as much information that she or anyone else will give me, and that’s okay.