I wish I could say my plan extends beyond ‘get in, do the job, get out.’ It doesn't, but at least we sorted out the ‘getting in’ part. Springbok has been locking herself in her room, making sure our spoofed keycards actually work. Now, the rest of us are stuck looking at the data packet again. The objective. Destroy the facility's power generator. If I had to make a guess, the end goal of this job is to make sure the megas don't gain a foothold in the Slag.
“—I don't think tossing a couple of frag grenades would do the trick?”
“That thing is massive, Spot. Unlike you.” I'm not sure why Spot is getting the brunt of Magpie's ire, but I'm glad it's not me.
“Hold on. He's onto something. The power generating room is in the basement, based on the floor plan given to us.” I zoom in onto the floorplan and highlight the room for everyone to see. “Do we have a plug for plastic explosives? About a kilogram would be enough, and it should be easy to smuggle in.”
Flash lets out a low whistle. “Sourcing that much with no notice? I might know a guy, but it'll cost us. By a lot.”
“Can you get into contact with him and arrange that transaction for, I dunno, tomorrow night the latest?”
“You got it, boss man.” Flash pulls out his commlink and does his thing.
Magpie just stares at me. “You're really taking ‘send them a message’ to heart.”
Maybe I am. She doesn't need to know that. “Just trying to make our client happy.”
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I turn the ignition on, and The Beast's powerful engine rumbles to life. Flash and I are about to head out to meet with his contact, leaving Spot and Magpie to hold down the fort on account of Springbok still being preoccupied with our keycards. Spot practically begged me to drive carefully. I told him not to worry, but I don't know how The Beast handles. It's a solid ‘wait and see, but hope for the best.’
It's not much of a drive, just down to the block that separates Willowville from Brambleton. The stereo is bumping the classic proto-punk track You're Gonna Be My Dog by Izzy Lock, courtesy of Flash. At least he has good taste in music.
I turn the volume dial down by just a bit so I don't have to shout over the music. “What's the heads up you can give me on this Calaca person?”
He stops his dancing. “Calaca? He's a scumbag who'll jump on any reason to overcharge you. Just deal with him like how you'd deal with any arms dealer. Don't take shit, but don't start shit either.”
“Aces.” I catch a glimpse of Flash giving me an approving nod for the lingo use. I turn the dial back up. We might as well enjoy the drive.
About half an album's worth of Izzy Lock songs later, we reach our destination. Flash tells me to park The Beast right across the street from a shop that sells empanadas called… Calaca's.
“That's the place?”
“Yeah.”
“His front is selling empanadas.”
“Sure is. Tastes pretty good too.”
I run a hand through my hair and sigh. I really should stop being surprised by things in the Slag. “Lead the way.”
An actual bell rings when Flash pushes the door open. That's a nice touch. Classic.
A bald, portly ork wearing a stained white apron stands behind the display case filled with empanadas. Looks like he had too much of his own merchandise. “Bienvenidos, mis amigos. What can I get you?”
Flash looks around the empty shop. “There's no one here but us, man.”
“Would it hurt you to play along? There's a reason why fronts exist.” Calaca takes off his white hat and walks towards the back room. “Follow me.”
The room is on the smaller side, even more so now with the three of us inside it. Calaca presses a button on the wall and the far side cabinet flips around, changing the sacks of flour into ammo boxes and display pieces of various guns. It's mostly just low-grade 3D printed knockoffs, but I hold my tongue.
He pulls out two shrink wrapped bright orange bricks. “Here you go. Had to pull a few strings to get these.”
“I'm sure you did.” Flash picks up both bricks and looks them over. “And the body armors?”
Calaca wipes a running streak of sweat from his forehead. “It was hard to find them in the style you asked for. Four sets of those will cost you an extra five hundred.”
“That wasn't the deal. We agreed on two-kay for all of them.” Flash points at me with his thumb. “My friend over there doesn't like it when deals get broken.”
Calaca looks in my direction. I stare at him straight in the eyes without a word. More sweat beads form on his forehead. “Okay, you're right. I musta misremembered.”
He bends over and pulls out a black crate from under the cabinet and opens it for us. Four sets of matte black body armor, matching the ones worn by the so-called freelance security specialists at the facility.
“All good, right?”
Flash takes his time inspecting the stuff. He sets down the last body armor back inside the crate. “All good.”
“Good, good. Let's wrap this up.”
“Let's.” Flash hands our nervous wreck of an arms dealer a plain credchit.
Calaca quickly checks the contents and nods. I bet he's in a rush to get us out of his store. “Good doing business, mis amigos.”
“This time.” Flash sets the bricks of plastic explosives on top of the crate and lifts the whole thing up. Guess he doesn't need my help this time.
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It's go time. Or raceday, as Spot calls it. Our pieces are in place, our gear is secured, and a solid plan is formed. Well, as solid as it can be.
I'm still getting used to the feeling of the synthskin mask against my face, but it's a necessary precaution. Those guys would definitely recognize me. Still, feels weird to look in the mirror and have somebody else stare back at me. Some bozo that Flash copied the face of.
Double check the contents of my duffel bag. I stowed away my Adjudicator in there, another dead giveaway if I carry it in the hip holster. Not that it would fit there. A Mahler M9 takes its place instead. Both bricks of plastic explosives are also in there, probably the most vital piece of gear for our operation.
“Hey, Luc!” Springbok calls out, all the way from the mezzanine. “Last briefing, let's go!”
I take a deep breath and splash water against my face a few times. Be cool. People's lives depend on me staying cool. I flick the manual light switch off and head out.
The crew are gathered in the usual spot, right on the pleather couches. Springbok, Magpie, and Flash are all wearing the same body armor as I am. Spot is dressed in his usual Spot fashion, although he's going for darker colors this time. Everyone's taking this seriously, that's a good sign. I nod at all of them once I get close enough and set my duffel bag down.
“Alright.” I take another deep breath to dissipate the remaining nervous energy. “Let's go over it one more time. Plan A. The four of us, posing as their contracted security, clock in for the graveyard shift. That's midnight on the dot. Flash takes lead. Once we get inside, we head straight towards the lower level to escort Springbok to the server room. If we run into any patrols, Magpie and Flash are on distraction. Springbok and I continue to make our way. After Springbok jacks in and opens the way for me, I make a beeline towards the power generator to plant the charges. Detonator's linked to Springbok's cyberdeck. We haul ass outside, and once we clear a good distance, Springbok starts the light show. Spot, the first explosion is your cue to pick us up. Any questions?”
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
Magpie shoots her hand up like she's in a classroom. I can't help but smile. “What if we collide with complications and can't follow through with Plan A?”
“Then it's time for Plan B.”
Spot also raises his hand. “What's Plan B?”
“Shoot at the ones that aren't us, plant the charges, and haul ass for the fireworks.”
I can feel the tension melting away from me and everyone else after my response. Apprehension made way for confidence.
I take one last deep breath. “Okay, sync up our commlinks. We ride in ten.”
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Two minutes to midnight. I stow my commlink away and look at the target. The ugly Fluxolutions logo installed at the front stares right back at me. It's not airtight, but I hope Plan A holds up. I grip the strap of my duffel bag and look over my shoulder to give the signal to my teammates. “Go time.”
“Let's get this money,” they replied in unison.
Flash takes point and walks up to the building, keycard in hand. We follow behind him, completing the diamond formation. The guy posted outside looks up from his commlink at our approach, and immediately looks down again.
Flash puts his keycard to the reader. Moment of truth. It feels like my heart is beating inside my throat. The seconds tick by so slowly.
The card reader beeps once, and the red line turns green. The automatic lock disengages, inviting him to go in. I let out a sharp exhale.
The guy standing out front doesn't even look twice at us while making small talk with Flash. “Fucking graveyard shift, am I right?”
“You can say that again.” Flash gives him the most casual of upnods and strolls inside.
We follow his lead and put our own cards to the reader, filing in one by one. Just like that.
We're in.
I quickly scan our surroundings to match the layout with the floorplan we have. Despite the official classification as a warehouse, the inside looks more like a new office, with surfaces shining white and the tile flooring perfectly aligned. So far, what I'm seeing is a one-to-one match.
“Eastern corridor.”
We forgo the diamond formation and walk with a brisk pace through the hallway. So far, so good; we're not encountering any other security squads. I guess everybody avoids the graveyard shift if they can help it.
Another access checkpoint. We repeat the dance of putting our card to the reader and walking past, this time with more conviction. We head straight for the stairway that leads to the lower level.
There, right past the junction up ahead, the server room should be there. We're seconds away from Springbok jacking in, and we didn't even need to separate from Flash and Magpie. I wasn't expecting it to go this smoothly.
A security personnel rounds the corner to our right. Fuck, did I jinx it?
Flash does the same upnod gesture from before and grunts. He gets the same in return. We're still in the clear. A part of me almost feels disappointed at the lack of professionalism on display here.
We escort Springbok inside and wait for her to jack in. Two lengths of cable now snake from her cyberdeck; one into the datajack on her temple, the other into the terminal in front of her. “I'm in.”
That's my cue to make my way towards the generator room. Flash and Magpie stay behind to watch Springbok's back.
It's only two hallways away, but my footsteps are leaden. Was the duffel bag always this heavy? Calm down. I'm overthinking this.
I see a camera mounted at the end of the corridor, its usual green light now absent. Looks like Springbok already turned the security measures into mincemeat. That takes a huge weight off my shoulders. I stride forward, coming ever so closer to my destination. I turn the corner. I bump into another security personnel. We give each other the upnod and move on with our business. He wasn't even suspicious of my duffel bag.
I reach the generator room. A warning message is posted on the wall beside it: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Like that's going to stop me.
A silent ARO pops up in my peripheral vision.
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Matrix specialists—good ones—really are worth the price of admission. Don't think we would've even gotten inside if it weren't for Springbok.
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I tap my keycard against the reader. No reaction. I tap it again. Still nothing. Fuck.
I tap it a third time, and it finally gives that soft beep and unlocks the door for me. Those ten seconds aged me about five years.
Inside, the massive generator hums. It sounds off to my ears, like it's warbling in and out. The huge chunk of pale red crystal floating in between the top and bottom housing rotates slowly. I don't know if that's normal or not, and I don't care. It's all turning into debris soon anyway.
I grab the first brick and flatten it little by little, just so it's long enough to attach to a seam of the housing. Repeat that with the second brick, and stick it on the opposite side.
<
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I turn around and exit the room. Shit, it's that security guy again. He saw me walk out. He moves towards me, slowly. I see his hand already hovering near his sidearm.
“Slow night, huh?”
I rack my brain for a response that won't tip him off. “—you can say that again.”
He relaxes, but only a little. I control my pace, having to go past him to return to the server room and link up with the others. I give him the upnod, he returns it. We go back to minding our own busi—
“Hey,” he calls out from behind me.
“Yeah?” I pivot slowly, just enough to look at him over my shoulder.
“Who's your squad leader again? I forgot.”
You didn't forget, I haven't told you because we've never met before. “McDavid.”
“Right, right. McDavid.” He maintains eye contact with me. His hand drifts closer to his holster. “Aren't you guys supposed to come in the morning today?”
“Is that right? Must be a schedule mix-up.”
“Must be—” He reaches for his M9 and fumbles the draw. I quickdraw mine, flick the safety, and fire off three shots.
CRACK-CRACK-CRACK.
Even with body armor on, getting shot with an M9 still takes the wind out of you. And that's what he got. He got shot. He slumps to the ground.
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I break into a sprint towards the server room. I shoot a quick reply.
<
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CRACK.
A shot rings out from the end of the corridor, and the round impacts the wall next to me. I return fire.
CRACK-CRACK-click.
Jammed. Fucking piece of shit plastic gun. I toss the M9 to the side and reach inside my duffel bag for my revolver. Cock the hammer. Wait for the shooter to peek. There it is.
My shot echoes across the hallway, and screaming follows. Not a clean hit, but enough to give me time to make my escape. I continue running, past the hallways, past the junction, up the stairs. I see a few bodies on the way. Looks like we got no casualties on our side.
I'm back on the ground floor and see nobody. NeuroLine messages aren't going through either. The jammers must be up again. Fuck.
I bust through the front door. The guy posted outside is now just a dead guy on the ground. I see moonlight glinting against metal across the street. That has to be Springbok. I sprint towards the rendezvous point in a straight line.
Everyone is accounted for, their body armor in various degrees of damage but no visible injuries to themselves.
Springbok ran forward to meet me halfway. “I'm sorry, Cowboy. The system rebooted when I jacked out and activated all the security measures again.”
Fuck. That means there's footage of me shooting my distinct revolver. No sense in making Springbok feel worse, though. “Not a big deal. Is everyone alright?”
I get nods in return.
“Alright. Let's haul ass to the pick-up point before we detonate the charges.”
We drag our feet to the best of our abilities, aiming to put as much distance between us and the building as we can. We have to be at least three blocks away by now. We all turn around and look back at the facility we just escaped from.
Springbok pulls out her cyberdeck. “And in one, two…”