A black twin-rotor gyrodyne descended onto a restricted yellow-striped platform without permission. It powered down onto Pier 45 amid Lower Manhattan's cluster of skyscrapers. It sat there, impenetrable under the balconied walkways that spiraled along the edge of a colossal tower, resembling pleats of a giant frilly skirt.

Every modern tower block had these built-in rolling sky promenades for pedestrians to use. With much of its subway flooded from rising sea levels, the Big Apple, an anchor megalopolis of the vast MCE, now boasted networks of water-logged canals instead of streets and cheap nimble jet boats instead of yellow cabs.

The commerce line was rezoned to begin at a minimum of fifteen stories up per new NYC ordinance because Manhattan's AEL Affiliates were comfortable no lower. Pinstripes and silk suits replaced grimy Obscura cloaks at these heights. Beyond the reach of the huddled masses, there were no shortages of aged porterhouses, and creamy spinach and other delectable decadence to be scooped up by ringed fingers and stuffed between greasy cheeks. Doormen along the private promenades made sure no agitators or hungry vagabonds lingered long enough to spoil their patrons' dining ambiance overlooking the bloated Hudson.

Hence, few landing platforms allowed loitering for more than five minutes, except for police emergencies. City authorities considered VTOL zones wasted space and visual blights to be hidden from discerning tastes.

The big craft sat undisturbed. Pedestrians scowled at its obtrusive arrogance, but they gave the matte black vehicle a wide berth as they crossed from one tower to another; it was best to avoid anything that didn't sit right. There were rumors of bomb plots foiled at least once a week, somewhere. Best to be wary. Terrorism alert remained at the crimson level. And it wasn't the foreigners who were dangerous.

A lone NYPD cop, sitting nearby on a pedestrian bridge, had had enough. He approached the driver's side window and tapped it with authority. The glass whined halfway down.

"Can you read, buddy?" the beat cop said, one hand on his holster, the other thumbing a pulsing holo-projection a few feet above the vehicle -- "No Landing Zone Except with Permit. And I don't see you got one. So, beat it."

The occupants gave him silence in return. So, he pulled out his ticketing scanner and zapped the plates. He didn't like what he saw.

The officer returned to the driver's side window.

Peering inside, the beat cop bristled. "You people just do what you want, don't ya? Freegin Fedniks." With a grimace, he stepped away to log the disturbance and let it go.

The window whined back up and resealed.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Pier 45 where they landed offered an unobstructed line of sight.

In the front seat, Lockheart drummed his fingers on the door panel. Ten past eight. Six more men sat in semi-circular sofas farther back, a full load, with automatic pistols hidden inside coats, comms green. No one in the gyrodyne talked.

Just then, a large quad-nacelles hovercraft appeared over the towers and began landing procedures onto its reserved LZ. It was shiny and expensive, which meant non-government. It was a personal transport for a paramountcy big-wig.

"He's late."

They could see a party disembark from the craft, a ring of bodyguards surrounding one man, stepping onto the concourse for the Grand Amsterdam Hotel.

"Is that him?" Casper, his lieutenant said.

"He looks legit, but we'll find out," Lockheart said, straightening out his sleeves.

"You sure you don't want me along?"

"That might spook the corpos. I'll be fine, Johann. Okay, take up your watch positions."

Walking alone, Lockheart proceeded to take the escalator up to the mezzanine that fed into the hotel's atrium. There, he would meet his contact. This business wouldn't take long.

Lockheart spotted the dandy easily enough -- already waiting for him in the reception lounge which could double as a mini-botanical garden, replete with expensive orchids and lilies. The executive was urbane and well-groomed, of the sorts accustomed to luscious vices only lots of disposable cash can afford.

As Lockheart came closer, a ring of security stepped forward, blocking him with outstretched arms.

"What's your business?"

Lockheart didn't reply, though it irked him. He stood waiting for the suit to wave his bodyguards aside. The wall of linebackers parted to let Lockheart step through. He took a seat next to his contact, both men looking without interest at the hotel guests coming through the lobby.

"A public venue, just as you requested," Lockheart said, admiring the ornate marble and glass decor.

"I don't know you and New York is AEL territory. This is the only place for us to meet. So do forgive my precautions." The groomed man crossed his legs.

"Let's make this quick. I don't want to be here either."

"My broker said you have something for me?"

Lockheart produced a velvet box that typically held an engagement ring.

"But I hardly know you," the executive joked in an effeminate manner.

Lockheart smirked.

"A taster -- for you to consider. A bargain at triple the price."

"What is it?"

"If you don't know what it is, then you don't need to know," Lockheart said. The slip revealed that this peacock Affiliate was only a junior errand boy, after all. "Your superior can verify its authenticity. Don't' worry, it's only a sampler."

The mule pocketed the box inside his jacket without further examination.

"And if it is something we're interested in?"

"We make the swap, data for dollars at a place of your choosing."

"I don't make this decision."

"I know that," Lockheart said sharply. "Your boss has twenty-four hours to decide. After that, I go to his competitor."

"Someone's in a rush?"

"I'm anxious to leave this hemisphere."

"A running man. From whom, I wonder?"

Lockheart ignored the remark. "I want asylum and position in your fief -- for me and mine. My terms are non-negotiable -- details are all laid out inside."

"I'll pass it along." The man shrugged.

"Then we're done here. Remember, your people have twenty-four hours to make it happen. A minute after, it's off the table."

The man nodded and made a crooked smile. "Same channel, sweetheart?"

"As before."