The contract killer walks home undisturbed by more hacked messages. As the giant elevator rockets its way up a dozen floors to his home, the newly named Lyka lets out a howl until they slow to a jarring stop.
The pair exits into a well lit street, crowded and noisy. Spherical drones whiz by overhead and further up aerocars dodge neon billboards and flashing store signs. People and robots mill about - buying and selling, whispering and arguing, dancing and stuporing. A large drone with a cube platter attached to its front flies up to the mercenary, offering to rescind the plastic covering various sticks of meat in exchange for a quick transfer of currents. The man waves it off. A hologram materializes in front of him, the lithe, moving alien form it displays doing the advertising without a word for a nearby club. The pair continues straight through, the image dissipating, the advertising algorithm searching for its next target.
Walking up to his residential building, a tusked and portly alien shouts a greeting at the mediacci from across the street. The man holds up a hand in brief acknowledgement, watching the green-skinned jowls of the alien bounce under unmoving tusks, before stepping into his building.
Lyka yips, rushing up the stairs in front of its owner. It paces a few circles as it waits for the door to be opened by a wave of the hand. They enter into a cluttered apartment, most of the objects deadly: dozens of guns, a crate of grenades, and at least three different flamethrowers, amongst other weapons. There's a small kitchen immediately to the left, a bar connecting it to the living area which features a workbench, couch, and screen. A few plants fight to survive under lighting fixtures in the corners, except one where a black spear rests next to a balcony door.
"Bolt the door. Close shades," the man says. In response, the oblong window taking up most of the far wall darkens and a click sounds from behind him. He strips, placing his helmet on the workbench and the rest of the armor around it. Next comes off the patched jumpsuit, leaving only a white undershirt and underwear. The merc takes a second to roll stiffened shoulders and stretch his body. Heading to the kitchen, he pours a glass of juice and downs it before heading to bed.
"Lyka, go charge, activate guard mode after."
The mercenary flops into his bed, while the botdog barks and curls up in front of a thin, black rectangle mounted on a bedroom wall. The lights fade out, and soon the apartment is silent but for light snoring.
___
Dawn is yet to come in the Mensogulo sector when the man stumbles out of bed. After almost tripping over some unseen object, the lights come on. Lyka is sitting, camera head panning around the room scanning for anomalies. The merc walks past unspeaking straight to the workbench, where he sits and takes a deep breath before slipping his helmet on.
"Where do you want to meet?"
IRANA'S CAFE, 25TH LEVEL. 5 PM. The message appears less than thirty seconds after he speaks.
The mercenary drums fingers on the desk for a second before shaking his head. Too high level for his tastes, somewhere the sector law enforcement might bother showing up. 'Probably not an ambush at least… Blackmail is still a maybe.'
"Reyzof's Cantina on level eighty-one, five's good."
RED PEARL, LEVEL 48.
Another drum of the fingers, and the merc nods his head.
"Deal," he says before setting the helmet back on the bench.
___
The killer stalks through the city, unarmored, a man possessed. Lyka follows behind, responding to various city stimuli with its electronic barks. The barks are constant, and he stops to turn and stare at the dog briefly. A deep breath, the whispers of Inheritance almost grasping at his temples, and he continues his route silently.
He doesn’t like this, but it’s what needs to be done, he tells himself. Sure, the mob pays well. Throwing in with them would be a fine ride for a time. He’d live fast and dangerously with a long leash, until eventually he tripped over some other goon’s leash and got railchuted piecemeal into space with only his particle holes and the stars to keep him company.
‘That’s not my fate.’
Meeting with the hacker was a different high risk, high reward situation. But that was just part of the job description.
The forty-eighth level is nicer than his abode, cleaner and brighter despite the dusk. The sun Prevarca and the city’s social services make their last stop around here, and middle class tenant unions band together to fill in the gaps. Corporate trucks and citizen militia squad cars fill the airspace. Some environmental devices keep the sound pollution minimized across the sector level. The open sky is visible in snatches, and part of the air here is probably natural. Giant screens are limited, and the few allowed are flashing grinning interspecies couples moving into new apartment complexes and robed disciples of the god Tetho with offers of legal help for currents.
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The man wears a dark grey poncho and silver shades. A black truncheon and a Kevtran Men-At-Arms service pistol hide within the coat. He turns to Lyka, staring for a few long seconds. The botdog shies away, emitting a low, mechanical whine.
“Send pings through your network with the armor. Two mile radius. Stay out of sight, keep an eye out. I’ll be there,” the man says, pointing to a building inlet down the street.
The botdog replies with a quiet yip before striding off to an unoccupied alleyway. A long and oval-faced alien staring at a wrist screen almost trips over Lyka in the crowd, his own white hair thrown into his eyes. He stands and kicks towards the bot, but it leaps out of the way and continues walking.
The Red Pearl is true to its level, quiet and clean, but a rumbling energy undergirds. The staggered work shifts of a sleepless city planet consistently introduce new patrons to the restaurant. Red carpets on white tile are trampled under the shoes of militiamen, doctors, nurses, bureaucrats, young corporate professionals, and Red Pearl employees. White columns hold the room up, adorned with banners of red dominated by a white circle.
A blue skinned waitress seats the mercenary, her face darkened from stress and exhaustion. Realizing he’ll be an easy customer, her purpled face cools a shade when he orders a Unoran coffee.
The mediacci reclines into the red. His shaded glasses conceal the otherworldly blue-grey glow of Power bent to his will. It’s four in the afternoon, an hour before he’s supposed to meet his new acquaintance.
It doesn’t show him everything, but the Inheritance is useful. It pierces easily through the crowd. The merc focuses on interesting characters, his empowered eyesight zooming in and filtering out better than any bionic camera.
A sharp-eared Malelv-a traveler radiates Aetherial power next to a young half-Mostath nurse attempting to pick her brain on magical scholarship. The half-man’s neckgills pulse and writhe with every excited word. A noseless alien mutters frantically to himself, sipping a drug poisonous to most species. Horns sit above earthy skin and monocular reptilian eyes. The inebriated Gravari’s free hand scratches a rhythm on his ankle. A dark-skinned woman lounges, dressed in red bodyarmor, with a golden arm. She’s seated near the bar, but in a corner seat with a nice view of the entire room.
The waitress returns with his order as the screen on his wrist lights up. A transmission from Lyka. He accepts it, and a map of the Red Pearl appears on his screen. A dot blinks over a corner seat near the bar. He types back, telling the botdog to transmit its location, disconnect from all networks, and sit tight.
The woman is already walking over when he looks up. She sits shoulders square to his, back straight, throwing black hair out of her face with her golden arm. A gauntlet, a rounded cone extending from golden hand to red clad elbow.
“You’re early. I’m surprised not to see that armor. You do know it tracks how much time you spend inside?”
His body bucks, starting and stopping in one violent movement. The woman doesn’t react.
The mediacci inhales sharply through the nose, his eyes flashing blue and grey. The woman lifts her gilded hand to gesture at her eyes, and in response he tilts his head, sliding his glasses back up his nose to cover the glow.
His eyesight fills with the bright stench and dark sound of a Prematerial outline wafting off the woman. A rainbow-colored power escapes from her magical gauntlet like the strokes of a painter’s brush. A scintillating prism filters through his Inherited eyesight.
Fear and excitement duel behind his curtained face.
‘She’s a Mage!’
His eyes glance around the Red Pearl, checking for other actors coming to join the play. A few members of the gallery steal glances at the pair, but most are enraptured with food, drink, or each other. A large, scaled bouncer shifts his eyes, avoiding the mediacci’s gaze.
The blue fades, dismissed, and he refocuses on her. He takes a sip of his drink, tongue savoring the bitter foreign drink. “You'd have liked that too much. Talk quick'.”
"Of course. The short of it is: you are good, mediacci.” She smiles, lips pressed together. “The Recios want you deep in the guts of the next Mensogulo shadow war, while another interested party does not. They are offering unrelated employment through me, perhaps long-term.”
He leans forward, palms flat on the table, brow arched. "Unrelated, huh?”
“Perhaps, this party I represent is forward thinking. They believe they have the war ably in hand, provided certain elements remain at least neutral. Certain elements such as yourself. Why not then seize the opportunity to compound victories? And thus eliminate another variable from their precious equation.”
“The trouble with the armor - there are more ‘forward thinking’ ways to get in touch.”
“I cannot speak for their, hm, sense of courtship. Whim or calculation?” She trails off, tapping at her chin for a few moments, eyes focused on a blank spot on the ceiling. “Certainly not malice, at least,” she says, turning back to their square shoulder face off.
“And you're the face for whoever's sitting comfy behind a screen.”
“No, I'm afraid not. Well, only to an extent,” she says, and in response the merc leans back and relaxes his shoulders. The woman continues, “I am Kura Janim, I dabble part time as a... third-party facilitator in matters such as this. A broker, if you will. You should know, we are not at liberty to discuss any private details of my associated party.”
“You’re not from this planet, are you?”
“I arrived when I was young, but Kevtran is a second language," she says, starting to smirk. "And I suppose your father was a Karibensier in the Great War then?”
The mercenary almost fidgets to further cover the hand-me-down Kevtran service pistol under his poncho, but he holds himself still and silent.
Kura Janim’s face lights up despite the lack of response. “If I may ask, how did you know?”
“Accent’s good, but your words are Alsarian. An ‘associate party’ at any other table this system is client or patron. That on top of the, uh, hand- doesn't leave many options.”
“Interesting. Anyway, back to the reason we sit here. It’s a generous offer, with an apology, of sorts, upfront.” The woman, Kura, points at his wrist. The contractor catches her wink before he turns to the screen.
10,000 DIGITAL CURRENTS TRANSFERRED TO YOUR ACCOUNT. PLENTY FOR A SECURE ARMOR O.S. AND A PERSONAL NETWORK SCRUB, YEAH?
“Alright then. What’s the job?”
"Oh, it's simple enough." Her golden fingers tap a Prematerial rhythm on the pearl table. "Steal from a God."
The mediacci is still, holding in a breath. A buzz surrounds him, pinprick stars, each a different color, vortexing around him until finally a small crack in his shades spreads across his vision.
Face drawn tight, Kura Janim taps another rhythm, twice the length. The crack fades into the glass.
"Simple enough,” he replies.