THERE AREN’T MANY WAYS to cross the Vents without being seen. Overcity security cameras might die off at the crust, but there’s a human element of the undercity that keeps the streams of information flowing even down to the lowest towers. The Vents is like a living organism. Everything pulsing against itself, meshing together in new shapes, transmitting rumors like viruses until they bump up against the net of an Innovator spy network, conveniently-bribed shopkeep, or street rat who happened to be in the wrong place at the right time. Anyone can be connected to anyone, for the right price. And Dynasty has nothing if not credits.
Which is exactly why I’m not bothering to keep my head down tonight. Rested and refueled, sights set on the Kwa-Hon block’s infamous Lighthouse casino, I’ve got no time to waste. I’m taking a calculated risk that the syndicate won’t be as fast to respond as usual. Only a fool would think that Dynasty doesn’t know what’s going down tonight. A bribe in the right place, a couple credits to any number of two-bit thugs in the remaining gangs of the Eight; anyone and everyone could have leaked word to the syndicate.
It’s an inevitability, and one I’m counting on to buy enough time for me to make it to the summit. Dynasty’s focus will be on the big prize tonight. Disrupt the movements of their competition, stop the remaining members of the Eight from forming a united front against them. I’m just a little loose end in comparison. Still fluttering, but not annoying enough to draw their full attention. While the syndicate’s operatives will be doing everything they can to bypass the gang blockades around the Kwa-Hon block, they’ll be too tied up to pursue sightings of rogue gunslinging vigilantes- though not if Matthias has his way with the pants he’s trying to get me to wear.
“I told you to grab one of Sarah’s capes from the range,” I growl. “Not her whole damn wardrobe.”
“Don’t give me that,” he says, spying my glare in the mirror. “You’re the one pitching yourself as Sarah Morninghawk’s successor. If you want the Eight to listen to you, you have to at least look the part.”
We’re in a jury-rigged wardroom of spray-conditioner and makeup deep in the Ibis. Splayed on the mirror in front of me, a holographic image of Nero’s passive Mecha visage watches Matthias fuss with small strands of my hair while he applies the finishing touches of my eyeshadow.
“The boy is correct. You have a role to play tonight,” Nero’s serpentine voice says, tapping at a tablet mounted to his forearm. Mecha hardware of some kind. An information pings in the corner of the display as he transmits a file to me. “Each of the attending gangs have been assigned chokepoints to guard on the perimeter of the Kwa-Hon block. This marker will allow you free passage through my men. Link up with them, and an escort will bring you the rest of the way to the Lighthouse through a rear entrance. Do not let anyone else know of your arrival. Your presence must remain hidden until an amenable moment arises. My contemporaries will no doubt have cards of their own to play- it will not do to reveal our trump early.”
“Expecting heat?”
“Expecting the unexpected.” Nero straightens his collar. “My men reported your absence earlier this morning. I take it you went to investigate the matter with Dax’s faction?”
“Yeah. Had to see it for myself.” I flinch as Matthias runs a careful finger over one of the long scratches on my face, hiding it behind a healthy serving of concealer and scabgel. “Dynasty wiped them out from top to bottom. No survivors.”
“Seizing on the opportunity to single out their competition. Logical, yet unfortunate for our aims. What of the civilians?”
“Helped a few out, but Vector Seven is a lost cause.” I thumb an ammo cylinder into the 6-Teba and spin it into place. “Shimano Heavy won’t be happy about that.”
Stolen novel; please report.
“Few matters in the Vents give the corporations reason to celebrate. The destruction of their workers’ tenement housing, however… we can only operate on the assumption it will not wake another sleeping dragon. The citrine variety is meddlesome enough already.” Nero spreads his arms, and someone out of view drapes another layer of combat gear over him. “Straighten your shoulders, girl. Look proud.”
My head bolts up. “Excuse me?”
He nods at me through the feed. “Sarah Morninghawk never slumped.”
-
“We didn’t have time for all that,” I growl as I wheel out of the locker room. “All this makeup, stupid ass furs…” Plucking at the impromptu pauldrons, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a tinted glass booth. Dark leather, white fur on the hood and shoulders, a draping navy blue cape hanging down one half of my back. Diamond-shaped cutout from shoulderblades to tailbone, pocked skin exposed in defiance of the undercity grime. My hair burns like a comet, red-orange with subtle twists of fiery white and fresh gold woven down the braid. High boots laced to my knees; I’m walking inches taller. Yellow-tinted glasses, my personal flair, balanced at a rakish angle over my forehead. An ensemble of personality that oozes confidence and authority. For a moment, my brain doesn’t even register what I see as myself. She’s hot. And not at all the mess I feel like on the inside.
“That’s what I thought,” Matthias says. He sidles past hiding a content little smirk. “Trust me, it’s subdued. You look daring.”
I finish tightening the 6-Teba’s holster around my thigh, letting the growl fade as I hobble into a jog. “Were the heels really necessary?”
“They complete the look. Do you have any idea what you’re going to say at the summit?”
“Not saying,” I pat my JOY, eyes narrowing. “Showing. Even the ones who weren’t fans of Sarah still respected her.” The bag-of-chains thunderclap echoes through my head, I squeeze my eyes shut and bite it down. “It’ll rile them up, alright.”
Nabuna and Lain are waiting for us at one of the Ibis’ many backstreet exits. Fire escape, overflow for crowds, it’s a rain-drenched alley that’s seen its fair share of puking and mugging. A blunt concrete overhang shades us from the overcity’s acidic runoff while the boxer finishes lacing up his boots.
He grunts at a lumpy grey-tarp bundle sitting on a crate outside. “There’s your ride, chica. Go crazy.”
Untying the string binding, I pull back the tarp to reveal three gleaming plastchrome airboards branded with the familiar fishhook logo of Shimano Heavy Industries. Ultralight, flexible, flight-capable Innovator tech made to put grounded JOY-users on equal footing with fliers. The corporation’s name runs in high-tech letters down the left fin of the board. One kick to the foot-toggled thrusters leaves it floating a foot off the alley’s concrete floor, humming electric, faint circles rippling in the puddles beneath.
I pass the other boards to Matthias and Lain. “SHI tech doesn’t come cheap…”
“You ask for fast, you get fast.” Shrugging, Nabuna stands and throws a small wave at us as he hits the alley, never once looking back. “I’ll give your regards to my poker table at the Lighthouse. I have a feeling your money will go further than Caco’s did.”
Lain snorts and powers on a board for herself. “Dream big, pal. You’re a shitty gambler no matter whose credits you’re borrowing.” She shakes her head as he disappears around the alley corner, lost in the neon-soaked pedestrian flow. “We lucked out. Only thing you can trust about greasers like him is that they’ll pick the greediest option possible.”
I rest a hand on the grip of my gun. “You think he sold us out?”
“I think he’s going to in about five minutes, give or take.”
“Generous. I would have given it thirty seconds at the most. ” Matthias murmurs with a raised eyebrow. He powers on the third board and straddles it like a riding saddle, visibly uncomfortable with its wobbling. “None of us have flying classes. If we fall…” he glances at the end of the alley, the thirty-meter gap between the blocks beyond. “…long way down.”
I hop right on my board, familiarizing myself with the controls. Tap the back heel to thrust. Twist hips to turn. Front foot guides the flow, and a basic flightnav system syncs to my JOY to recall it at the touch of a button. Pretty straightforward. Though like Matthias noted, absolutely no safety mechanisms.
“Then don’t fall,” I tell him, keying all three boards to my JOY. A swipe of a projector screen sends our rendezvous with Nero’s forces to the two thieves. “Ten minute flight if we burn hard. Don’t fall behind.”
“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Lain says, eyeing the location. She steps on her board with avian grace, ghosting forward over the nearest puddles. Draws a small vial of familiar shimmering liquid, deposits a drop on her tongue, shivers. “Let’s get a move on, heroes.”