CHAPTER 1

If you don’t take it, someone else will.

—NABEEN SINGH

W

EN HARKWELL STARED, half-awake and eyes watering, at the emergency cut-off switch floating in front of him. For a moment his eyes rolled back, and he slipped into the half-daydream of memory: a wet quay at midnight and searchlights, mother holding him close, and panic gripping him. Dogs with bared fangs and glistening fur, getting closer. Their strained leashes barely held by uniformed men with guns, and then, running, running for his life under the light of a three-quarter moon. His head snapped back as his stool dipped backward and he almost went with it, the vision so vivid it might have been a moment ago.

How long has it been since I’ve seen it? he thought, the image of a gibbous moon seared in his mind. Nine years, at least.

With dirty, trembling fingers he pulled out a stained white tissue from his back pocket and dabbed at his eyes and nose. His face always lost cohesion toward the end of a twelve-hour shift on the factory floor, something in the air causing histamine overloads. He sniffled and slipped his worn gray leather gloves back on. It was only through a vague biological ticking that he could tell his shift was pulling into the last stretch, in the perpetual casino time of the factory. The green wake-ups he’d popped during break had long evaporated from his system.

The machine he was meant to watch disgorged saw-cut pieces at a dizzying rate. A protracted yawn caught his jaw, and he shook his head; at least he was in the middle of things today. Being stuck in the corner with the packing robots or wracking his shoulders on hydraulic screwdriver duty would’ve been a pain, especially on this, his Memorial Day. Sitting near the center of the immense factory meant that he could see all the activity flowing around him as the rock in the middle of a maelstrom. The downside, of course, was mind-numbing boredom, inducing lethargy and the occasional visual hallucination. Better this, he reminded himself, than the coming nights’ work, and pushed those thoughts out of his mind like unwanted guests. The sole advantage to this mindlessness was the freedom of thought that came with it. Even in his tired state, long wooden bridges over opulent lotus-filled waters danced in his mind’s eye, surfacing from the past. Pretty memories he’d gathered like shiny pebbles before the storm, unaware that those dark clouds signified the end of life as he knew it, like the night he lost his father, the night on the pier. Things one could only know in hindsight. He shook his head.

Before him squatted the enormous blue sheet-metal press from which the endless reams of cut-outs flowed before his red, watering eyes, spewing a fine mist of metal dust out of its sides. It reminded him more of a postmodern sculpture than a machine, all bulges and soft angles. The rolls of raw material sank effortlessly into its maw, ejecting perfect shapes with that sharp metallic tang onto a thick black conveyor belt with a hiss. His hand sometimes hovered over the big red panic button in case the process went awry, which it never did, never would. Robotic meticulousness prevented it, yet there were laws in place so that a fallible human could counteract whatever nonexistent threats might arise. His head nodded a little, his hand wavering. A crick, and he stretched his neck first right, a crack, left, and then he massaged his temples, leaving gray smudges on his sweaty face. The incessant spewing brought on double vision. He wiped his face with the back of his glove and looked around again to regain some form of concentration.

The bare high ceilings revealed boring white-painted cross-beams and supports covered in spray-on particulate insulation. Thick trunks of multicolored electrical wiring ran from one end of the factory to the other, snaking through them and running down to the various stations where machines worked and people observed. He tilted his head back and followed a single wire with an imaginary finger to see where it began and ended. Somehow, the neutrally charged holiday garlands blurred with them and he ended up following those to glance one more time at the New Year’s countdown clock, whose digital numbers told him 2327 was a mere forty-five days away. He shook his head and frowned.

T-minus five, he knew instinctively.

The whizzing of pneumatic screwdrivers keened at regular intervals, accompanying the whoosh of the presses, dulling his senses. The behemoth-like blue industrial equipmentrefined and cut, shaped and molded polished spools of metal, serviced by long, red, robotic arms rushing at dizzying speeds. These floated like ghosts on magnetic tracks throughout the hangar-sized space, on the floor as well as the ceiling. Slumped on his stool, Wen was content to watch them in a half-daze as they fluttered about, handing off pieces to each other with graceful torsions of their limbs. Servos singing, they would revolve, sending their pincers in a twist. There was a deep beauty in the precision of their movements. Their programming made   them perfection, as they spun and twirled, pliéd and arabesqued. They bowed and curved and shared with their partners the fruits of their labor, mindless and awe inspiring. They lived without souls, danced without music, and smiled without faces, he felt. The drooling sacks of meat looked on with curved backs and slack expressions as the only seemingly volitional beings drove their usefulness further into obsolescence with a pirouette and a voltige.

I’m paid to watch robots dance, he thought, his lip curling in a sour expression, not for the first time.

The only other area in the factory he enjoyed working in was the stress-test section, where random pieces were pulled off the lines and put through rigorous pressure-point exercises inside sealed translucent plastic boxes. There was something inherently satisfying at seeing a brand-new equipment part explode with a bang and fly into a million pieces. He would then open the box, clean up the mess, and send the chunks in a small gray metal case to be analyzed in a department he had never been to. It constituted the bit of excitement he could afford in an otherwise incredibly dull job.

The sound of the buzzer reverberated throughout the immense factory, announcing the closing of the workday, and he looked up in relief. Red lights flashed from the ceiling. The black-haired young man looked up at the clock as an automatism. After having lowered his white paper facemask, he took a deep breath. Eight o’clock, and another shift over. Stepping off the stool, he shook his sleeping legs back to life. Already the other workers filed toward the punch clock, their faces expressionless; their gray coveralls coated in a thin layer of metal dust. He patted his own dirty, gloved hands down the front of his suit, a smattering of metal crumbs falling to the ground without a sound. He left his station and walked over to where the other men and women removed their gloves and touched the grounding rod. He stopped and let one of the enormous robotic arms slide by, silently, on its magnetic track. The thing was heading to its berthing station at the far end of the factory, its show now over; in a sense, he envied it.

He shared little of the general history of the other workers, apart from the fact that they were all descendants of refugees from other Asian countries, in their midtwenties to early thirties. The others, though, were mostly fifteenth-generation islanders who had not seen their great-grandparents’ homes sink below the waves. A few South Americans and Australians peppered the mostly Asiatic population. As a general rule, he didn’t see that many whites doing manual labor in the depths of the city. He peered over the plodding throng, his height an anomaly among them.

The line advanced at a snail’s pace, booted feet shuffling on a floor he would guess alabaster if not for the thin coat of metal filings covering it. The walls and ceiling shone with a blinding plastic whiteness. Wen took off his left glove and placed his hand on the grounding rod, ensuring he would not be shocked to death at the next metal object he inadvertently touched outside the factory. He swiped his forearm over a sensor, the green light signaling that he’d been registered as punched out. Eight o’clock—two hours to spare before the next job. There was much to do before then. The line split as the women headed for their own locker rooms, and he went into the men’s. He sat down in front of his own locker with a sigh. A small yellow-rimmed mirror inside the door reflected his almond-shaped eyes, which burned with a quiet intensity, even after such a long day’s work. Life had become a set of routines without end, there to make sure he could do the same thing he had done today, tomorrow. His shock of black hair was spiked, and his mouth a horizontal line. A picture of him and a boy half his age hung below the mirror. The boy was almost the same age Wen had when he arrived in Japan. Sammy looked like him in many respects, save that this younger version had not forgotten how to smile yet, and his eyes were blue, not green. He removed his coveralls, took his toiletries from the locker, and then headed for the shower stalls.

The frigid waters woke his weary body with a start, leaving him feeling refreshed, if not stunned awake. He nodded in the direction of some of the other men, who barely acknowledged him. Dressed, he looked one last time at the picture of him and his kid brother, took his bag, and closed the locker, which beeped shut. Heading out the front entrance, he put in his translator earbuds, slipped on his clear, plastic, full-face rebreather mask, and went out into the darkness of the fiftieth level. The earbuds he wore out of long habit more than necessity, since he spoke perfect Japanese, English, and Cantonese. The Fuji-Hashimoto Heavy Industries Consortium neon sign flickered behind him, giant and red, switching from Japanese Kanji to English, above the entrance to the factory. The air was thick with soot and rank smoke. Massive fans about the base of the factory moved the eddies of filth away from its workers so they could find their way to the nearby elevators.

A group of six people of Filipino and Indonesian descent, chatting in a circle, hailed him down.

“Wen, you coming to the Izakaya tonight?” asked a small bleached-blond woman in her thirties.

“Can’t go drinking, Yuka, sorry. I have to go home. Some other time,” he answered as manner of apology. He always refused the offer, but it was professed anyhow. Tokyo’s bars would once again count one less reveler. The woman smiled and shrugged, and he bowed to them and then walked away toward a large group of workers who were waiting at the industrial elevator heading back to the higher levels, the metal grating underfoot pinging musically with every step. Looking down, he could see the shear drop that went all the way into the black smoke rising from the ground unseen.

“You sleeping already?” came a voice beside him, startling him out of his reverie.

“Taz, hey. Long hours, you know?”

The other man grinned, his brown eyes twinkling. Scott ‘Taz’ Till extended his palm sideways, and they made their elaborate handshake.

“I really need to get some sort of tan. I think I’ll turn green soon, or transparent. This vitamin deficiency’ll kill me,” he said, pretending to look at his pale arms through his protective brown suit.

“Not much in the way of beaches around here,” Wen answered.

“Bah, my days of surfing are long gone. Besides, all I need is a booth; got to go live like the upper crust for that though. The shitty ones in Sinjuku will give you cancer!” He pronounced the last word with elongated vowels, and it sounded like caain-sah. Taz had long ago escaped the tedium of the doomed Australian resettlement, leaving his family behind for a chance at a better life and to try his hand at something, anything, that didn’t involve soil desalinization on the hardscrabble coast.

“Work hard and you can do anything,” Wen said without thinking. It was one of those phrases like: “Fly All Nippon Aerospace!” or “Drink Kirin beer!” that came out unbidden, an unconscious brain-bubble-like advertisement for a purer nationalism.

“Whoa! When did you turn into a propaganda commercial, mate?” Taz said, with an expression of mock surprise. “No amount of hard work will get me there; you know that.” Taz was of the opinion that to rise like the cream meant that much scheming had to be done, that labor alone was good for suckers content to dream, stuck forever in their dead-end jobs.

“I do, I do. At least it’s another shift done,” he said, changing the subject.

“Day’s not done yet though, is it? We’ll be picking you up at ten o’clock sharp,” Taz said, turning serious, staring his friend in the eye.

“Where is it this time?” asked Wen, looking away from him at the overhang of the monolithic building under which they stood.

“Wish I knew. Oscar never tells me anything; you know that.”

“Regular guys?” inquired Wen, looking back at Taz with a raised eyebrow.

“Yup. It’s you, me, Oscar, Andrei, and Sayeed, as per.”

Wen’s expression softened. “You mean New Guy. Anything specific we need tonight?”

Taz snapped his fingers. “Oh yeah, I almost forgot: bring your shovel.”

Wen’s expression soured, like someone who had just found the catch in a contract that sounded too good to be true. He hated digging with a passion, almost as much as he hated changes in personnel.

Taz chuckled. “Maybe we won’t need to use them, but bring it anyway. That’s orders from the top.” Taz smiled, looking at his best friend’s expression. “I have to go talk to some people, so I’ll catch you later. Don’t be sleeping when we get there, man, or Oscar will go nuclear on you,” Taz said with a wink, and left, heading to another group of workers who greeted him with a whoop. Wen saw him raise his hands, and the others all did the same, clapping him on the back. Wen once again stared through the tarnished brown metal grating at his feet and observed the gray swirling mist that suppurated from the depths. He shook his head, suppressing a shiver, and walked to the main elevator shaft.

He got into the packed elevator with thirty or forty other people, and it began its rapid ascent to the 150th level. Though the darkness remained, the air began to thin, as a plane might surface above storm clouds into a starless night.

Once he got out, he took off his mask and put it in his ratty backpack. He crossed the pedestrian walkway that arched over the abyss, straddling high-speed motorways, heading to another immense structural pillar. Concrete, multishaped plateaus, interconnected by bridges and crosswalks, elevators and motorways, clinging to and surrounding supports: that was the city in a nutshell. Wen pictured petri dishes hung by mad gods, infected with humanity and left to thrive. Cars sped along below him; dirty little two passenger electric Daihatsu Ovae, Toyota Requiems, Mitsubishi Microns as well as long Fuso trailers ferrying goods from one end of the city to a hypothetical beyond. The rail tracks overhead vibrated with the passing Metro cars. He entered the station under its bright fluorescents and swiped his wrist over the scanner, flipping his rail pass as he did. It was an automatic gesture, one he had done a billion times before. Without even looking at the white-on-black signs hung above, he headed for the platform of the Yamanote Line at Yurakucho Station. He hurried up the stairs and got in line behind rows of manual laborers, mostly fresh releases from factory shifts in the Chuo Ward. A few were fitted with prosthetic limbs: rough-looking arm enhances, complete functionality minus the aesthetics, as well as some visual augments for the depths; ground workers all. Wen looked at them with curiosity. All he had in the way of implants was the Virtual ID chip in his forearm, like everyone else. Otherwise, he was a complete natural. He didn’t have anything against augmentations, per se, he just wondered what it would feel like to have them. Not like his crew boss, the one Taz and he worked for; he hated anything that had to do with Augments and The Heights. Wen looked above the rail tracks at the behemoth buildings that towered like closed sentinels, their helmeted peaks invisible at this depth. Tarnished defenders made of concrete, bulwarks against time, saving the rubbish of humanity. “Work hard and you can achieve anything”: official propaganda masquerading as the common narrative of hope. It was a tired message, and he was tired of hearing it. He felt bad for having spewed it to his friend. The upper levels eclipsed the true breadth and height of the city, giving the 150th the feeling of a gargantuan concrete cave. The crackle of the intercom boomed with a polite ladies’ voice announcing the arrivals and departures, bringing him back to the hustle and bustle of the platform where he stood. He felt so tired; he wondered how he’d survive the night.

The old refurbished Metro train pulled into the station with a clunk and a sputter soon after, and he pushed his way into the packed car. The air was thick with the stench of sweat and machine oil, cigarettes and strong deodorants, as well as the foulness they were meant to suppress. He stood for lack of seats, ignoring the quiet coughs and sniffles around him, pulled out his Netware from his backpack, thumbing the on button. The purple light inside the black, semitransparent ovoid shone briefly, and he whispered into it that he was coming back before pressing the send button. He slipped on his VR glasses and turned them on.

The mail attachment in the right-hand corner of his sight came from Okumoto Fumiki san, Sammy’s principal. He sighed as he read the reprimand, his frustration the fruit of a long string of complaints from the school’s administrators and teachers. Switching schools again was out of the question. Sammy’s reputation made it hard enough to get him into this last one. He transferred the letter to the already bursting Sammy Complaints folder and switched apps to a movie viewer.

He chose an old one and then tuned out the rest of the cramped ride home, images flashing for him alone. What am I going to tell him this time? he thought. What bullshit excuse will I get? His gaze was in the middle distance beyond the images and before the packed train car, hovering at an invisible point; zenless oblivion.

A pause on the viewer told him that he had reached Shinjuku1 Station. He put everything into his backpack. As he stepped out of the Metro car and headed down the stairs he was surrounded by the crush of the throngs. A giddy sensation overtook him when he stopped a moment to appreciate the shear amount of people, like ants in a hill, going in all directions.

Shinjuku1 never slept. Workers like Wen plodded home, partiers went out to be seen, and “businesspeople” stayed right where they were, hawking an array of goods arranged in quick-close suitcases under splayed hands. Artificial whores, almost human despite their staccato movements, offered their services twenty-four hours a day in front of love hotels, frilly uncovered asses harboring the establishment brand to which they belonged. Engineer pimps stood within tasing distance, eyes on the merchandise. Loud, revolving neons promised the full gamut of human sensory experiences, in most major languages. Red lanterns covered in gold Kanji symbols hung along the street, tonight packed with mainland Chinese expats celebrating a displaced holiday. In the deeper shadows waited and watched the grifters and fixers, hands holding the levers of the city. Little wonder the area had been branded the facile moniker of Sinjuku.

Night was the eternal bonding glue that held all together. In the bowels of the city, the 150th level in Shinjuku1 was the midnight beach where everything washed up to flourish or decay. Fierce ecosystem and human desire wed, feeding the carnivores and remoras alike. Wen walked in the general direction of the residential elevators, past pachinko parlors disgorging cigarette smoke and crouched-over players, praying mantises in dingy jackets, riveted to glaring screens. The din of the machines assured the passersby that “You WIN!” in the same repeating overjoyous mechanical tone, while Jamaican street performers set up their gear and prepared to play full rock concerts nearby. French bakeries let out the wafting scents of fresh croissants at every slide of their doors, the white-uniformed bakers bowing to each new customer. Laughter split the night as salarymen lifted their beer mugs in a toast under the awning of a half-patioed bar, spilling out onto the street. Shinjuku1 gave a human scale to the vertical city. The impossibility of the construction forgotten when faced with everyday life.

He stopped to say hi to the ramen cart owner posted between an anime toy store redolent with large-breasted plastic figurines and a miniature bar consisting of a single counter with five occupied seats.

“Zenji, old man. One ramen with pork, please,” Wen said, slapping a New Yen bill down on the stainless-steel counter.

“You still feeding the old bum?” he asked, inspecting the money under the lights. He then scooped out a ladle-full of fragrant soup into a Styrofoam container, which he placed in a bag.

“I do what I can,” Wen said, shrugging, taking the plastic bag. He walked back into the flow of the crowd. At a nearby Wi-Fi hotspot sat a hunched figure begging for cigarettes and coin. He waited until three toughs in navy-blue army uniforms had passed before approaching.

“Hey, Joe,” he said to the disheveled old man. He looked about sixty or seventy, but he must have been much younger. He knew the streets sucked the life out of you over time when you were unable to escape them, which made him glad he had. Joe’s beard was long and dirty yellow from too much smoking, his fingernails cracked and blackened. He wore many layers to fend off the chill and moisture of the November air.

“Hey there, buddy!” exclaimed the old man with a hint of Japanese accent, his eyes lighting up. “Spare some change?” Wen crouched down on his knees and handed the man his takeout bag with the Styrofoam bowl of ramen inside.

“That’s all I can do for you today, Joe,” Wen said.

“Can you stay awhile?” he asked, his eyes pleading.

“Not long. I have to get home.” Wen put his hands in his pockets to fend off the chill.

“Just for a minute. I have something I want you to look at for me. Maybe you could help me out.”

“Tell me what it is, and I’ll see what I can do. You still using, Joe?” Wen asked.

“Nah, nah, it’s nothing like that. Come on, just help me out, for old time’s sake.”

Wen hated to be reminded of his debts, but he demurred.

The old man lifted his dirty, matted white hair from the back of his neck, revealing two extended metal diodes, side by side.

“I can’t seem to get them to work anymore. Can you have a look at them, please?” Wen looked at them with a raised eyebrow. You’ve been keeping secrets, Joe, he thought.

It was odd to meet someone with Netrodes with most of his mind intact living on the 150th. Those who underwent the permanent Net Connection only visited this area for entertainment, and even then, not often. The “disconnected,” those sent down in exile from the Heights, were usually lobotomized; the removal of their ’trodes causing irreparable damage. This came as a complete surprise from a man he thought he knew well. The question was, if he was a Disconnected, why were his ’trodes still in place?

“How long have you had these?” he asked. The ends were worn, and they still had connectors on them, meaning they weren’t wireless, but meant to be plugged in directly. They looked fairly old.

“I don’t rightly remember now.” Joe scratched behind one ear with one of his skinny fingers. Wen looked into his backpack and took out his Netware. The small, ovoid black box lit up with its purple inner light as he pulled a long, thin transparent cord out of its side. He slid on his glasses and touched the end of the cord to one of the protruding metal spikes on his friends’ neck for a moment. He then touched the other one.

“Sorry man, it’s not telling me anything. They’re inactive, like you said. Let me get their model number and I’ll try to fix them for you, all right?” he offered. There probably wouldn’t be much good in his offer, since these were so old that nothing could be done about fixing them, save replacing both for new ones. He was no tech doc, and he had no idea where he’d get the parts, but there was no harm in trying.

“Thanks, my friend. I really appreciate it.” Joe looked Wen straight in the eyes. He couldn’t hold that gaze for long and averted his eyes to the sidewalk, his cheeks reddening. They were DaiSin Corp. implants, model 1805. Those really must be ancient, he thought. DaiSin. Why am I not surprised?

“I really do have to go, Joe. My brother is waiting for me,” Wen said, putting his Netware back into his pack.

“Thanks for the soup!” the old man said, raising his chopsticks and the bowl as the young man got up to walk away.

“Don’t mention it.” Wen raised a hand without turning back.

Wen stared at the road, walking toward the local elevators once again. His thoughts drowned out the bustle of people. He was surprised at the revelation that old Joe was ’net connected. Or rather, disconnected, or something, he corrected himself. He himself could have been, but the opportunity had been stolen from him. Why did he feel he had to help the old beggar, anyhow? Hadn’t he repaid his debt to him many times over? Yet still he felt he had to do more. He wondered if he would ever explain that mystery to himself. More troubling still was the DaiSin connection.

I’m looking too deep into this, he thought. Everybody and their dog has DaiSin Netrodes.

Even though Shinjuku1 was an immense, sprawling level, spanning many floors, he did not have far to go from the station. He had lucked out when the apartment had become free; only ten minutes’ walking distance to the elevators from his train. There were only two dozen people waiting for the elevator when he arrived. He slipped out his Netware once again and whispered into it that he would be coming through the door in a few minutes. The rapid descent made him dizzy for just a moment, but he was feeling all right by the time he exited the elevator on the 132nd level. The chaos of the 150th was barely audible at all, but he could see the effervescence of light and constant animation on its streets up above. He walked along a quiet road. It was too late in the season now, but cicadas would sing their high-pitched song next summer, hidden amongst the glowing pink branches of the genetically engineered trees. They lit the way home for him, silent now. In the temporary quiet, he lost himself in thought, a state he tried to avoid but that haunted him whenever silence made it impossible to ignore. It was always about survival, never about living; the factory, its workers, the denizens of Shinjuku1, even Joe. Up above, in a different world, was the flip side of the medal, a better life; actual living. He shoved the thoughts out of mind, feeling himself slipping into uncomfortable thought patterns.

The apartment towers reminded him of impossibly tall industrial-looking stacked sunflowers, seen horizontally; all within touching distance, lit by thousands of identical porch lights. He came to an intersection and turned right, walking to the front door of apartment block 735, also known as the Cherry Bowl Arms. All had been bestowed horrendous, nonrepresentative names. Taz lived in one a few blocks down called the D’Artagnan’s Cat. Wen was of the opinion that whoever had thought up these designations did so by pressing random on his encyclopedia application’s entries, picking the most asinine with the aid of copious amounts of liquor and/or drugs. How else could he reason buildings that suffered the designations of Deify Plums, Market Pudding, or his personal favorite: Flannel Giraffe?

He lived with his brother in one of these outlandish-shaped sunflower buildings. Hexapods, as they were officially designated, were inspired by bee-hive design. At first, they had excited the minimalist crowd. Each block organized around the idea of space-saving through interlocking six-sided apartments. An integral part of the pillars, the drawback being a lack of outward-facing windows for tenants situated inside the first perimeter of the overlying design. This gave the whole construction a claustrophobic feel.

Wen had cared more about having a roof than windows, so the place had become theirs. His first reaction had been amusement when the concierge had mentioned the scheme, giving him the fast-talking sales-pitch like it was a barely used car, and would he be taking it, now?

Cheap and convenient, he had had to overlook the dark rust-colored stain, barely visible, on the bedroom’s greenish carpet: a strong indication that the price was tied to superstition over foul play. Wen had no fear of spirits, brutally murdered or otherwise, but would refrain from mentioning the possible origin of ‘the stain’ to his then four year-old younger brother until he was mature enough to understand. His more pressing duties had been to explicate the various awful smells in the hallways, most of them urine-related. A common game they played now was Name That Disgusting Stench.

Stolen novel; please report.

A movement over the door caught his attention. A fat spider rolled its latest victim in a cocoon of silk, pausing only to look at the interloper. Its web stretched between the porch light and the wall, the perfect place to catch juicy, unwary prey.

Wen shivered a bit and then opened the code box on the wall. He punched in his number and swiped his wrist on the scanner after the buzzer sounded, pulled open the door, and walked in. The house was lit by the holovid screen in the corner. A 3D cartoon played silently, enormous armed robots firing missiles at each other, the youths piloting them yelling orders, their mouths hyperextended like yawning fish, while flashing lights dazzled their faces. His younger brother slept on the couch amid the muted mayhem.

It was nest and home, cozy and messy, the fruit of many years of familiar accretion. Clothes lay bunched almost everywhere. Old-school games and consoles piled near the holovid screen in the living room, controllers like a mound of colorful, mismatched plastic puzzles in a red basket in their vicinity. Takeout and take-home boxes crunched as he squeezed past them with the open door. On the left, a miniature open kitchen cowered, a single table and two chairs taking up most of the space, themselves inundated with scrap paper, schoolbooks, tools, and odds and ends that hadn’t quite made the transition from useful to trash yet, hanging in object limbo. The bathroom was past the kitchen, and the one bedroom, which he had given to his brother, was situated behind the puke-green convertible couch he called his bed.

He walked into the kitchen and flipped on the lights. Delicious-looking food waited for him in the wok on the range. He turned it on at low temperature and put the lid back on the wok, trapping the moisture underneath. There was a bit of rice left in the cooker that he put in the microwave.

“You’re home.” A half-woken voice came from the couch.

“I’m home. I guess you didn’t get my messages. I got a complaint from school, Samuel. You didn’t show up yesterday. Want to tell me what you think you’re doing?” Wen said, exasperated.

“Sure, mom. I meant to tell you about that. Didn’t feel like it,” he said without conviction.

“You…didn’t feel like it.” Wen felt the familiar pressure rising in his temples, and he instinctively lifted his hand to massage them. “Tell you what. You skip out on school, get kicked out, and get a laborer job, and maybe you can help me pay the bills that are already behind. Maybe then we won’t get kicked out of the house next month? How does that sound for a plan?” Wen said, his voice rising.

“Geez, it was only one day! I’m not going to do it again, all right?” his brother said, his arms crossed, pouting.

“You said that last time, and the time before that. Don’t blow it, Samuel Harkwell. We’re not doing so hot right now, as if you didn’t know.” He turned around and could feel his brother opening and closing his hand in a yadda-yadda-yadda gesture behind his back, bringing on the urge to slap him across the face.

“Did you get what I asked you to?” he snapped. His brother’s head popped up from the sofa. He turned off the holovid with a swipe of his hand.

“Duh, yeah! It’s on the counter next to the plate,” he said, rolling his eyes. Wen turned around and saw the fat brown paper envelope next to the clean plate meant for his supper. He picked it up and threw it inside his backpack.

Sammy came and sat at the kitchen table, looking on as his older brother combined the rice with the mixed vegetables and tofu from the wok into his plate. He rested his chin on his hands and stared at his brother. Wen didn’t want to complain, but ever since Sammy had started cooking, the meals had been a crapshoot of mild success versus resounding failures bordering on heresy, with the scales weighed down heavily by the latter. Sammy cooked when he felt the need to be forgiven, essentially. Wen sat down in front of his younger sibling and grabbed his chopsticks, praying for edibility. His brother smiled behind his hands as the food approached his mouth. His lips parted, and some of the vegetables fell in. His face convulsed for a moment but then regained its composure.

“It’s takeout. I didn’t have time to cook tonight. I had a project to complete at school today,” Sammy said.

“You could have warned me,” Wen scolded.

“And miss the show? Are you kidding me?” His brother laughed.

“We don’t have time for this,” Wen said, slamming his chopsticks on the table. “It’s already late, and I want to be ready when they come.”

“Don’t worry; you’ll be on time,” Sammy said, his smile losing cohesion. Wen gobbled down the rest of his meal and put his dishes in the sink on top of the ever-growing dirty pile. Then the brothers grabbed their coats and Wen, his backpack, and they turned out the lights in the apartment and left.

They boarded the elevator to the 150th level, the graffiti-covered metal box almost empty. Wen felt the old urge to hold his brother’s hand as they exited, something he hadn’t done in years. Sammy seemed to read his mind and looked up at him. They walked along the road, through the crowd, passing the busy stores and restaurants, bars, and entertainment parlors. They came to a slim alley, which to the casual observer seemed to lead to nowhere. For those who knew, it was a sacred place. It was ensconced between two enormous square gray pillars, grappling the heavens. Pictures, drawings, hand-written notes, scraps of paper, plastic flowers, trinkets and mementos plastered the walls, all the way to a small red shrine, several meters away, at the end of the alley. The street sounds muted as they entered, as if shushed by solemnity. A well-dressed man carefully stuck someone’s picture to the wall from the top of an aluminum ladder placed against it, while a woman held it. A leather-jacketed teen with a purple mohawk, on her knees, head bent and palms together, prayed in front of a burning candle against the concrete wall-face. Wen and Sammy walked on past her to the newly painted shrine, where an orange-robed, middle-aged man greeted them. Wen reached into his bag and took out the envelope. He opened it and removed a handful of incense sticks, a few white candles, and a photograph of a smiling lady.

The balding monk looked at the picture and asked:

“What is her name?”

Always in the present tense, Wen realized in surprise.

“Min Chen,” Wen replied.

The monk spoke words in a low, guttural Japanese over the picture and incense while both boys bowed their heads. When the monk was done, they headed to the shrine and tossed some coins into a red wooden box. Eyes closed, they joined their hands and offered a short prayer. They then returned to an enormous copper bowl adorned in sacred Japanese Kanji near the shrine, in which burned several sticks of incense, the inside like a scale model of a forest-fires’ aftermath: stumps, cinders and smolder. Lighting theirs, they inserted them vertically in the bowl and then bowed their heads and let the smoke envelop them. The enticing smell had a slight dizzying effect, like a mental piety pheromone. A free spot on the wall became the new home for the photo they had brought, as they lovingly pasted it to the cold concrete. They knelt before it and prayed in silence, lighting their candles and letting them burn a third of the way, wax pooling at their bases. Wen felt tightness in his chest as he looked at his mother’s picture in the dark over the tiny orange flame. Her soft smile, her long brown hair, the tender hands that would caress his face and soothe him; all these things called out to him from the beyond to which she had been stolen.

When they got up, Wen looked at his watch. It was already quarter to ten! They would have to hurry back home, or he would be late.

“Do you think we’ll ever see Mom again?” asked Sammy as they walked out of the alley, somber and serious now. Wen knew the question was coming, as it did every year on the same date. This year, Sammy did not cry. It was odd, under those circumstances, that he should feel like it.

“I don’t know, Sammy. I hope so.” His brother stopped walking. He looked up from the ground at Wen with clenched fists and set jaw. Wen opened his arms and Sammy went to him, wrapping his arms around his brother. Wen felt his lip quiver, but still he couldn’t let the tears fall. The brothers were an island in the current of people. Time stopped for just an instant. Sammy released his brother from his grip and began walking again.

“Thanks,” Sammy said over his shoulder.

Wen could think of nothing to say. He walked up to Sammy and put his hand on his shoulder. Their mother would never be returned to them, not after so many years of disappearance, they knew. She, like the thousands of others whose memories plastered the walls of the alley, was gone forever. Their bodies were never to be seen again, souls in limbo, leaving a legacy of uncertainty. “Disappeared” yet not forgotten; never forgotten. Eight long years had passed since their mother had dissipated into the ether. Eight years for the brothers to survive on their own, practically without help. The Administrative Police had claimed to search for her, but with so many cases to deal with, another missing person was the last thing they cared about, Wen knew. But he couldn’t repress his bitterness over their seeming lack of effort.

He had contacted a detective agency and paid a cold-eyed man to investigate. Their mother had accumulated a bit of money during her days at DaiSin, the tech company that had hired her at their arrival. This he had used to find her. Soon, the money was gone, and the only thing they knew for certain was that it was no one on the street who had made her go away. The detective suspected a kidnapping of some sort, but without a ransom demand, he couldn’t comprehend the motive.

With no one to help, they sold the furniture until that too was gone. On the last day, in the bare apartment that dominated the Heights, Wen looked out from the balcony at the uncaring sunshine and resigned himself to their fate. He took his four-year-old brother by the hand, each of them holding a bag of clothes and Wen, his father’s old Netware deck, and took the plunge into the murky waters of Shinjuku1.

Life was harsh in the Districts, but they survived. They even had a place to live, and Wen held a stable job. One day, Sammy would be able to work as well, if he could just focus for a moment, and things would get better. That was as far as dreaming went; one wobbly step at a time, up a dark staircase, with no end in sight.

They got home, and Wen told his reluctant brother to go to bed. Sammy went to school in the early morning, and he wanted him to have full attention when he did.

“Don’t go,” Sammy said, biting his lower lip.

“What do you mean, don’t go? I have to go,” Wen replied, his brow furrowed.

“You know, just for tonight, stay in, get some sleep. You need it too, you know. Besides, you guys never bring back that much valuable stuff anyway. Come on, bro, get some rest for once.” Wen couldn’t understand what had gotten into him.

“I have to go, Sam; it’s my job,” he said, his neck tensing.

“It’s not a real job though! Why couldn’t you get a real job?” He laughed forcefully.

What the hell is he talking about? Wen fumed. “I’m going tonight. I have no choice. These guys are counting on me, OK? Not a real job. How is it a fake job?” he barked.

Face flushed, Sammy cried, “This job of yours is gonna kill you; that’s why! What am I going to do if I lose you, huh? You might die for a couple of credits, how is that even worth it, huh? Why couldn’t you go for a coders’ pay instead of wasting your time?” Sammy ran out of the living room, in tears, into the bedroom and slammed the door shut. That hurt. Wen wanted to go to his brother and reassure him, to tell him he was doing the best he could. He also knew this would be a completely useless gesture. It was better to let Sammy cry it out. He would talk to him when he had calmed down. Besides, he had no time to waste on a whiny child. The others would be arriving soon to pick him up for his “fake job.” Whatever Sammy thought of it, this is what he had to do for them to survive. This is what he had to do to put food (no matter how mangled) on his plate, to put him through school so he wouldn’t have to do the same things he had had to endure when he was raising him. Ingrate. Wen’s brain boiled slowly, his ears becoming warmer. He could hear his brother crying from the room. He should have expected this on the anniversary, but there was no way to mitigate it.

He went to the closet and pulled out his mesh-covered brown rubber protective suit and slipped it on, whipping up the zipper to his chin. He grabbed his backpack and threw it on. He took the grimy shovel from behind the door and tacked it into its holster on his back. He opened the secret panel behind the sofa and took out his H&K P3000 semiautomatic pistol and the spare clip, slipping them into his bag as well. He went to the front door and shoved on his thick-soled, metal-capped rubber boots, slamming the door shut behind him. After he walked out of the malodorant meanders, he stood over the rusted guardrail, tapping an electric cigarette with shaking fingers out of its chipped plastic box, popped out the used nicotine cartridge and slipped a new one in. He flicked the switch that would heat up the nicotine and give him an infinitesimal drop by turning it into smoke and took a long drag of it. He chucked the used cartridge as hard as he could into the night and watched it fall. Far above, the lights of the 150th shone, psychedelic festival decorations, glimmering in the relative darkness. The demented carnival for the adult crowd drew in those who yearned for a stroking of the amygdala, on a shoestring budget. The view to the bottom was a Mandelbrot set, illuminated at regular intervals until nothing more could be seen. He took another satisfying drag, and the plastic cherry burned brightly. He turned around to see how his neighbor was doing. The spider had finished wrapping its victim in a cocoon and was resting in the middle of its web.

“Cheers, buddy,” Wen said, waving his smoke in its general direction.

He saw the crew coming toward him in the distance, down the walkway.

A muscular older man of around fifty led the way. His name was Oscar; leader of the group, bald, vaguely Mediterranean. He always wore high-collared sweaters that made his head look like a dick plastered with a serious face; a coiled fist ready to spring at the slightest provocation.

The second was Taz. He and Wen had been recruited at the same time for their present illegal activity when they were caught up in other felonious dealings gone south. The third was a darker-skinned, almost anorexic, much taller boy with a thin nose named Sayeed. He replaced Shawna, who had been arrested in a bar brawl a few weeks previous. Wen knew nothing about him save his name. He was a new guy, and Wen despised having to deal with newbies. More trouble than they were worth and not worth a damn in a tight situation.

The fourth was a short, squat man in his midforties. He harbored a trim, well-manicured beard and mustache, a style that was unpopular at best. Andrei was the point man. He carried the biggest gun, an ancient AK-47 automatic. Large shoulders rolled with every stride, making Wen wonder how he could have gotten so bulky, like some powerful animal storing fat for winter hibernation.

All were wearing protective gear against the toxic elements they were about to face, rebreathers slung under their arms. A few augmented their safety with military surplus bullet-proof vests, olive drab and worn-looking. They all had their own guns and ammo, proscribed as they were, the lack of which was a surefire way of turning up very deceased. Wen sighed and flicked the switch on his cigarette, slipping it back into its case.

Oscar walked by him without a word.

“Yup, let’s go,” Wen said, mocking the leader’s silence, trying not to think about his sulking brother inside. They kept walking in the direction the group was originally headed. Wen shook Taz’s hand.

“How goes it?” asked Taz.

“Alright, I guess. Sammy is throwing a tantrum.” He shook his head.

“What’s the matter this time?” Taz wondered.

“Today is his mother’s Memorial Day. He still takes it pretty hard,” he said.

“You mean your mother’s Memorial Day as well, don’t you? How are you taking it?” Taz inquired.

“It’s not so bad.” He lied. There was rarely a day when he didn’t think about his mother, of course; this one always the worst of all.

“Uh-huh. One day at a time, bud,” Taz said, looking at his friend and patting him on the back.

“Where are we headed today?” Wen changed the subject. He regretted having mentioned Sammy, but he felt better for getting it off his chest.

“I heard Oscar say some section out near the Bay, I think.” said Taz. Tokyo Bay was replete with garbage of all kinds. Centuries of it accumulated in thick strata. It wasn’t so much trash from the city as it was from everywhere, not just Japan, carried by the currents and hoarded up beneath the pylons. Oscar’s team searched for the most valuable gomi, trash they could sell to various fronts in the upper city. Many other groups operated as well, but Oscar and Andrei had the best intelligence on where to look. Some of their rivals hunted for scrap metals instead of treasure. Remnants of twisted, broken ships also jutted sidewise here and there, frozen in the perpetual act of drowning, perfect pickings for the well-prepared. The laws of the jungle prevailed: it was dangerous to leave a discovery out in the open for too long. The fittest of the bunch would come and haul it away; hyenas taking the lions’ prey.

This illicit industry began only ten years back, when the waters finally started to recede from underneath the towering megalopolis. Illegitimate and dangerous as well: trapped gas pockets, dug-out caverns, precipices, a rabid wildlife, other poachers, all of the ground level was a slow, roiling deathtrap for those foolish enough to explore it.

Wen had joined the crew two years ago. It paid little-to-middling, but enough to supplement their income and keep trying. Besides, surprises sometimes came to him in the form of rare artifacts. Those moments made the trek into sometimes pitch-black infernal dangers worth it. The past few months brought nothing of interest, only long nights of searching and wasted sleep. He felt tired in his being. He longed for a single night’s rest but feared losing out on a discovery that would change his luck. Loot was only shared among those who participated in the haul.

“Touch metal then,” he said, for good luck. They both knuckled the metal railing along the walkway they traipsed. Wen dropped back, ignoring Sayeed. He greeted Andrei with a firm handshake.

“Ready for another great night?” joked the Russian.

“Yeah, I guess,” replied Wen, not daring to hope for too much, too fast. Andrei always picked the spots they would be excavating and searching. He sometimes went straight to a source that turned out to be pure gold; like the time they had found a cargo container full of ancient, intact bicycles. They had worked their asses off for a week on that one, but the payoff had been more than worth it. Booze flowed like a river for weeks on end after that haul; it was the reason Wen and his brother had a nice new holovid in the living room.

Andrei was the only guy crazy enough to live on ground level. No one had been to his hideout, but everyone speculated about it. Was it a self-built chalet in the middle of the dump, or a discarded concrete military tent? There were bets going on from all members. Andrei knew about them, but didn’t care; an eccentric, undoubtedly, but highly intelligent.

“Cheer up, man. We’ll have a good night for sure, OK?” Andrei smiled like a crevice that threatened to split his face. His infectious laughter always made Wen pull himself out of whatever abyss he was drowning in.

“Andrei, what do you know about DaiSin model 1805 Netrodes?” Wen had just remembered about his promise to Joe.

“Wow! Those are some very old tech! How do you know about those?” his eyes growing wide.

“Just a guy I know, he’s got them implanted,” Wen said, looking at the ground.

“Seriously? Those things haven’t been used in a hundred years! No doubt they’re illegal implants. Your acquaintance could get into a heap of trouble for owning them.”

“Yeah, well, they don’t work. I scanned them with my Netware and they don’t report anything; no transfer, nothing.”

“What are you using?”

“I have a Bergman-Strauss Zipper. It’s old, but it still works well.”

“Israeli Netware, da? Yeah, not as old as the 1805’s, though, right? ” Andrei chuckled.

“I guess not. What do you think?”

“Well, first of all, you’re trying to scan for signal with a completely incompatible system. Your Zipper works on advanced fiber optics. The 1805’s are pure metal connectors, so your gear wouldn’t even register them. It would be like trying to play a vinyl record with a DVD player.”

“Play a what with a what?” Wen said, confused.

“Nerdspeak, young padawan, never mind,” Andrei said, chuckling.

“So they might still work, you think?” Wen asked, uncomprehending.

“Well, when they did the switch over to Wi-Fi only, a lot of people used the 1805’s. Since they would have lost a lot of customers, DaiSin Corp. made these new inserts that could be slipped onto the existing ’trodes, making them wireless. Then everybody went directly to wireless, so they dumped all of them. I think I have a few somewhere. Don’t tell anyone though.” Andrei winked.

“Thanks, Andrei. I appreciate it.” Wen felt good about himself. He thought he would be able to fulfill his promise to his…friend? Is that what Joe was? He couldn’t classify him, really. Did he need to?

They came to a service elevator, and Taz opened the control panel. He bypassed the security protocols so that they could ride all the way down to the 50th level. The elevators were meant to stop before reaching the dangerous sectors, namely, anything after the 100th level. There, the air quality was bad enough that nothing human could survive for long without oxygen rebreather masks. It also made the danger pay at Fujii-Hashimoto Heavy worth it. They got in, and all put on their masks. The elevator slid without a sound into the depths. They got out at the 50th level and turned on their headlamps. The air, thick with dust and soot, made visibility a hard thing to come by. They walked along the metal catwalk until they reached a cart system like a miniature train meant for the maintenance workers. Once again, Taz worked his magic and bypassed the magnetic locks that held it in place. They boarded, and Oscar took the controls. The only sound was that of the whirring electric engine and whistling onrush of wind. It was like being on a roller-coaster with twists and turns but few ups or downs. They travelled on the edge of nothingness, Wen’s heart squirming at every tight turn. Several times, Oscar stopped the cart and Andrei would tell him which direction to take. The onboard GPS was meant for localized areas only, and did not allow to pull back far enough to see a larger slice of the city. Andrei was cognizant of huge swathes of the ground level, and was better mentally equipped than most mapping softwares.

After an hour of zipping around in the silent darkness, they came to a stop near the edge of the bay, near a place called Odaiba Island. Wen wondered how long ago there had been an island here, and why they kept the name.

“Stay near the side of the pillars. The metal’s almost completely salt-corroded down here.” Andrei warned. Oscar took a safety line out of his pack and clipped it to his belt before handing it to Taz, who did the same, and then all the way down to Wen, who fastened it to his. They walked single file on tip-toes to the closest support structure and sidled along it, holding any protrusion in case the catwalk should fall away beneath their feet.

They came to a metal cage, a maintenance platform that descended all the way to ground level. The destroyed power box next to it looked as if it had been hacked to pieces.

“We aren’t going down this way,” mused Oscar.

“Hold on,” Andrei said. He reached into his gear pack and took out a thermos-sized, red-and-white-striped cylinder. He grabbed two wires with alligator clips on one end, and inserted the plugs into the cylinder on the other.

“Always bring spare batteries, no?” Andrei smiled. He went behind the control console and unscrewed its rear panel and then spliced the power box cables and attached the alligator clips. When he turned on the battery, the console lit up.

Andrei took a bow and said, “Gentlemen, your ride.” The crew erupted in muted applause and then entered the metal box. Andrei pushed the green button that closed the gates, and they began their descent. The air was almost opaque. Fires burned day and night, vomiting black smoke thicker than fog.

For this part of their journey, Oscar led the way. The five men walked in single file, the new leader scanning the ground for what he only knew would lead them to discovery. Wen took the gun out of his backpack and holstered it to his waist.

The ground was a sponged mass of garbage, felt more than seen. Wen found walking difficult and sinking exasperating, like taking a hike through marshmallow soup. He constantly lifted his boots to chest height to take another step. His headlamp’s stream bounced in front of him, illuminating his steps, pointing at the next man ahead. Flying debris stuck to his visor, forcing him to wipe, lest his lowered vision be reduced to nothing. The ambient air was toxic enough for even the flies to avoid it that day. Wen trudged on, able to see less than a meter in front of him.

The rope pulled taut, and he jerked forward, falling on his face. He began to slip toward the others ahead, unable to stop. He saw Sayeed slide as well, flailing about. Wen grasped at objects on the ground but kept on skidding. He fell vertically, his heart leaping out of his throat, and his hands reached out to grasp anything that could stop him, without success. The wind got knocked out of him when the cord holding him by the midriff snapped back and held him before he could go any further. He hung, Sayeed above him, his headlamp dancing on the ceiling of a garbage cavern. Sweat dripped from his forehead, stinging his eyes. His head spun and stomach churned, his hands white-knuckling the rope.

“Are you OK?” He heard a shrill voice from above him as he dangled. His headlight swung with him, and he could see that the cavern into which they had fallen was enormous. He would have to drop another hundred meters before hitting the ground.

“I’m all right! Pull me up, will you?” He looked up and saw Sayeed holding onto his end of the cord, reaching up out of the hole and grasping someone’s hands. The walls of the cavern were compressed garbage, the cavity dug by water currents. The bottom still looked wet. Corroded street lamps lay like giant burned matchsticks in the mud. There were a few vertical rectangles, way at the bottom. They must have been twenty stories tall, but seemed small from this distance.

He felt himself being dragged up. As soon as he could, he grabbed the crumbling edge of the garbage pile to pull out of the hole. The others lay in the detritus, panting.

“I recommend we get away from the edge, my friends.” suggested Andrei, breathing heavily, his hands on his knees.

“I second that emotion,” said Taz, as he lay on his back, his chest heaving, lifting his right hand.

“That’s ‘motion’.”said Sayeed.

“I know what I said.”the other man replied.

They crawled away from the opening on their hands and knees, careful not to disturb more garbage. Once at a safe distance, Oscar came up to Wen and lifted him by the front of his suit.

“You almost got us all killed, you little shit! What do you have to say for yourself?” he hollered from behind his mask.

“What? How is this my fault? I’m the one who fell in! Back off!” he retorted, shoving the belligerent leader away. Oscar fell a step back and brought his arm back to hit Wen, who got ready for the imminent attack. Andrei grabbed Oscar’s arm and yelled at him over the wind. Smaller debris was rolling along the mucky floor, some of them alighting, announcing a heavy garbage storm.

“Now isn’t really the time, don’t you think? We’ll have to leave soon. The wind is picking up,” he said. Oscar lowered his fist and shoved past Andrei, pushing Wen’s shoulder.

“Did you guys see the bottom?” Wen asked, shaking. Oscar was pacing, mumbling to himself about incompetence and stupidity.

“No, why?” Oscar asked, stopping mid-rant, his head whipping up, teeth bared.

“There are buildings down there,” Sayeed said, pointing at the hole.

“Yeah, a bunch of them,” Wen chimed in. Oscar looked at Andrei.

“Do you think that’s what you were looking for?” Andrei asked.

“There’s a definite possibility. Didn’t think it would be this easy though,” Oscar mused. “Or this hard.” The incredible height made it impossible to lower themselves without better climbing gear. Above the hole, visibility was getting worse. “Trade places with me,” he told Andrei. They switched positions on the security rope, and Oscar ordered everyone to hold onto the rope as he approached it, crawling on his stomach. The swirling garbage made it difficult for Wen to see Oscar plunge his head into the aperture. The wind was picking up, as Andrei had warned. Wen felt a perverse urge to sever Oscar’s rope and kick him into the hole, but he backed away from the hole and got to his feet before Wen could enact his fantasy.

“I think this is the place,” Oscar said to Andrei, beaming, his anger forgotten.

“Good, now will you tell me what it is you’re looking for?” Andrei replied.

“Sorry, comrade, can’t do that.” Oscar shook his head. He took a peg out of his satchel and stuck it in the ground. Then he pressed the top. “That’ll tell us where we need to come back tomorrow.” He turned to the others.

“All right, ladies, we’re calling it quits for today. Drinks are on me tonight.” The wind howled and garbage flew about, making it hard to see the way back. Andrei led the way, with sure footing and his unerring sense of direction. The orange metal cage came into view and they clambered aboard. It rattled like an old jalopy all the way up, getting stuck for an interminable ten seconds once.

Andrei disconnected his battery and slipped it back into his pack. They walked in procession along the side of the support pillar, careful of their footing. From the maintenance cart that brought them back to civilization, they could see the foul storm that rained hell below, billowing garbage-devils and gas explosions sparked by colliding metal objects. The tiny cart zipped back into the city at breakneck speed, the rising tide of wind and flying debris making their position a dangerous one.

Once they were back in Shinjuku1, the group began to disperse. Oscar, Taz, and Sayeed planned to have a drink to celebrate for reasons only Oscar seemed to be aware of. Of course, neither of the other two would turn down a free cold one. They removed their reinforced rubber coveralls, placing them inside their bags. Only Andrei and Wen stayed dressed in their protective suits.

“You girls not coming?” Oscar joked.

“Things to do, unfortunately,” replied Andrei.

“Ha! Imagine that! A Russian turning down a free drink,” Oscar said, laughing. Andrei smiled and said nothing. Wen stared at the floor, waiting for his level so he could go home. When the doors opened on the 132nd level, Andrei exited the elevator with Wen. They nodded to the rest of the crew as the doors closed and the elevator began to rise once more. They both removed their facemasks.

“What are we looking for, Andrei?” asked Wen, turning to him.

“Walk with me, my friend. It is not good to stay here too long,” said Andrei. They headed further down the hallway, in the direction of Wen’s apartment. “In answer to your question, I don’t know. I haven’t been picking out the targets for the past little while,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

“Is that why we haven’t been finding squat for two months?” Wen asked, whirling to look at him, anger rising in his voice.

“Hey, hey! Relax, my friend. He is the boss, you know. He’s been looking for something specific, but he won’t even tell me what it is. So tonight, maybe we found it—who knows? He’s a weird guy but usually doesn’t steer us wrong.” Andrei’s shoulders rose and fell as he spoke.

He doesn’t sound convinced, thought Wen. Or he’s trying to convince himself and not just me.

“I’m tired of taking orders from that gohmert. You should be our leader, not him.” Wen told Andrei.

“I am honored by your faith in me, but that is not my job. The problem is what you feel about Oscar. You should know him like I do: Under his gruff exterior, his holier–than-thou attitude, and condescending superiority complex, there is a worse bastard than you could ever imagine,” said Andrei, smiling.

“That’s really not what I thought you’d say. How does that even help me?” Wen said, knitting his brow.

“There are people you have to deal with in life, unless you can find ways not to have to deal with them. Oscar brings out the worst in you; in everybody, really. His anger is his own, don’t make it yours,” Andrei advised.

“Sometimes I think you’re brilliant, Andrei.”

“Thank you.”

“There are times like these, though, when I wonder if I’m right to think so,” Wen said, shaking his head. Andrei started laughing so hard that tears ran down his cheeks.

“That, my friend, is not the worst that has been said of me. Have confidence. Tomorrow, we should be fixed on the situation. What time you going to sleep?”

“That’s a weird question. As soon as my head hits the pillow, Andrei.” Wen raised an eyebrow.

“OK, OK, I see what I can do,” he said, explaining nothing. “Good night, Wen.” They had reached his apartment door, and Andrei was walking away. What the hell am I doing with my life? Wen wondered, his head shaking. He punched in the code to the door and walked into the darkened room. The oppressive silence made him wonder if there was anyone else there. He removed his boots and suit, taking the suit into the bathroom to rinse off the reek in the shower. He then hung it on a pole in the bathtub. He went to the bedroom and peeked inside. The table lamp beside his brother’s bed was on, but his brother was sprawled on his stomach, face into his pillow, wearing his blue pajamas. His arms clenched his drenched pillow, looking like he wanted to tear chunks out of it. Wen approached without making a sound and took a different pillow from beside his head, tugging at the one his brother held in a death grip.

“Mommy!” Sammy whispered in his sleep. Wen’s heart thumped at the word, a hard ball rising in his throat. He let go of the pillow he was trying to remove, placed the dry one close by, turned out the table lamp, and walked out of the room. He closed the door as slowly as possible, muting the creaking hinges. He headed for the shower and cleaned himself in the frigid water, wiping away the cancerous grime with rapid, sharp movements. His headache was coming back, and he had trouble staying awake when he lay down on the couch.

During the night, he woke up, hearing a faint tapping on the wall, coming from his brother’s room. The knocks came at regular intervals. Groggily, he rose from the couch and went into the room. Sammy was standing by the wall, his nightlight on.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“I forgive you,” Wen replied, rubbing his eyes. He would never tell Sammy about his plunge into a hole that could have ended with his splattering on the ground below. Sammy’s concerns were genuine, but it seemed impossible to back away now. Maybe Oscar knew of a haul so fantastic that it would buy their way out of this place. Maybe he would be getting his share after tomorrow. Maybe he would never have to go digging through wet gomi for the rest of his life. Maybe.

“How do you like my Morse Code skills?” asked Sammy, lying back down in bed.

“What’s that?” asked Wen.

“Well, it’s a series of dashes and dots. People used to use them to communicate before computers and the Net. Every letter is represented by a bunch of them. I learnt it in coding class today.”

“So what were you Morse Coding on the wall, just now?” he said, sitting on the bed by his brother.

“I’m sorry,” Sammy said, looking into Wen’s eyes.

“That makes sense.”

“Did you guys find ‘the big haul’ tonight?” Sammy asked, imitating Oscar’s gruff voice.

“Nope. Soon, though. Maybe very soon.” Maybe, always maybe.

“I hope so. I can’t stand it knowing you’re out there,” Sammy said, frowning.

“I know, Sammy. I don’t like it either. Go to sleep; you’ve got school in a few hours.”

“OK. Good night, Wen. I love you.”

“I love you too, Sammy.” He walked out the room. It took him several minutes to find sleep again. His mind was racing with the thoughts of Sammy having to fend for himself on the streets of Shinjuku1. He could never let that happen. As his mind blurred between reality and his unconscious, his mother kissed him goodnight, and was gone.