From the sound of it, we were down the street from a full-blown firefight. A few distinct calibers and rates of fire. Of course, I recognized the report of GreySec rifles from personal experience. That meant it was probably troopers shooting it out. The HMPD usually patrolled with submachine guns. Who they were shooting at was anybody's guess.

Bum didn't spare a nanosecond on trying to figure it out. He nearly knocked me over by diving for cover, but I managed to grab his dirty sleeve before he could faceplant into a pile of trash.

"Chill," I said, adjusting his foil hat. "Those shots are a few blocks away."

No sooner than I had him back on his feet, the elevator control terminal lit up. Someone else was behind us.

"Besides," I added, thumbing toward the lift, "we have closer problems to worry about."

"Ah, hell, cap," Bum growled. "They comin' after us already?"

Instead of answering, I pulled him down the alley by the sleeve. The shelter employs could be coming after us, or it could be someone taking out the trash. Either way, I didn't want to be close enough to the lift to find out.

After rounding a corner between two towering Downtown buildings, I let go of Bum's sleeve. Spotting an oversized dumpall mounted in the alley — the kind that pre-processed the building's trash before dropping it into the mega's refuse removal system deep underground — I had a thought. After fumbling around in the dark for the dumpall's access hatch, I gave the seam a quick yank, shearing the metal and releasing a slow avalanche of bulging trash bags into the alley. In seconds, we'd have a toxic, stinking barrier between the shelter elevator and our route of egress.

Bum yelled, jumping away from the surging pile of rotting food, crumpled packaging, and empty HeadRush cans.

"Shut up!" I hissed. "Be stealthy, you smoothbrain!"

Bum laughed, throwing his arms wide to indicate the ongoing wave of falling refuse. "You have any idea how loud that is, cap?"

I fired a sharp look his way, but held off on further chastising. Bum would make a shitty corpo spy, but I didn't have time to give him lessons.

"Alright, old man," I said, walking deeper into the shadows. "Let's keep moving."

After a few blocks of alley travel, Bum kicked his foot up against a wall to take a leak. A baffling choice on his part, but the pitstop got me thinking about the next phase of our masterful escape — getting us to Bum's recycling store stash to spoof my LionEye signature.

"You finished?" I asked. "Fuck's sake, how much have you had to drink?"

"Just enough," Bum said, chuckling and tucking himself back into his ripped pants.

"Yeah, good one," I said flatly. "You better have your skitz together enough to pull your weight when the time comes."

Bum spun on his heel and snapped off a salute so wobbly it could give a GreySec drill instructor an embolism.

This was getting too complicated. Part of me wished I'd have planned all this differently. Maybe stopped at the admin level instead. Then I could have used the desk terminal to run my hacks, and maybe strangled the life out of that smart-ass pixel-pusher sitting behind it as a bonus.

Best of all, I wouldn't be dragging a drunk derelict with me to be a living, stinking access pass to a recycling store — and crossing my fingers that they had working tech on hand.

Screw it. I was doing alright at the 'black ops' thing for an amateur. As long as Bum didn't whip it out to take a leak in front of an HMPD drone, I could still make this work.

"Well, come on, boss," Bum chuckled, staggering ahead into the next alley. "All in a rush when I gotta piss. Now you're the one daydreamin' with your crank in your hand."

I caught up to him after a few short leaps over discarded shelving and oily puddles. My native guide didn't even bother avoiding the various pools of slop and mystery liquids as he walked. But he wasn't wearing two-thousand credit kicks, either.

He led the way for another ten minutes before the low hum of a fast-moving drone caught my attention.

"Up ahead…" Bum started before I grabbed his shoulders, shoving him between a flickering Chug machine and a leaky standpipe.

"Shhh!" I said, finding my own hiding place on the other side of the vendbox.

I peeked out to see Bum looking confused and off balance. Didn't seem like he was going to give us away, but I pointed down the alley and whispered 'drone' just in case.

Sure enough, the quiet humming grew louder. The sound was joined by pulsing blue strobes that cast ugly, moving shadows as the drone entered the alley a few hundred feet away.

I held my breath at the sight of the quad-rotored pain in the ass. Hiding wouldn't do much good if it came our way, since the police drones were fitted with advanced sensor packages. Not that the threat ended there; it would also pick up our MiFi pings if there was so much as the slightest leak from our makeshift OTG hats.

My eyes glued to the hovering predator, I tried to melt into the wall. The drone rotated on its vertical axis three times, most likely scanning the alley. Then it moved fifty feet in our direction before repeating the dance. When the drone shot straight up above the rooftops like a HighCastle rocket, I nearly passed out from emptying my lungs.

"Man!" Bum laughed in a whisper. "Why'dn't someone tell me about these hats before?"

"You can keep it when we're done," I said, still watching the sky. "Completes your look."

I probably should have added that if HMPD saw him walking around with foil on his head, they'd beat him senseless.

"Alright," I said, stepping out from the shadows. "Get me to this damn shop."

"'Bout to say, it's right up here," Bum said, jogging ahead as fast as his limp and lack of sobriety would let him.

He stopped at a thick metal door set into the bare com-crete — a service entrance identical to dozens more that we'd already passed.

"Still don't know why they gave you access to their stock room," I said, watching Bum step up to the biometric keypad.

The dirtbag laughed deep this time, then shot me a wink. "They didn't."

He wrapped his dirty hand around the keypad and gave it a firm yank. The entire device pulled out of the wall, exposing a series of wires, and my jaw fell open.

"I could have done that!" I said, resisting a mounting urge to slap Bum in the back of the head.

He chuckled again, touched two of the wires together, and the metal door slid open.

"Know how many doors I had to fuck with before I found one with a busted keypad?" he said, smiling like a driver in the winner's circle. "This here's my find."

He stepped into the dark storeroom, his limping gait showing a little more swagger than usual. I followed, shaking my head.

"Your find, huh? What good does it do you?"

He tapped a panel on the nearby wall prompting dim light to fill the room from overhead. It was a small storeroom, maybe a ten paces across and twenty deep. Enough for three rows of shelving packed to capacity with lidded storage bins.

Bum waved at the stock. "I klep one or two things a week, then trade it to this guy I know from Edgerun."

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I wrinkled my nose at him.

He shrugged. "Hey, it's how I make my living, cap. So, hurry up before we get pinched and these assholes fix their door."

Walking the line of shelves, I couldn't find any labels or signs. Not so much as a handwritten note to indicate what was in the bins. With no other option, I pulled down the closest bin, ripped off the lid, and dumped out the contents.

"Hey!" Bum shouted, running over to snatch the bin from my hand. "Dickhead! We can't leave this place lookin' like it was sacked!"

I shoved him away with one hand. "Then you handle clean up. I don't have time to white-glove this shit."

He wasted no time taking up the task, gathering junk from the floor and returning it to the bin.

"Just wait a sec," he said, face turning red. "I'll show you where they keep the tech junk."

I sighed, kicking some unidentifiable knick-knack over to Bum so he could pick it up. "Should have done that first."

"Should have asked first," he mumbled, resealing the bin and placing it back on the shelf. "Now, come 'ere. It's in the cage."

The far end of the stockroom featured a chain-link cage separating us from a lone shelf packed with bins.

"You have a key?" I asked, wrapping my hand around the sad analog padlock holding the latch closed.

"No, but…"

I squeezed, crushing the lock into its base parts. Watching the pieces fall to the smooth, com-crete floor, I realized I'd shredded the synthskin right off my palm, the precious 'Savage Archangel' label dangling by torn dermic fibers.

Bare wetgear, all graphene casings and small fiber bundles, looked back at me as I flexed my fingers. Beyond my damaged hand, Bum stared at me with his jaw hanging open.

I held it up to his face and wiggled the dangling label in front of his nose. "It's alright. Just fake skin."

"Screw your hand, man," he said, knocking aside my arm. "You smashed the lock! Now they'll know someone's been here!"

I scowled, drawing a deep breath before curtailing my response to focus on more important matters. Pulling open the chain link gate, I began sorting through the shop's most valuable recycled merch.

"This is shit," I hissed, pawing through the bins of old portable interfacers, busted AR visors, and video game consoles. "Not a single slate. Not even a twenty-year-old PalmCom."

I slammed a bin back onto the shelf. "A Pre-Collapse laptop would be better than what's in here. Shit!"

Bum didn't say a word. He was already picking junk off the floor, carefully placing each useless gadget back into its bin.

"Wait," I said, standing bolt straight. "They gotta have a terminal in the shop for running sales. That'll work."

Bum froze, half crouched with a worn out MaxBox game controller in his hand.

"Can't get to the front," he said, turning to me. "Locked door. And they got security out there. Sensors and shit."

"How do you know?"

"Seen the showroom. I come here to sell the junk I trade for."

I chuckled. "Really? This place is one-stop shopping for you, huh?"

Checking the door to the showroom confirmed Bum's security assessment. Not only was there a passcode biometric lock, like the outer door, but an additional panel showing an armed security system.

"Can't believe these smoothbrains pay for active security," a said, scratching behind my ear. "Don't even have a back door that works, and no sensors in the stock room."

Bum laughed nervously as he dropped the last bit of tech back in its bin. "Yeah, tell me about it. Why do you think I don't want you fuckin' up this good thing?"

I touched the security panel, feeling around the edges for a maintenance port.

"Oh, c'mon!" Bum moaned. "Don't break that, too!"

"Breaking it wouldn't work, old man. That'd set off the alarms. We need finesse for this one."

He stepped beside me. "Or we could leave, cap."

"That's not an option, so don't even start," I said, already deep in puzzle-solving mode. "Go get me that portable 'facer from the shelf."

Bum didn't render a half-assed, drunken salute this time, but he complied.

"It's the thing that looks like an old handheld scanner with a bunch of little cables hanging out of it," I added.

"I know, I know," Bum said, walking back with the 'facer in hand. "Used to use these at my job."

I shot him an incredulous look. "Recently?"

"Not enough to crack that lock," he said, shaking his head.

"Then go fill up your pockets, 'cuz I don't think you're gonna be able to come back here after tonight."

Bum threw up his arms in resignation before turning back to the bins, and I went to work on the security panel.

The portable 'facer was almost as old as me, and in considerably worse condition. Working around a cracked screen and loose buttons, I plugged the device's I/O lead into the security panel's diagnostic port to gain access. I knew cars, and I knew neurocoms, but figuring out how to disable the security sensors in the next room was no mean feat.

Thankfully, a lot of the general ideas from the automotive world carried over — getting into the backend command console was damn close to working on an Edison's electronic brain. A few more minutes fiddling with settings, and I'd managed to shut down the motion detectors and cameras.

"Got the system down," I said, smiling at Bum.

From the looks of it, he'd finished raiding the bins and was just standing by. I could tell by his face that he wasn't pleased, even with the armloads of loot cradled over his chest.

"Can't figure out the lock, though," I added. "Kinda idiotic. You'd think it'd be the easy part."

Bum stayed silent, and I took that as a sign he'd given up trying to minimize collateral damage. Tossing the 'facer to the floor, I punched the casing off the security panel, grabbed a handful of exposed tech guts, and yanked the whole mess out of the wall.

Not enough voltage in the lines for sparks or anything so dramatic, but the door separating us from the storefront popped right open. I grinned at my subordinate, but he seemed to have run out of things to say.

"C'mon," I said, opening the door the rest of the way with a grunt. "Let's get this done."

The storefront was an eclectic mix of junk-covered shelves and clothing racks flanked by a wrap-around counter on three walls. The street beyond the front window was completely obscured by rolldown metal shutters. I could probably guess what was outside — more HMPD patrols, flickering neons, and barren sidewalks that would normally be flooded with late-night activity.

My eyes flicked to the store's sales terminal, a desktop workstation bolted to the counter a few feet away. The large-screened terminal was easily the newest piece of tech in the entire shop, and I let out a sigh of thanks as I rushed over to switch it on.

Bum watched me for about two seconds before realizing there were greater treasures to be had on the sales floor. Dropping his armload of backroom loot with a crash, he set to work pawing through recycled high-tier jackets with their designer logos blacked out. A few seconds later, he was shoving his arm into a thick, blue coat in pristine condition.

I was too focused on the mission to scold him for the noise, instead working my way through the terminal's operating system to gain developer-level access to my neurocom. The terminal wasn't set up for serious cracking, but getting into my own rooted 'com was trivial.

I worked my fingers over the screen faster than I ever had while working at Edison. The urgency wasn't spurring me along as much as the thrill of being a few screens and console commands from pulling off a kick-ass escape. All that was left was pulling Brother Jorge's NID off the klepped beads and spoofing my neurocom with his identity.

"Hot damn!" Bum slurred from the far end of the shop, an unidentifiable device in each hand. "You know what these are worth?"

He shoved both in the pockets of his newfound jacket before I could tell what they were, much less give a reply. Not that he seemed to care, quickly moving on to pillage the next display case.

No matter — I was almost set. A final swipe over the dancing code strings and the quick countdown of a progress bar meant that my NID was spoofed. As long as I could avoid facial recognition, my MiFi ping would match my stolen beads. To a passing GreySec's LionEye readout, I'd be Brother Jorge.

"Got it!" I said, flashing a triumphant smile at Bum. "Come over here so I can get yours."

He spun on his heel and rushed to my side, completely unaware that I wouldn't be able to crack his neurocom with a glorified cash register. Or that I didn't have another stolen NID to spoof his 'com with even if I could.

Since we'd first put the plan together, I'd hoped a better idea would come to me. But nothing had presented itself, so I had to go with the only option — bullshitting.

"You're all set," I said, shutting the terminal down. "Grab your loot so we can oscar out of here."

"Got everything I need, cap," Bum said, beaming, with lumpy pockets and a storage bin full of spoils in his arms.

Jerking my head toward the back door, I slapped him on the back and let him lead the way. Before he made it into the alley, I grabbed his shoulder and pulled the foil hat from his scraggly head. Crumbling it together with my own, I tossed the mylar ball into a nearby pile of garbage.

"Don't need these any more," I said, "but even with the spoofs, there's no reason to attract attention. Once we get to the end of this alley, we split up."

He nodded and limped his way toward the cross-street as fast as his load would allow. I made sure to lag behind, and when the path diverged, and he went left.

I took a right.

After ten paces through the dimly-lit puddles, I turned around to make sure my former recruit was still putting distance between us. I couldn't help but grin when he turned at the same time, flashed a gap-toothed smile, and set down the box so he could render one last wobbly salute.

The last thought I had before the echoing crack of a gunshot sent me diving for cover was that Bum was going to be fine — then his newfound jacket turned from blue to red and his smile whiplashed into a look of confusion and shock.

Peering out from behind an overflowing dumpall, I watched him fall to his knees, then splash facedown in a puddle. The alley around him exploded with flashlight beams and yelling faster than I could keep up. I was still frozen in shock when the lights found my face, turning the world white and kicking up optical adjustment notifications in my NUI.

As the light levels corrected, I made out the gray helmets and body armor pushing my way.

"HMPD!" a gravely voice shouted from the throng. "Step out! Hands high!"

I stood, shaking at the knees, and eased out from behind the bin. Without thinking, my hands were already straight above my head. A ruby red glint flashed in my peripherals, snapping my gaze to my left hand.

No idea how they got there, but Brother Jorge's beads hung from my fingers, glowing against the harsh weapon lights like a string of paper lanterns.

"Hold up," I yelled back between forced breathes. "I'm a goddam monk!"