Rachel sat waiting at the bar in old New York. Outside, the rain threatened to flood the neighborhood, and cold gusts slipped through the cracks in the door, but even so, she had left her characteristic purple jacket in the cloakroom with Zena. She had spent too much on her leather corset and new boots not to show off her figure that night. She had kept her hat, though; her long blonde hair was a mess as always, and the hat helped to hide the stubborn strands. Besides, it added style. After all, she wasn't there just to work. Maybe she could get lucky. God knew she needed it.

She finished her cherry Nalyvka in one gulp; it was the strongest thing she was going to allow herself that night despite the temptation. She loved that bar run by four generations of Ukrainians because they had something for every Rachel—the hopeless drunk, the responsible detective, and that strange mix of the two that she undoubtedly was tonight. She thanked Alexander for the drink, and he said he would put it on her tab. Funny guy, in a world where money had disappeared decades ago, they liked to pretend it still existed, like in those old movies from the past century that could still be seen on their holox for a few bits. She got up resolutely and began to work.

At a table, one of those deliberately kept dimly lit, sat three well-dressed gentlemen with their eyes on their holox, probably chatting in text through a local network. They couldn't be more suspicious, but her target wasn't any of them. It was the big guy, in an undershirt and jeans, standing in front of them to complete the mafioso table scene. Damn, the grandparents of these beginners had made the Eastern European families famous for their discretion. In the novels and movies from 30 years ago, the victims never knew where the blow came from until it was too late. Now these kids spent their lives in the old city's dives, showing off to the poorest, instead of aspiring to live in the new city.

"Stop right there, you can't get close to the gentlemen."

Nice tough guy act.

"Aww, but I thought maybe they'd want some company, look at them, they look so lonely."

"Second warning, keep your distance, baby."

And strike one for you, tough guy.

"Don't you need some company? Come on, they don't need you, let's go to the next table for five minutes, and for 500 bits, I'll make it worth your while." Rachel was proud of how convincing she could be with her soft and slightly condescending tone. She didn't even have to touch the guy, just running her hand along her waistline was enough to make the ape follow her finger like he was hypnotized.

No need to insist. The guy sat at the next table and gestured for her to do the same. He placed his muscular, tattooed arm on the back of the couch to indicate that was her spot.

When the man sat and she had her head at chest level, Rachel, in a well-practiced move, pulled from her high boot her expandable baton, a marvelous piece of engineering that left the big guy unconscious with its powerful electric shock. He barely felt the blow she gave him with it. The almost 2000 bits spent between the purchase and the license had been well worth it. Besides, since she left the police force, conventional weapons were forbidden.

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No one in the bar seemed to notice, as always. Those not engrossed in a casual encounter were, like the men at the table, submerged in the ocean of information and entertainment offered by the holox, those tiny devices placed next to the eyes offering a whole new world in augmented reality. Rachel always had hers handy, of course. How else was she going to investigate her targets' bit movements or their hyperforum posts? She had no idea how detectives found people before the net, but it was so easy these days if you weren't a cop bound by the Citizen Protection Act of 2076.

She had a few minutes to search the idiot before the shock wore off. She didn't bother with the pockets; everything incriminating was always in the cliché places. Fortunately, the tough guy wasn't very imaginative, and soon enough, she found what she was looking for in a fold of his cap—a tiny authorization chip.

With the chip, she could access the owner's online files through her own holox. These things were usually kept in secret and secure places, but criminals always felt the need to keep them close—control freaks or big cowards. Better for her. Now she could prove that this bastard was indeed the one extorting families in the neighborhood, especially the Boikos, whose apartment he had burned down and who had spent part of what little they had left to ensure she brought him to justice.

It was always the same with the police in Old New York; most of the good cops were dead or like her, while the rest simply enjoyed getting paid to do nothing and keeping their mouths shut.

Fortunately, once she uploaded the evidence to the system, the AI would conduct an automatic trial, and the bastards at Precinct 54 would have to come for the big guy whether they wanted to or not.

Done. Undeclared bit transactions in traceable amounts, traces of extortion note deliveries, and... a bonus, the man owed alimony to no less than three different women. How did they keep falling for idiots? Well, there weren’t many good men left in the neighborhoods of Old New York, but guys like this?

She placed the chip back in its spot and turned to leave as if nothing had happened. The holox were her best friends; she had been operating in the bar for months, and only Zena and Alexander recognized her. Everyone else was absorbed in virtual conversations, cyber drugs, or trash entertainment. She picked up her coat and walked out into the rain. She didn't want to be there when the cops arrived and the commotion started. Besides, she had to see the Boikos, make sure they were okay, and deliver the good news in person. She could send a message that they would see on their holox as if she were there, but no matter how realistic it was, it was never the same.

The rain had reasonably emptied the street; only a few like her were walking in the downpour. Many said that in New New York, all the streets had automated retractable roofs. To Rachel, that sounded like too much expense, but who knew? No one went there unless it was to work in the outer neighborhoods, doing cleaning or automaton maintenance. Almost the entire damn city was isolated from the undesirables of the old city.

Luckily, her coat and hat protected her well from the weather—artificial leather with good insulation and totally hydrophobic. Rachel rarely paid rent on time and had spent weeks barely eating, but she invested in her clothes almost as much as in her work tools. At least, eating little had helped her maintain her figure without resorting to beautifiers, unlicensed doctors practicing surgeries that thirty years ago had been very advanced but now left everything to their tools and artificial intelligence. Swindlers. The red-light district was overflowing with poor women led astray simply trying to pay to fix the deformities those bastards caused them.

She reluctantly took the street to her right, having to pass her old police precinct on the way to the Boikos' house. It always made her angry to remember her days as a cop, being undervalued simply for wanting to do something instead of waiting to execute a virtual judge's arrest warrant. And the case that had cost her her badge...

At the Boikos' house, she knocked on the door with her hand, so they knew it was her...