

Tartarus Book 1 – Undercoat

HL Jones

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2020 HL Jones

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I jumped up from the sofa and smacked the admit button to find a cold rainy November night hiding behind a blood-soaked Dirk who was panting like a devil dog. He barged his way in as soon as the door had recessed into the wall but I neatly sidestepped him. It wasn't that Dirk was rude; he was just inconsiderate and unfeeling. You know what they say. No brain, no pain.

The door slammed close with a clang and I hurried into the living room. The HoloTV was displaying some old cartoon show which was a mercy. Dirk was dripping wet and he shrugged his coat off onto our metal floor with a soggy thud. Massive red blotches had followed him in. Was that the smell of blood? I wasn't used to blood, even after all the years of living down here.

Dirk craned his head around to look at me. His heavy knobbly brow almost shielded his eyes. His head seemed to merge with his rough thick neck, and he snorted. "I killed him."

"Killed who?" I asked. Dirk always made me nervous, but I was also certain that he would never harm me. Oh sure – he could rip my arms off my body if he so chose to, his huge body about 4 times the size of mine. However, he needed me. The fact that he could kill me was like a secret that he wasn't aware of. I intended to keep it from him.

"Dunno. Man." He sneezed, sending flecks of spit and snort flying through the air. "Smart man." Slung around his huge imposing body, over the top of fading urban combat fatigues, was a laughably small rucksack. He gingerly took it off and handed it to me, as if unsure of what I would do. It bulged slightly with the gains of murder.

"Huh. Why did you kill him Dirk?"

"Dunno," he said again, "I wanted to."

That spooked me. Yep, it spooked the hell out of me. I had realised a while back that Dirk didn't understand the value of life, particularly other people's lives. If he wanted something, he murdered people for it. He showed no remorse and no feelings of any kind. He spoke of taking another human's life as if he were flushing the toilet.

I opened the small rucksack and peered inside. There was a wallet, some papers, a small data sliver and a set of keys. They were all wet from the downpour outside, so I set them on my small metal table to dry. Dirk stomped his feet and shivered. Was he cold, or had he reflected on what he'd just done?

"Hungry!" He bellowed. Well, that answered my question, so I hurried to the tiny kitchen (well, more like a serving closet, because I could touch all four walls if I stuck my elbows out and span on my heel) and brought in the bucket of chicken I had purchased earlier. He grabbed it without a word and crashed onto the sofa in front of the HoloTV, slurping the meat from the bones like a ravenous vacuum cleaner. With his dirty clothes, dirty face, and mean-as-hell look, he became at one with the grubby living room. A scum chameleon.

That's what I hated about the slums. Everything down here seemed to be tinged with brown. The metal walls, the metal floor, the metal chair and table. Even the HoloTV seemed to be slightly brown. It was like a decay, eating away at everything. Someday I would make everything clean. How many times had I said that in my life?

I put on a pair of surgical gloves and started my examination of the objects from Dirk's bag. Firstly, the data slice. The thin credit-card gossamer sheet radiated green as I fed it into my data reader. Surprisingly, the laptop screen froze for a moment then asked for an encryption key. Impressive. Dirk's victim was probably a businessman – not many people could afford the kind of encryption that could stop my laptop from accessing file contents. The contents were probably nothing more than client details or some jumped-up self-important presentation about the latest piece of techno-garbage. I considered ditching it because the run-time needed to crack it open could be considerable but decided to invest the processing power just in case it was financial records that I could sell. I slotted the film into the sheet-reader, made an image of the disk contents, loaded it onto my server and started a brute-force attack on the password. It could take an hour, it could take 100 days. I was in no hurry.

Next, I picked up the key fob. It was a large heavy flat disk with a thin silver rod. The disk had the name "Rochester" engraved on it, flecked with tiny droplets of blood. The victim had a name. It was easier to think about when the victim was faceless and nameless. The silver rod was a genetic car key; impressive, as only top-end sports car manufacturers took such precautions against unauthorised access to their products. I looked at the end of the rod. A hologram of a bird clutching a thunderbolt leapt into life in front of me. A FalconEx T220, worth hundreds of thousands of EuroCredits. I wondered whether I could go searching for the car, bypass the bio lock (that was one technological hurdle I had yet to try my skills against) steal it then trade it in? I reluctantly let that idea go. Driving around in a murdered man's car was possibly the best way to get executed for a crime I didn't commit. Still, the key might have a use yet. I tore off a plastic bag from a small roll and slipped it into my top drawer.

Behind me, Dirk flicked through the holo channels, grunting at every programme that he didn't like. I let him; Dirk wasn't a man that was easily distracted except for food and cartoons. I engineered every homecoming carefully around his preferences. Fried chicken, a never-ending stream of animated shows, and no colourful items on show whatsoever. He was extremely attracted to the colour blue for some reason, and was the reason my laughably small wardrobe contained nothing of that colour. Dirk settled into an old show with yellow characters chatting and falling around. I carried on with my examination.

The papers from the haul were blotted from the rain outside and stained pink. They were printed e-mails - oh the irony of it. All the recipients had alien-sounding names; Castani, Conidem, Richifor... but it was the content of the messages that sent prickles up my spine. The most interesting one read:

"Fellows,

It is now almost time for our ascendancy. Those who do not believe will soon believe, and our power will be rewarded.

Permissum totus malum increbresco,

Iblis."

It was date-stamped yesterday. For some reason, the presence of Dirk in my small dark room suddenly reassured me. He may be a killer but he was a familiar killer.

A quick bit of research online determined that this guy was a member of a small company that acted like a business but had the hallmarks of a cult. The Red Saint Corp. The victim may have been the one referenced as Iblis in the email, I doubt that I'd ever know. I had come across a couple of satanic worshippers in my time - fencing stolen goods and selling information tends to bring you into contact with all walks of life. Cultists were never good news, always trying to bring on the end of the world or filling their lives with blood. I turned to Dirk, who was still mesmerised by the age-old cartoon. Had he actually done some good tonight, murdering someone as evil as himself? I was surprised that a man who drove one of the most expensive cars on the market could be part of a cult. However, it did explain why the data source was encrypted. I very glad I had chosen to not discard it.

There was a huge boom from all around. The hologram of the TV dropped focus completely, the beams lancing out in all directions as the unit rocked on its small stand. I shielded my eyes from the laser light.

Dirk sat up, fists balled. "What the frack's that?"

"I'm not sure. Sounds like another satellite."

The HoloTV jumped back to life and Dirk was occupied once again, the distraction forgotten.

I accessed the Internet. Half the metropolitan network was being routed through a couple of pathways, meaning that the rest had been destroyed or cut. The newsnet was quiet though; it would probably take a few moments for the event to be reported. I could wander outside and take a look, but that would be dangerous in this neighbourhood at this time of night.

I picked up the wallet. I loved wallets and, for a moment, savoured the mystery, the excitement. What could this wallet hold? Money? Credit cards? Expensive memory sticks?

It was a large fat wallet, jet black and worn at the edges. In the corner of the front was a pentagram. Subtle. It contained a full set of capitalist treasures. Platinum cards, gold cards, debit and credit cards, all in the name of Rochester Resinn. An epic high flyer. There was also five thousand EuroCredits. Who carries five grand around in the back streets of the slums at night? It was almost like he wanted to get murdered. I peeked over my shoulder to check that Dirk was still engrossed in the cartoon, then quickly slipped the money into the drawer in my desk.

The only other item in the wallet was a small plastic transparent business card stuck behind a company electrofuel token. It proclaimed "Let all those who believe in the darkness rejoice in the shadows". Nothing more than that. My spine tingled again.

I skimmed the cards one-by-one, then sent the data to a contact who I used regularly for hacking money accounts. We worked on a 50-50 fee, of which I gave Dirk 10%, which left me with 40% for doing nothing more than handling the physical cards. Once the data has been confirmed, I bagged everything (including the spooky emails and my surgical gloves) and incinerated them in my trash disposal unit. Everything that belonged to the now-dead man had been reduced to ashes, bar the key and whatever data resided within the encrypted disk image. Not much of a legacy. Not yet.

Dirk turned to me. "Enough?"

"More than." I suddenly had a choice; I could either give Dirk the cash from the wallet, keep it for myself, or split the proceeds equally. I doubt he would have counted the money from the wallet, not when fleeing from a murder, not in the pouring rain. Still, I wanted to limit the opportunities for Dirk to kill me, so I grudgingly decided to be honest. "Five biggies in cash!"

Dirk grunted. "I know. Counted it."

I felt the near-miss of the Reaper's scythe. I had almost underestimated him. "So, what do you want with your share?"

"Dunno. How much X can I get?" Sure, he could count money but he couldn't do much else with it.

"About two week's worth, big guy!"

"Cool. Gimme."

I went into my dark bedroom. The small supposedly "ever-lasting" lamp in the plasteel ceiling had lasted only a few weeks before dying. It didn't matter, as the room was so small that the reflected light from the hallway was enough to illuminate it. It was just big enough for a single bed, a small wardrobe and a bedside table. Underneath my thin sagging bed was the small but almost-indestructible mute grey safe that I stored my cache of drugs.

Strange things, drugs. I had never taken drugs but had witnessed their effects many times. Without blowing my own trumpet, I had been very bright from an early age and quickly realised that I could use drugs to control people, and thus to put a bit of a safety barrier between me and those who could kill me. When you're a dealer, you are a useful person in the underworld and people that need easy access to drugs will protect you, which is how me and Dirk ended up as friends. Sort of.

Dirk's poison was Extreme Acid, or simply "X" out on the street. It was a particularly nasty drug, one that almost defied belief in the way it worked. Yet there it was, temporary paradise in capsule form. Pop one small yellow tablet and your fantasies became real. The drug changed what your senses received and transposed your fantasies over the top. A dog's barking became a girl laughing. Your TV became a magical treasure chest. A knife became your favourite chocolate bar. That was the problem with it – highly addictive and tragically dangerous. There was something un-nerving about someone eating handfuls of nails with a huge grin on their face, thinking that they were in fact eating some gourmet dish. I'd seen that before – and worse.

The media started reporting the effects of X with gusto and, surprisingly, they didn't need to embellish the already-unbelievable events. People making love to lamp-posts, teenagers leaping off bridges with joyous yells, knifing their loved ones with a big smile on their face – heaven-knows what they thought they were doing. Down in the lowest levels of the city though, it was more common for addicts to rape and kill complete strangers as their drug-fuelled fantasy covered the horror of their crime. Many a junkie would awake after experiencing an amazing night of passion with their dream women to find that her caresses were in fact punches and nail scratches; her screams of joy actually cries for help; her quivering orgasm her last breath.

Even if they survived the effects of living out a fantasy world in the urban decay of the underworld, users would start suffering from depression as they realised how insignificant and terrible their real life was in comparison to their drug trips. Either that or they would ultimately retreat into the warm glow of their minds, slowly starving themselves to death, not bothering to eat. X created a whole heap of social problems for a society already fractured and broken, and broadened the gap between those living in the privileged heights of The Tower and those squirming around in the dirt at its base. X was simply another horrific chemical that the uneducated took, and that's how the government dismissed the problem. For me though, X was another way to make a living, and when death and desperation greeted me every time I stepped outside my unit, I couldn't afford to make a moral objection to selling X. It was a lever for me to use to ensure my survival.

I pressed my finger against the small DNA reader on the safe, grabbed a handful of small baggies from inside and slammed it shut. I counted out 17 pills and pocketed the excess. Roughly two week's worth and a little bit more for luck. Hell, with the money Dirk was giving me, I could afford it.

I wandered into the living room and found Dirk staring at me. "What's up, Dirk?"

"Nothin', just thinking about why you're my friend."

That wasn't a Dirk question. "Well," I coughed to stall for time – where had this question come from? "I'm not sure. People become friends because they just like being in each other's company." Did that sound plausible?

"Good!" He smiled. "I fink dat too."

"Great!" The knot that had formed in my stomach released suddenly. "Here's your X, with a little extra too." I handed over the baggies and they were literally ripped from my grasp and disappeared into a breast pocket.

"Fanks!" He resumed watching his cartoons, and I sat back down at the desk with relief. I queried the newsnets again and they finally (and slowly) came back with an answer. Another research satellite had come crashing down no more than 4 miles away. Those satellites were monstrously big, manufactured in orbit simply because they were too large to send up by rocket. They had a multitude of uses, but mostly they were used as expendable temporary hotels for those wealthy enough to holiday in orbit. They had an expected lifetime of several years, and when a unit was too badly-damaged by micro meteors or the radiation from the sun, they were usually tossed into the Earth's atmosphere. Every now and again though, because of some undocumented upgrade or modification, part of a doomed satellite would survive the assault of re-entry and make landfall. I was convinced that it was done on purpose to save money. People had no value, there were simply too many of us to be unique in any way.

As I backed out of the news sites, a breaking local story caught my eye, and I retrieved it. Police looking for witnesses, murder, local religious man, Rochester Bertrund – yep, this was Dirk's handiwork all right... badly mutilated?

Dismembered?!

That was extremely worrying. Extremely worrying indeed. The room turned cold and I was suddenly aware of Dirk's huge presence in the room. I flicked a quick look over my shoulder – yes, he was still watching his HoloTV, thank goodness. What worried me the most was that Dirk never carried a weapon. Ever. If he dismembered this Rochester man, he had done it with his bare hands.

Suddenly, I needed to know. I needed to judge whether Dirk was a threat to me now. In any case, he now had two week's worth of X and would hibernate, leaving me to decide whether it was time to terminate this agreement. "Dirk," I began, trying to sound breezy, "can I have a look at your recorder please?"

"Why?"

"Oh, I think there may have been... a CCTV camera that saw you when you attacked that man. Just looking at the news sites. I need to check."

"Oh, right." He ripped off a small thin piece of tape from his right eyebrow and offered it to me. I fed it into my laptop and downloaded the video stream from it.

Like most people, Dirk recorded all of his activities on a small invisible camera. He did this for my purposes; if something happened that Dirk didn't understand, it was easier to watch it myself than trying to interpret Dirk's limited vocabulary. I didn't wear one, I didn't need to incriminate myself in such a fashion and, unlike everyone else, I had no need to document every detail of my life on an Internet social networking website.

I scrolled through the video frames until I saw red. Yep, that would be it. The video showed some dark alley, trash and puddles littering the floor, the walls gliding by until a smartly-dressed gentleman entered the frame. He was respectable-looking, wearing a grey hat and a well-fitting grey overcoat. He looked old but in a venerable way. And there was something about his eyes... stern. Trusting. Yeah, this was a religious man, his faith and conviction relayed even through this video stream.

I didn't have the sound on, but it was clear that the conversation was short-lived and immediately violent. Dirk's fists lashed out from underneath the video frame, Rochester catching the punch full in the face. The viewpoint lurched – Dirk fell onto the old man, then Dirk's hands turned into shovels, tearing into Rochester's chest. Blood and clothes splattered across the screen and I could barely watch the muted horror. Strangely, Rochester's face wasn't one of panic and pain, even as Dirk gouged holes into his chest cavity. It was instead a look of...concern? Concentration? Curiosity?

It was over quickly. Afterwards, Dirk staggered to his feet, Rochester's body parts in full view on the wet plasteel floor. His hands frisked the dead man's trousers, retrieving the keys, the wallet, something that I assumed was the data card, and –

I paused the video and scanned back. It was a device of some sort, ceramic white, sleek. I instantly knew that it was a phone. I was a fan of mobile handsets, my own the latest in PDA technology and modified to allow me to hack into other people's systems. Yet I didn't recognise this particular model. Hmm.

I took a capture of the handset, carefully omitted any tell-tale background details, and fed it into an image-recognition app. It paused, then returned only one match – the Tartarus, and only as a 65% possibility. The gadget-freak in me digested the information with growing interest; the Tartarus was a prototype device, only issued to select people (key positions in companies and churches, for some reason). As well as containing all the usual wireless technologies, it offered an unholy amount of onboard storage and a 3D holographic interface that was absolutely unheard of on the consumer market. It charged its battery by movement and by ambient light, in theory being able to sustain itself for many years. It also offered a whole range of programmable wireless frequencies – oh boy, it was made for illegal activities! I needed this handset.

Suddenly, I realised the fatal error. I leapt up and shouted at Dirk. "Where's the phone? Where's the damn phone?!"

"Wot?" Dirk didn't flinch at my shout.

"The handset you took off of that man! I saw it on the video!"

"Oh. That one." His hand involuntarily flitted to his pants pocket. "Is mine."

"Is it on?"

"Er..."

"Damn! Give it here!"

"No way." He looked stubbornly at me but there was no time to dance around the beast.

"Dirk, if it's switched on, the police can trace you!"

"They...they could?" His eyes immediately changed to fright – an odd sight on such a large brute. He fumbled the pearl handset out of his pants and chucked it at me. "Do somefing!"

Whether it was the pulse racing through my fingers or the impact from the throw, the phone gave me a small shock of cold as I caught it. I ran my thumbs around the edges, feeling for a power button, but the phone was completely smooth. No indents, no recesses, no give-away clasps or flaps. Running out of ideas, I pressed the flush side with a fingertip and the device sprang to life. Full signal strength, UGPS, 9G, full spectrum on. They could call us up for a chat as they dropped a tactical missile on us if they wanted to. I fumbled my way through the menus. It was similar to the ZenRobot operating system that I was used to, but a lot sleeker and faster. In the background, I could still hear sirens. Were those sirens actually heading for this flat? Were there squads closing in on us, ready to shoot first and question later?

I found the wireless controls and slid my finger to off. One by one, all the wireless signals powered down until the device was silent and safe. "All dark."

"Thanks!" Dirk smiled, then quickly snatched the handset back before I could resist.

"Oh. Er, you want that handset?"

"Yep. I like." He sat back down to watch the HoloTV again.

"What if... we swapped phones? Mine for yours? It's a lot better than that one."

"Nope." He didn't even pause to consider the idea. "I like this one. Is white. Not colourful."

This could be difficult. Something inside me wanted that handset more than anything else. My hand still felt cold from touching it, but it felt good too. I shook my head. It's only a handset. It wasn't worth angering Dirk for, especially since he had murdered someone in the most horrific manner about 60 minutes ago. Yet, it was a prototype device, no-one else had one, it was the ultimate remote hacking tool. At the least, it would be an item to increase what little standing I had amongst the other slicers and hackers down here. Dirk simply didn't need it and I did.

"Dirk, what if I offered to buy that handset from you?"

"Nope." Again, no pause for thought.

"Seriously, how much do you want for it?"

"No!" He shouted, scaring the crap out of me and making my desk vibrate a little.

"OK, OK." Dammit. Money was usually the oil that greased even the most stubborn wheel. What else did I have? Ah, yes...

"What about X?"

This time, there was a pause. "How much X?"

Ah, progress! "Another 2 weeks worth?"

He got the handset out slowly without breaking my stare; I had triumphed! No junkie could ever resist the offer of drugs. Dirk turned the white handset over in his hand then amazingly, put it back. "Nope. Don't ask me again."

It was my final warning, that much was clear. Damn damn damn! I should have said 4 weeks worth, although I didn't think I had that much.

I slumped heavily down in the chair again and stared at the cropped picture of the handset on my screen. How to get you, my porcelain beauty? It was like a gem, a sliver of crystal against the cold rotting corpse of this life. It promised purity of action, status, functionality, envy from my peers. As if sensing my plan to replace it, my PDA pinged; it was Zeegee, my card skimmer, reporting on Rochester's cards. This couldn't be good. Usually, cards took a long time to skim.

u thr? I hated text speak almost as much as l33t, but at least I could read it easily.

Yes. What's up?

Thos crds u gve me – jkpt! I really didn't care whether Rochester's cards were millions or pennies, they wouldn't get me the Tartarus.

Cool. How much each?

1mil The figure didn't register immediately. It was just a number, not a Tartarus handset so I wasn't that interested. Could I buy one? Someone must have another for sale.

You ever heard of the Tartarus PDA?

nope. Y?

No worries.

Mney in accnt nw. Thnx!

I closed the app and let the phone drop onto the table. Piece of crap. There must be a way to get a Tartarus...

Dirk farted, jumped up and mumbled to me as he stomped past. "Gonna do X. See you soon." With that, he entered his bedroom which was opposite mine, and closed the door. And so began his hibernation for the next fortnight. I watched him go and felt a flash of hatred never-before felt for anyone else. Once, when I was 18, I was being beaten with a metal tube in the back-alleys of my old neighbourhood, beaten for no reason other than boredom. Even as I felt my skull crack and pain coarse through my chest, panicking that the next blow would kill me but unable to stop it, I didn't feel the kind of hatred for my attackers as I now did for Dirk. Then his fart hit my nostrils, breaking the red mist from my eyes.

It didn't take long to come up with a plan to liberate the handset from Dirk. On the third day, I was taking some fresh bedding, a bottle of water and a bowl of food into his room when it hit me. It was a completely ruthless plan, horrible and sneaky too. For some reason, the thought of getting the Tartarus over-ruled everything else... I hadn't slept right since first seeing it. My tired mind had started to play tricks on me, shadows dancing at the sides of my vision. I had given Dirk the chance to part with the handset for drugs and cash, so he had forced me to take alternative action.

I smiled as I pinged the door lock on Dirk's bedroom, then squeezed into the room. Dirk was on his bed, staring up at the ceiling and grinning. Damn – he was on one! We agreed that he wouldn't take any X between 12 and 1 in order to give me safe passage! He stared at me as I froze in the doorway – I was unsure whether to carry on or retreat. "Darling! Oh, my love!" He sat up and reached out towards me with a huge hand. No, not this again! I dropped the food and water, threw the blanket over his head, then bolted back through the doorway, hitting the manual lock button on the frame. The metal door crashed shut and I stood, panting, listening for any attempt to break out. None came, so I wandered back to my desk and got the bagged car keys from the drawer. Dirk attempting to make love to me was the final straw, so it was time to put my plan into action. The dead man's keys felt heavy and cold through the film of the bag. I could still see specks of blood over the fob. Perfect. However, I needed to distance the Tartarus from Dirk first. That wouldn't be easy.

I waited until 6pm that night, then tapped on Dirk's door. No answer, so I unlocked it. Dirk was curled up on his bed, asleep. White foam bubbled out of the corners of his mouth, and his skin was completely white. Yeah, he was coming down heavily. Good, I thought. I scanned the small messy room, but there was no sign of the phone. Where would he have put it? My first answer was – nowhere. He would have left them wherever he last put it, which was his pants packet. He was currently wearing jeans, so that means his pants would be...

I dropped onto my hands and knees and started to search the metal floor. It was littered with baggies, food wrappers and tissues. I really didn't want to touch anything down here, especially the dried droplets of god-knows-what. Suddenly, there were his pants, musty-smelling and still damp from the downpour a few nights back. I patted the front pockets carefully – bingo! There it was, a smooth block trapped within stinking rags. I reached in – thank goodness Dirk wasn't a needles user – and pulled out the Tartarus in all its white purity. I stared at it in my grubby hand, the image of the filth around me reflected as beautiful swirls. I slipped the handset into my pocket and brought out the bag with the blood-stained key in it. Once this was done, there would be no going back. As a reminder, the Tartarus dug into my thigh a little, so I upended the contents of the bag into the stinking pocket, then crawled out of the room slowly.

Once outside, I locked the door, brushed off my knees and practically danced into the living room. The Tartarus was mine! Well, practically mine. There was still something that needed to be done. It was practically suicide, but played correctly, it would solve a lot of problems in one go. I started to pack for phase 2.

***

The next day, I sat patiently at my desk fiddling with a piece of string. The desk was bare; no laptop, no server, nothing electronic bar my PDA. The previous night, I had hard-reset the phone to its factory defaults to ensure that there was no illegal apps or information on it. It pained me to do it, but the risk I was taking was already big-enough without a pocket full of illegal apps. The living room around me was in a disgusting state. There were bottles, wrappers, old clothes, boxes, old food and general filth scattered around the room. It looked exactly like a slum. Outside the small barred window to my right, rain started to hit the windowsill. Dammit. On the roof, roughly above my bedroom was a waterproof bag, tightly sealed, containing my computers, drugs, and the beloved handset. It was disguised as a pile of rubbish, bags sewn over the surface. Hopefully it was still waterproof.

From his room, Dirk roared in triumph, probably conquering some foe or impregnating some long-lost love. Spending all day in a room, ejaculating and pretend-fighting your life away, it wasn't healthy. What was the alternative though? Fighting everyone else for the sake of a couple of bucks so you could eat for one extra day? Realising that you were just another pair of lungs sucking in the same air as billions of other unwanted people? Waiting for boredom, drugs, disease or your neighbour to take your life away? No, it wasn't what I was going to wait for, but in order to get what I wanted, I needed help from the Beast.

Right on cue, the front door parted in white flame and heat. The force blew me off my chair and I landed heavily against the wall. The smell of sulphur was choking; before I could get up, a man landed on me. I felt something metallic press into my forehead – it was a gun barrel, which meant that the man was a policeman.

"Are you Dirk Pitman?" The voice was heavy and commanded obedience. I tried to see him but stars clouded my vision.

"No," I gasped, "he's in his bedroom."

The weight lifted and I was dragged to my feet. My sight returned; the room was full of policemen, clad in black bodyplating and armed with their short stubby-but-lethal machine guns. Those firearms were worth an absolute fortune on the black market. My hands were quickly cuffed behind my back and I was slung into my uprighted chair. The policeman knelt down into my face. Through his plastic visor he looked tired and unshaven, but stern in a strangely friendly way. He held up a picture. It was of Dirk sat on the front sofa watching cartoons. "Is this Dirk Pitman?"

I nodded. The policeman looked over his shoulder and motioned to a guy in bright blue body armour. He nodded in return.

"Do you know if Dirk has been in any trouble? Has he been acting strange lately?"

I was expecting this sort of question and had a practised response to hand. "No, not really. I don't know Dirk too well. He comes in, goes to his room. That's it."

"Is Dirk in that room over there?"

"Yeah. Be careful. I think he's on drugs."

His face softened – excellent. That should give me a little leniency at the station later. "Thanks, son." He straightened up, checked his weapon and signalled to the others. He looked at me over his shoulder. "Don't move."

I nodded. It was going as planned. As long as they weren't trigger-happy, I would be roughed up a little but otherwise unharmed, Dirk would be arrested and executed for the murder of one Rochester Bertrund, and I would have the Tartarus.

The squad all settled around Dirk's bedroom doorway, guns at the ready. The grey-clad policeman dropped his hand and they rushed into his room. There was shouting then, bizarrely, I heard Dirk squeal in delight. What was Dirk's fantasy-world mind seeing instead of 5 heavily-armed policemen? A quintet of busty nymphomaniac sirens? A cast-iron thought interrupted my ponderings; the captain of the squad was wearing blue, and Dirk was tripping on X!

I shouted out in vain, but my voice was swallowed up by the commotion in Dirk's room. The police started to shout, the metallic clunk of their guns providing the full stops in their sentences. Suddenly, there was the sound of tearing fabric. A jet of red blood squirted out of the doorway in the shocked silence, then my ears were assaulted by the relentless boom of guns. Radios blared and the police barked frantic instructions, but my ears were ringing and I couldn't make out the words. Three paramedics, dressed in white versions of the police's heavy armour, suddenly appeared and dived into Dirk's room. A few of the police vacated the room. They had their helmets off and were talking in low tones to each other. Eventually, the old policeman who had talked to me earlier wandered over. He pulled his fingers through his hair and crouched down in front of me.

"Sorry lad – your friend's dead."

"Yeah. I heard the guns."

"He killed our captain," he said simply. "He just reached over and... twisted his head off. I've never seen anything like it." He looked utterly shocked, and for a policeman who probably dealt with terrible sights and sounds on a day-to-day basis, it spoke volumes.

"That's terrible. I am sorry." It was true. I was sorry that I'd ever thought up this scheme. I could feel my legs trembling and I needed to pee. Already, two people had died (three if you count Rochester) for the Tartarus. Would I be next? No, I forced myself to concentrate on the present.

"Thanks. You seem like a decent kid. What were you doing living with a beast like that?"

"I... dunno. Needed the rent I guess." Something crossed my mind; now that Dirk was dead, I was extremely vulnerable. People would never have thought of robbing this flat, what with Dirk lurching around the place, but once the word hit the streets that Dirk was dead, some may get ideas about breaking in for my wares. This scheme had suddenly landed me with big problems.

One of the policemen wandered over to us and whispered into the older guy's ear. He nodded and took something from the grasp of the newcomer.

"Hmm. Well, it looks like we got the right man anyway." He held up a bag with the key to the FalconEx car. "These were found in your friend's room. It's a key belonging to a man murdered a few days ago. We can't say for certain until we get it back to the lab."

"Oh," I said quietly. I didn't feel well. I wanted to crawl into bed and sleep the last few minutes away, maybe wake up to discover that this was a dream. Over the policeman's shoulder, the paramedics carried out a body clad in blue, too small to be Dirk. The policeman followed my gaze.

"He was a good man," he whispered, "he really didn't deserve to die like that."

"No-one does," I replied absent-mindedly. He nodded.

"True. Anyway, we're gonna have to take you down the station while we crush the place up for evidence. You'd better say goodbye to everything. Don't worry about the station. It's just paperwork."

I felt my stomach tense up in anxiety but tried to look uninterested. "Fine. Will it take long? I just want to go to bed. Bad day."

"You won't have a bed to get back to I'm afraid." He hauled me up gently and led me out into the street, where a fleet of police vehicles were sat, doors flung open invitingly. A few yards away, some people were rubber-necking the scene. The policeman guided me to a small police cruiser, then undone my handcuffs. "I don't think you'll give us any trouble, so no need for these."

"Thanks." I rubbed my wrists gratefully, then sat down in the back seat. I felt a little better now. I looked through the smoky windows of the car. Poor Dirk. Poor Rochester. Poor me.

***

It took almost 5 hours for the police to finish with me. I spent most of the time unconscious due to being attacked as soon as I walked into the holding cells. One of the inmates, a beast of a man wearing a small vest stretched across a huge fat belly and sporting a tattoo of a goat's head across his grizzled features, walked over to me and punched me square in the face. I doubled over instinctively, holding my split nose and looking numbly at the blood in my hands. He then served me with a devastating uppercut, and I passed out. I woke up later in an interview room, two hard-looking policeman slapping my face to wake me. They asked me standard questions, like who I was, how did I know Dirk, where was I when the murder took place, and so on. They in turn told me that a crunch of the flat had found enough evidence to charge Dirk with Rochester Bertrund's murder, had he not been killed for murdering a police officer. They took my prints, a blood sample and some facial shots before ejecting me into the streets with nothing more than a paper tissue to cover my broken nose. Efficient.

When I got back to my flat, I found that it was completely empty. No beds, no HoloTV, no safe, no messy food wrappers – everything was gone. Standard police procedure; everything had been to a lab where they would have scanned, imaged, then broken down and analysed all items for DNA. I expected this, hence why my prized possessions had been placed on the roof. The police had even hosed down the surfaces too, again, standard procedure. At least it saved me scrubbing the surfaces. I sat cross-legged on the floor, collected my thoughts, then fell asleep.

I woke up freezing and aching. I opened my eyes to catch the foot of someone disappearing into Dirk's room. Shivers ran up my spine; there was someone in here with me! I sat up and stared, willing the person out of the room. After a few moments, I crawled slowly to the door edge and peeked into the room. It was dark, but undeniably empty. Probably stress due to two people being killed in the unit. I decided that it would be safe to retrieve my bag from the roof, so I opened up my bedroom window, took down the protective metal bars, then reached up and grabbed for the bag.

It was gone. My hand flailed around desperately for a moment, panic sinking in. Without my equipment, I was done for! The police must have seen it and taken it. I needed to get out of here – there was enough information on those computers to hang me. Where would I go? Without my machines, I would have no way to ask for help, no way to access my bank accounts...

My hand suddenly brushed against a plastic sheet, and I tugged it down. It was the bag. I jumped back inside and untied the sack. Inside, everything was dry and undamaged. I'd never been so glad to see a bag full of computers before. It took a little while to setup the server and to unpack my laptop. Without any furniture, I was forced to setup everything on the floor – not convenient, but necessary. The first thing out of the bag though was the Tartarus, and I spent a few minutes simply staring at it. So beautiful. I looked at my eyes reflected in the screen. They stared back at me, big and dark, so I angled the screen away from me a little. Eventually, I connected it to my laptop and spent an hour swapping the serial numbers from my old PDA to stop anyone tracking the Tartarus down. When the final reference had been erased and replaced, I allowed it to connect to the invisible networks around me. I felt relieved and excited, like a man who had been allowed into the bedroom of a long-time crush. At that moment, an extremely strange feeling washed over me. It was as if a fog had lifted from around my thoughts, allowing me free thought and clarity for the first time in days. My mind took seconds to re-analyse and evaluate the events of the past few hours. Dirk was dead, killed indirectly by my treachery. He trusted me, and I betrayed that trust for greed. I always prided myself as being above all the crap down here. Not any more. I didn't have the guts to take Dirk on myself, and instead got the hated police to do my dirty work for me. Some might say that Dirk deserved to die for his crimes and that what I had done was simply forced the hand of justice. I didn't act in the name of justice though, but for my own selfish needs. I felt totally dejected, and not even the thought of the Tartarus, the wretched cause of all this, could do anything to raise my spirits. Sat on the floor in my empty flat, the silent rage of fresh death still hanging in the air, I felt totally alone. I needed to get out. The Tartarus chimed lovingly and then went silent.

***

Early the next morning, I was awoken by the beeping of the door bell. I had fallen asleep in a cross-legged position, and it took a few moments to untangle my limbs and rub the feeling into them again. The beeping continued, and I pressed the intercom button.

"Who is it?"

"Come on man, lemme in!"

I didn't recognise the voice and I wasn't expecting anyone. "Who is it?" I asked again.

"Lemme in! Just open the fracking door, dickhead!"

"Not until you tell me who you are."

Whoever it was started to test the strength of the metallic shutters. In theory, they should be extremely tough, but through desperation comes ingenuity and you never knew what tricks or tools some gearhead in a grotty garage had come up with. "Just let us in and we'll make it painless for you," said the now-gnarly voice through the intercom, "we will get in eventually, now that you don't have that gigantic sack of shit covering your ass. You're fair game."

My heart was thumping. I was trapped inside my bare-bones flat, nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. Would the doors hold? The thumping stopped. The intercom spluttered again, and a different voice spoke. "We're coming to get you." With that, I heard the unmistakable sound of a blowtorch. They were going to cut their way in. Crude, but ultimately effective. I almost smiled at the thought of a bunch of skaggers wheeling around an oxyacetylene bottle in the slums.

I got the Tartarus out and contemplated calling the police but their response times to burglaries were measured in weeks. I would be hanging from the doorframe by the time someone thought about maybe following up the call. No – I had to do something myself. After a moment, I licked my lips and pressed the intercom again. "OK guys, you got me. What do you want?" The intercom didn't respond, so I tried again. "Come on guys, you obviously want something. Maybe we can come to a deal that saves my life and your time?"

"Like what?"

"Erm, what about if I throw out all my stash?"

There was a silence, then the intercom cracked to life again. "What else? We want money. Lots of it. How much is your life worth, dealer?"

They weren't sophisticated men, they wouldn't accept electronic transfers and they certainly wouldn't want the trouble of fencing electronic goods like my server and laptop, not that I would have offered them up anyway. The Tartarus chimed softly to inform me that I had new mail. After the trouble I'd gone through to get the handset, I certainly wouldn't be handing it over to a group of skinners, so that was off the table. The only other thing was the 5,000 creds in my wallet. That should be enough.

"Would 5,000 creds and a sack of X do?"

"You have 5 g's and X in there?"

"Yep, and I'll hand it over to you now if you stop cutting."

Again, a pause. They were probably huddled around, talking about the deal. I wondered how many there were, ready to chop me to pieces. There were about three occasions (this being one of them) when I wished that I'd bought a laspistol or a scattergun. Guns scared me, even when in my own hands, so I'd never bothered to get one. However, I now realised that a gun in my hands scared me less than a knife in someone else's. "Sorry laddie," came the reply, "we're still gonna come in."

Shit! That was it, I was dead. Panicking, I ran to the walls, feebly trying to think of a way out. I had a few minutes of life left before those skinners came in and...

The Tartarus chimed and I whipped it out in frustration. Update XWindow said the system message. Wait - the window! It was on the side of the flat so should be out of sight to the people cutting through the door, and the noise of the torch should mask any noise of me undoing the bars. I shoved my laptop and its power lead into the waterproofed sack, silently said goodbye to my faithful server box, then pressed the button to trash its hard drive. I ran over to my bedroom window and, sliding the window across as far as it would go, quickly unscrewed the bolts holding the outside bars in place, and fell outside. I could hear the bloodthirsty chatter from the band at the door, most of it obscene and random. God-knows whether they intended to kill me, rape me or both. I closed the window and balanced the bars against it. The screws were designed to be untouchable from outside for obvious security reasons, but I needed the bars to just look as if they were still in place. That should buy me some time when the robbers started looking for me in the flat.

I sprinted away from the unit until I was several blocks away then stopped, panting. Where could I go now? It was early morning so should be relatively safe in the alleys and roads, but I had absolutely nowhere to go. I had no friends outside of the Internet, I had no family to run to, I had no idea what the other parts of the city were actually like. Looking up, the huge megatower stretched miles above me, the early sun turning it into a pillar of light holding up the sky.

It was originally supposed to be a huge building complex, no more than 20 or 30 floors high but encompassing a large part of the city within its perimeter. Through the need for more decadent living space and the confidence in modern building materials, it had grown taller every year until it had turned into the colossus now stood before me. The first 100 floors were nothing but solid metal now, a buffer between the scum living around its base and the privileged living within The Tower. Many people had tried to climb the buffer but had failed or had simply been shot by the guardian 'bots protecting it. Despite the danger, people still tried every day.

I heard shouting from my violated home and so hurried away, not really knowing what to do next. I half-walked, half-ran until I couldn't hear the shouts and yells of the gang anymore, then headed for 2nd Street, the busiest street in the slum. Small dilapidated stalls lined the sides of the road, selling anything from batteries to pieces of dried fruit. This particular area had been unofficially named "Custer's Revenge" – heaven knows why. People shuffled through the dusty road, brown and grey rags hanging limply from them. No-one made eye-contact with each other, no-one smiled, no-one wanted to be here. This was how life was lived when there was little to live for. Some carried bags in their arms, looking wildly around in case someone decided to take it from them. Across the road, two men were fighting noisily. People stepped around them, completely uninterested in the scuffle. Suddenly, one of the men started jerking violently, a knife sticking out of his head. In a few moments, the stabbed man lay still, obviously dead. Brushing himself down, the victor retrieved his knife, picked up a small bag, then continued down the street.

A little shaken by the mute horror of this death, I joined the flow of people and headed towards The Tower. Even though it took up the complete horizon, it was a few miles before I would get anywhere near the outskirts of the DMZ surrounding the base. The streets got busier and busier, with fights and scuffles breaking out along the sides of the road. I walked for a couple of hours, thinking about what I should do now that I had been displaced, but came up with no answers. The sun beat down on my head, and eventually I needed refreshment.

At the next major junction, I stopped and purchased a small water bottle from a vendor, the cool liquid surprisingly fresh on my parched mouth. I sat down on an upturned barrel and people-watched for a moment, my legs crying out for mercy. My heart pounded and my stomach fluttered with hunger. Wow – I was surprised how unfit I had become. I looked up at The Tower again. High above, the lowest windows reflected the grey and purple clouds racing in from behind me. There would be rain and lightning for sure, and I needed a place to shelter before they came. Looking around, I spotted a small public house off the main road opposite, people milling about outside, either drinking and smoking with friends or watching the passing people like a pack of hyenas. The Bull at Crews. It didn't sound too menacing.

From above me came the screech of a lightning bolt. The Tower had seriously screwed with the local weather cycles, something to do with the base and the top having a massive electrical differential? I had also heard that they generated their own electricity by tapping this potential, but it wasn't free. Lightning storms were a frequent occurrence as a result. I had a fear of being hit by lightning – a really bad fear. Drawing on all my nerve, I skittered across the busy road and headed for the pub.

The hyenas watched every footstep I took towards them. Act casual, I thought. When I came to the doorway, I nodded to the nearest one and said "Whot'cha!" He did the same, and that was it – I wasn't prey anymore. It's amazing what feigned familiarity can do. The pub was busy and dark, much like every pub in the world. Smoke hung in the air, and people talked in loud tones at the dark wood tables. I navigated around the obstacle course of chairs and round stools until I reached the bar. The landlord, large and burly with a big black beard waddled over warily to me. "Yes?"

"Can I have a pint of beer please"

"Any particular one?" he asked, wiping his hands on the small leather waistcoat stretched across his chest.

"Erm..." Truth was, I didn't know any brands of beer. I'd rarely visited a pub for social reasons. Usually, I would meet people in pubs to drop off a stash or pickup a bit of stolen tech, but never to drink. I tried to remember anything that I'd overheard during those visits. "...whatever's strongest?"

"Right you are!" The landlord smiled in a way that said "you're not fooling anyone matey," and poured a pint out of a brass curved tap. I looked around the bar, but people paid me no attention, which was good. For such an early time in the day, it was remarkable how many people were hitting the booze hard. Then again, what else was there to do down here? From outside, the zap of another thunderbolt shook the glasses behind the bar. I jumped about 10 foot in the air and quickly recovered. "Don't worry my boy, you'll get used to them banshee bolts. Bloody tower brought them with it from hell, I'm sure. They hardly hit anything down here though. The tower mops up the majority of them."

"Oh...that's good."

"So," said the landlord, thumping the pint pot in front of me, "where have you come from?"

"Um, just outside Custers."

"You on the run?"

I took a tentative sip of the dark brown beer. It was really bitter but somehow refreshing, so I gulped down as much as I could in one go. The landlord looked surprised by this sup. "Something like that," I gasped after stopping for air, "let's just say I left in a hurry."

"I can see that." He motioned to my muddy front and beaten appearance. I suddenly realised that I must look a sight, even for the slums. "You looking for somewhere to lie low for a while?"

"Might be." I took another swig of the heartening beer. It was very good, and I felt a little more relaxed. "I was hoping that this pub had some rooms?"

"Sure does. It'll cost you though." He looked a little apologetic, bless him.

"That's fine, I can pay." Thank god for that 5,000 from Rochester.

"Funny you should mention paying..." The landlord looked purposefully at the almost-empty glass.

"Oh right, sorry. And can I have another please?" I carefully drew out a 50C bill.

The landlord took it with a laugh. "If this is fake, me and you are going to fall out very quickly son." He ran a laser pen over it, then nodded and fed it into the till. "Fair enough."

The landlord – real name Michael Curry, or Makky to his friends - was a rare breed. Landlords are pillars of the community, regardless of what state the community is in. If the landlord is your friend, you are allowed all the privileges that his blessing entails such as the freedom to talk openly, the right to sit at the bar and, most importantly, immunity from being roughed up, mugged, or killed. A simple "he's OK" from any landlord will call off the most violent of dogs in a pub scuffle. Makky was not just a landlord, but a decent person too, and I quickly considered myself lucky to have stumbled into his pub.

I hit my 5th pint at about 2pm. As I wavered in my bar stool, Makky leaned over the bar to me and said, "You're looking a bit worse for wear, bloke. You wanna sleep it off in your room." It wasn't a question, but a non-threatening order to go. I looked past him and nodded to the spirits on the far wall.

"You're... you're right. You're always right."

I think Makky smiled at that. I know my new-found local friends found that funny because they all erupted in drunken laughter. I think Makky then helped me upstairs and guided me to a small bed in a fairly comfortable but faintly-feminine room. I think that's when I fell into a very deep sleep and stopped thinking.

***

I awoke in the dark. It felt like late evening to me and it took me a while to work out where I was. I could hear electronic music playing and a crowd chatting downstairs. My mouth was bone-dry from the alcohol (and probably from snoring too) so I staggered over to the small sink against the far wall. The water was cold but not particularly nice to taste. My wallet and phone were still in my pockets, thank goodness. My stomach suddenly dropped; my laptop! I remember propping the waterproof bag against the bar when some of the other regulars had joined us for a drink... and then that was the last I remember. I found the light switch and, to my utter surprise, found the laptop propped up against the wall next to the door with a small note saying Be more careful – M. Bless Makky; I would have kissed him if he were stood in front of me.

Well, I mused, I was in a pretty good position. There was money in my wallet, phone and laptop still in my possession, I had comfortable digs and a friendly landlord. I had time to think now, so I set to work. First, I booted the Tartarus up and started to load pocket versions of my laptop programs, such as instant messengers, bank apps, scanning and hacking tools. I marvelled at the speed of the phone, the red hologram interface was something else entirely. Just a small wave of the fingers would send the menus flying into sub-menus and options. I loved it. It was an online extension of myself.

I signed into my IM program with a wave of my fingertips, and several offline messages ghosted into view above the phone. It was Zeegee, the guy who hacked the cards - hacked the cards! I forgot about that! I was a millionaire! I was rich! Hell, I wasn't just rich in terms of the people living in Custers, I was rich compared with most people living in The Tower. I speed-read the messages from Zeegee, something about a fight breaking out at my house – old house, I corrected myself – between the police and a gang of Flatliners. Oh, so that must have been the roughnecks breaking down my door then.

There was a knock at the door. It was Makky with a hot coffee and a bag of bar nuts. I quickly minimised the apps hovering in the air and gratefully accepted the mug and snack. Makky plonked down on the bed next to me. "How you feeling, mate?"

"Like crap. Thanks for the coffee."

"No problem. So then, who did you rob?"

"Sorry?"

Makky looked me solid in the eye. "When you went for a slash earlier, you left your wallet at the bar so I took a quick peek in it. I needed to see who you really are and saw a huge wad of cash."

Surprisingly, I didn't feel violated. Makky's reasons to look in my wallet weren't to rob me. "That's OK. So you think I robbed someone to get all that money?"

"Everyone down here's got their skeletons. Hell, I'm no different. But when a young lad wanders in here looking like he's been crawling through the dirt, carrying an expensive laptop in a plastic bag and a few thousand creds in his wallet, I'm thinking that you're either extremely naïve, extremely brave or have no other option other than to wander around the Revenge with a laptop and a fortune in notes."

"I guess." Even though I trusted Makky, I couldn't tell him the real story about the Tartarus, Dirk, the drugs and everything. At the least it would put him in an awkward situation if I entrusted him with a tale about murder and betrayal, so I lied for both our sakes. "It's nothing really. I went to sell my house but the person who bought it from me tried to rob me so I grabbed my laptop and as much money as possible and ran."

"That's OK then." He got up and paused in the open doorway. "Come on down if you want a final drink before last orders. And don't worry about how you really got that money, it's none of my business." He flashed a smile and disappeared. I guessed he was right. It was no-one's business but mine.

***

Black rain. Every time I was forced to visit the slums, usually to track down a wayward member of the order, always black rain. A filthy face peered around a corner and I mindlessly snapped off a laser shot. I was not in the mood for people, not today, not while my rage was so incandescent and absolute. The unlucky owner of the face fell forwards into the sludge.

Inside the dilapidated hovel, my team of acolytes silently searched for clues, but I did not hold any great hope, not here. I already knew a great deal about this hole. It had been the living quarters of Rochester's killer, the same Rochester who had been mere weeks away from delivering us to the great defiler, the one true God of pure and beautiful evil. Yet Rochester had been killed by a chance occurrence with a thug. How a man destined for greatness could be killed by a person so detached from our world seemed like a cruel joke, and I knew all there was to know about cruel. It would seem to be a story that had been concluded, but I was keenly attentive to detail, which was the reason why I was standing in the mud in one of the nastiest areas of Custers.

Almost on-cue, a small group of goth punks appeared from the shadows. The frontman dangled a nasty-looking chain and smiled at me, an attempt to appear sadistic and therefore intimidating. The rain snaked down his scarred face, metal glittering around various piercings. I sighed; the poor never seemed to think more than 5 seconds ahead. If I were feeling more patient, I would have taken one of these punks back to the office to torture, to teach them inquisitive thought processes. I had no patience though, and so these idiots were about to die.

"Look what we got ere lads," said the lead punk, the chain swaying like a clock pendulum, ticking down the final seconds of its owner's life, "we got ourselves a plaything!" They all laughed loyally, a pack of filthy zombie hyenas. I almost signalled for the rest of my team who were hiding in the shadows around me to end this now, but I refrained; as the new cult leader, I could not look weak. I couldn't call for help like a damsel in distress, so I stepped towards the punks. Anyway, it was good to air the body now and again. They halted, not expecting my advance.

"Go away," I said with a smile, "and you'll live." There was a silence, then they began to laugh. That was one of the few times I had ever given my victims a chance to save themselves. Interestingly, on the occasions I'd given my victims a choice, no-one had ever taken the opportunity to save their own life. I took this to mean that fate was inescapable and inevitable. In those moments of weakness when I doubted all the blood and death and cleansing of those who were worthless, the knowledge that my actions were pre-ordained gave me strength and conviction.

"Oh no luv, we're not going anywhere." A small ratty-faced man spoke up, brandishing a worn cleaver. "You ain't going anywhere either."

Executing my augmentations programs, I unfastened my coat and let it drop to the floor. More metal than flesh, my true body was purposefully designed to invoke horror in those unlucky enough to see it. My forearms hosted several retractable knives and spikes that glinted with the cold promise of pain. My artificial circulatory system glowed purple with the high-energy plasma that coursed through it, giving me an evil aura in the darkness. Frighteningly expensive systems replaced the disgusting organs I had been born with. I flourished my huge broadsword in front of the punks and my combat computer started calculating attack options, green tags and statistics hovering over the now-silent group. I loved my body. It was the perfect fusion of the man and the man-made. A celebration of man's superior take on nature's half-assed attempt. Some may point out the irony of this, but I was bored of irony. Irony was too-common an element in this world. "Did I interrupt you?" My smile widened as my enhanced hearing picked up laughter from my hidden team. I was going to use these poor bastards as a way to vent my anger at the death of Rochester, a precursor for the slaughter that would happen once I had tracked down my quarry. The punks backed away, mesmerised by the enormous sword with which I was going to take them apart with. I sorted through some options in my vision and chose to optimise for maximum pain. The first swipe took off ratty's right leg just below the hip, a pillar of blood falling out of him and I recorded his shocked reaction in my enhanced mind to review with a good wine. The lead punk, to his credit when faced with a vision of chaos personified, swung his chain at me. I let him, my left hand reaching up to meet the rusting thick links, feeling their wet coldness wrap around my forearm, and I tugged. The punk had no opportunity to let his end of the chain go, and several fingers flew up against the relentless rain. This was enough to break the nerve of the group and they started to flee. I threw my arms up and roared, a blood frenzy taking over. "Take them, my acolytes!" In the darkness, my team moved quickly to kill the fleeing punks with guns and knives, then they returned to their positions with military efficiency. They were well-trained and loyal; whether this was because of belief or fear was unknown.

I walked over to ratty, but he was already dead from shock. I picked up his severed leg and drained the remaining blood into my mouth. Diluted from the rain, but still sticky. The other punk, cradling his ruined hand, backed away from me. So he should. I was hell on Earth. I threw his friend's leg away and pointed my weapon forward. "Any last words, maggot?" The punk looked at the blade mutely, probably unable to comprehend his imminent death, so I decapitated him.

"My lord?" Golgan, his huge heavyset bulk filling the doorway of the flat, looked impassively at my blood-splattered purple form and the dead bodies at my feet. As I had moved to become the head of the cult, he had moved up to become my number one. He was massive, able to take huge amounts of punishment before even registering pain, and was my most trusted friend now Rochester had gone. He confirmed what I already knew, which was that there were no clues at all. "What troubles you my lord? The police surely killed the man we seek?"

"No. They killed a man. We know this already, but it was not Rochester's murderer." I held up my tablet that displayed my findings. "This Dirk character, the one killed by the police, was a brain-dead exer. No tech abilities at all, and yet somehow Rochester's credit cards were skimmed expertly and quickly." I flexed my hands. "We're going to follow the money."

"Yes my lord. May the darkness prevail." I watched him go, a little guilty that I hadn't divulged all information. Rochester's phone handset, an exceedingly rare device, was the real reason why I chased Rochester's killer. I had hoped that it had been indiscriminately processed with the rest of the flat's contents by the heavy-handed police officers, but a review of the chemical analysis contained none of the rare-earth metals from crushed technology. The handset was out there, and with it the future of myself and the cult. In a population that ran into billions, it was not going to be easy to hunt down. The one advantage I did have was that the device was unique. I would succeed, I was sure of it, and the Defiler help the person found with that Tartarus in their hand.

***

I woke up in bed, the Tartarus in my outstretched hand, and I smiled lazily. For the first time in my entire life I had slept soundly and without worry. Even when living with Dirk, I had to keep my wits about me just in case he went crazy or got out of his room when X'ing. This place was different. I was protected by this pub and its landlord because I was a customer. I was paying for a service, and it was their responsibility to ensure my safety. The light from the morning sun heated the room, so I kicked the blankets off and got up. My clothes were strewn about, weathered, grubby, and practically worthless. I needed to shop. I wandered downstairs carefully, feeling like an intruder in someone else's house. Macky was sat at a table, paperwork and receipts piled high around him. He half-turned as I approached.

"Morning squire," he said jovially, "want some breakfast?"

"Please. If it's not too much trouble." I was absolutely starving. Usually I would have refused because I was uncomfortable accepting the help of strangers, but my immense hunger over-rode my feelings.

"Go help yourself." Makky waved casually to the door behind the bar. "Into the kitchen, plates are in the cupboard. There's some beans and hash browns on the cooker."

I wasn't completely naïve –I knew that the area behind the bar was a sacred area, off-limits to everyone except those who were trusted by the landlord. I nodded in recognition of Makky's blessing and made my way through the battered door. I took a plate from a door-less cupboard and piled a modest amount of food onto an off-white but clean plate, then sat at a respectful distance to the large landlord as he counted up his takings. "Thanks," I mumbled through a mouthful of food.

"No worries." He poured some coins into a baggy, then made a note. "What are you going to do now? You said that you'd sold your house, apparently, and I guess you're carrying everything you own." He glanced at me. "I'd say you need a plan young man. And some new clothes."

Absently I pulled the handset from my pocket and checked my messages. There were several dozen passive notifications from news organisations and forums detailing events that involved me in absolutely no way whatsoever, and I wondered why they were being hoarded by the handset. Lots of gothic references, translations of ancient texts, old and borderline illegal films... I closed the handset and continued stuffing my face with beans and fried potato until I had to catch my breath. Macky snorted and shook his head in amusement, long black matted strands of hair reaching down towards the money like a black claw. "Steady fella, there are better ways to die than choking on one of my breakfasts." I finished the rest of the meal, took my plate back to the kitchen and rinsed it off under the tap. I watched the faintly-brown water and wondered if everything in Custers was tainted. From within the bar Macky yelled, "If you're wondering about the water, there's a split in the underground pipe! Mud's leaking in! Have a beer instead!"

Alcohol so early in the day? I glanced at Makky as I returned to my table and sure enough there was a half a pint of beer next to him. A vice seemed to rule most people, be it alcohol or gambling or gluttony. Those who could least-afford a vice least seemed to revel in it most, which caused a lot of problems in areas such as Custers. Whether Makky could afford to drink, with regards to his health or his finances, was not my concern. I was more worried about whether he was stable. The last thing I needed was to associate with another chemically-dependent nutcase.

"Don't you want a beer?" Makky eyed me suspiciously, probably wondering why I wasn't jumping on the opportunity to have a beer.

"No. Thank you." I pulled up a chair not far from Makky, and sat in silence, not sure what to say. Makky returned to his bookkeeping, the chink of coins being shuffled into bags the only sound. He glanced up a few times, obviously wary that his money was exposed in the presence of a stranger. "I'm not going to rob you, you know."

"Exactly what a robber would say."

With nothing else to say I pulled out the Tartarus and brought up the interface. The usual passive alerts from social media hovered in the air and I couldn't help notice that the majority was from ZeeGee about his new purchases, no doubt from the skimmed cards I'd given him. It was a very bad idea to draw attention to wealth, it was much better to stay quiet, humble, and therefore safe. Big barking brought big dogs.

"What's that?" said Makky, his hand frozen over his money.

"Oh. My phone." I closed it as casually as possible. "It's an old one, a bit battered, but it does the trick."

"That's a nice phone," he said quietly. "Where did you get it?"

"I don't really remember." I slipped it back into my pocket, suddenly afraid. "I think I traded this with a friend. For... stuff. It's not valuable, not really."

Makky stared hard at me again, accusing me with silence, and I half-stood out of my chair in fear that Makky was going to leap at me. Suddenly his hand moved, sweeping the money bags into a duffel, and the atmosphere returned to normal. "Sure looks cool. I'm not really into technology though, I have enough problems with the pub and glasses and pumps and barrels." He looked at me again. "And making sure everyone behaves themselves."

"Sure. Excuse me." I went back to my room and wondered if I should just get the hell out of the pub, keep on running, and never look back. Had I imagined that Makky had momentarily changed from good-natured landlord to threatening stranger? I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at my trembling hands. If he had wanted to rob me then he could have several times already, and yet there had been a definite change in him moments ago. I pulled the Tartarus out and flipped open the interface again. I couldn't imagine Makky being a tech-head, so recognising the phone for its true value was unlikely. Maybe I was over-reacting. The Tartarus froze, then soft-reset. I waited for the reboot to complete and went through the logs, but there was nothing to indicate a problem. The last thing I needed was a faulty handset. I scrolled through my alerts about friend events, a news report about a multiple homicide the previous night in Custers – nothing new there - and went to clear them but paused over ZeeGee's avatar. He could help, although I'd never met him in person. I marvelled at the holographic keyboard for a moment before typing:

Need help. You there?

The cursor blinked for far-too long for someone who existed online. I'd be hesitant too if the roles were reversed. I heard some banging from below me, then some raised voices. Probably the first customers of the day coming in for their "heart-starters". Finally some text appeared:

\\\/\\\/|-|47 |<!|\\\||) 0|= |-|3|_|D?

Shelter. And knock off the l33t for now.

Mst b serious, ZeeGee replied. Nt cmfortbl, nt kewl.

How could I appeal to his charitable nature, if any? Bro's stick together, I typed. It was worth a shot.

Am grill.

That was a surprise. Sorry. Thought you were male.

MOST MALES DO. Fk u. That's one working relationship over I thought and closed the chat. I had two choices. Stay at the pub for a while and trust Makky to be harmless, or to gather my things and go elsewhere. I brought up the local map on the Tartarus and scoured the area looking for places to stay. There were several, with some earthy reviews about the kind of services that each offered, but none that looked particularly safe. I left my room and went back downstairs. The pub was a lot more populated than before, but instead of some half-sedated locals there was an armed gang. Collectively they turned their attention from Makky, who was laying on the floor shielding his head, to me. "Oh," is all I could say.

"What'chee got here then boys?" said the leader, one eye red with electronic augments and an oversized bat over his shoulder. "Hey Mak, is this your boyfriend?" The gang laughed.

"What is going on here?" I knew that I was completely trapped. I could run upstairs and hide but it was only delaying the inevitable. I glanced at Makky, who was bleeding from blows to the head. His eyes said Run.

"Shut the fuck up!" screamed the leader, almost leaping off the floor from the effort put into his shout. "Shut the fuck up and get on your knees before I rip your throat out!"

"Leave him out of this," garbled Makky before a foot silenced him.

"OK, let's be calm here," I said, backing up a step. "What do you want? Maybe I can help."

"Help? Help?! You can help by telling this piece of shit here to pay us our money!" The gang leader pointed his bat at me. "Go on, tell him! Tell Makky to give us our money!"

"I owe you nothing," said Makky, and spat some blood. "I owe you frack-all."

"Wrong!" The bat came down on Makky. "Wrong, wrong, wrong!"

"Stop!" My voice was a lot stronger than I expected, but it had the desired effect. "How much are we talking?"

"One G. That's not much to ask, is it, especially for the services that we offer."

"Services? What services?"

The gang laughed. "Security. See, for the piddly sum of one thousand creds, my gang will ensure that Makky and his business will never be harassed, and never experience the kind of violence like, well, this!" He used the bat again.

"Who would harass a pub and its landlord?"

The leader smiled. "Us."

"Oh." Was it blackmail or extortion? I didn't really know the difference, but I knew that I could resolve this situation. "I can give you the money. I will be back."

"Don't be long!" called the leader. "Makky's getting more hurt the longer I don't get my money!"

I ran up the stairs and into my room, then counted out a thousand and ten credits out of my wallet. I stuffed my wallet and the Tartarus into my laptop bag, then stuffed that under the bed. It would not survive a more-than cursory search of my room, but that was what the extra ten credits was for. I tried to calm down before going back downstairs. "Here."

The gang was silent, and I wondered whether this was the first time anyone had actually paid. I was probably doing society a disservice by giving into their demands, but society wasn't going to help me and Makky out of being killed right here and now. "A thousand creds?" said the leader.

"Yes. Count it."

The leader's eyes narrowed and he did not take it. "You got any more money on you, pretty boy?"

"No. Well, I have," I pretended to do a thorough search of my pockets and brought out the final note, "ten creds. Beer money." I shrugged.

Amazingly, the bandit took the ten cred note as well as the wad of cash. Heartless bastard. "Right then. You're now under the protection of Custer's Badasses. If you get any trouble, you press this." He tossed a metal device down next to Makky. "And next time, I urge you to pay up a lot quicker."

"Frack you," spat Makky. The gang laughed, then left the pub.

My shaking legs could hold me no longer and I sat. "They could have just killed us," I managed after a while, "they could have just taken the money and then killed us anyway."

"They wouldn't," replied Makky, rolling into a sitting position and mopping his wounds with a rag, "the gangs actually operate like a legitimate business. They believe that they are supplying a valuable service, and killing their customers isn't good business."

"Beating them is though?"

"I wasn't a customer until you paid them," replied Makky. He studied the device given by the gang, then tucked it into a pocket. "I will pay you back, I promise."

"Don't worry about it," I doubted Makky would be able to pay me back anytime soon, "I was paying for my life too."

Makky nodded and wiped his face. "OK then, let me get you a pint. On the house, obviously."

***

My acolytes had cleared the corridors of any bystanders prior to my arrival. I stepped out of the car and looked up at the tunnel of apartments stretching up beyond the sky. The eyes of hundreds looked down at me but I did not care. They had no rights and no say and therefore were worthless... except one. "Report."

"Target is not aware of our presence," came the voice in my ear, "fiftieth floor, 3B574."

I sent my guards ahead and made my way through the filthy maze of stairways. The structure creaked and crumbled, and parts had fallen through, and yet people still lived here. My people encountered some of the braver or drugged-up denizens and dealt with them in bloody fashion. Eventually I made my way to the apartment and made sure that the corridors were clear, then kicked the door in. Cheap anti-burglar devices whirred into action but I moved underneath their field of fire and smashed them into pieces before they could release their ordnance. I knew what this meant and knew I would not be challenged again. Disappointing.

Inside was the usual mess and decay of a slum apartment. I waded through the crap and entered a room inhabited by a female strapped into a computer couch. She was naked and streaked in filth. Her huge bulk wriggled in its restraints at my sudden appearance. "Who are you?"

I plunged a fist into her face. "Be quiet you filthy shreeter." I motioned for one of my tech-boys to begin dissecting the mountains of computers in the room. "What do you know about Rochester?"

"Who?"

Another slap. "Do not disrespect his legacy!" I would have felt more justified if we had discovered a great warrior. This sedentary net skimmer was not the murderer of our leader, but the money had led us here and so she was involved. I needed to extract the information from her. "Tell me what you know." Her shrieking stopped as I revealed a metallic arm. "Tell me now."

"I don't know anyone called Rochester! Honest!" She scrabbled at the equipment being carted away but couldn't reach. The temptations of an online life came at a price, namely a shortened life expectancy, and hers was extremely limited right now.

I brought out my tablet and held it up for her to see. "You are ZeeGee?"

Her jowls flapped about her chin. "Yagh."

I flipped to the next screen. "You skimmed the following accounts two days ago? Rochester's accounts?"

She stared, and then nodded again. "All I do is skim them. I don't know where they get the cards."

The monitors around us began to wink out. "Who is they?"

"I don't have real names. Only online names. Gamer tags. I'll give you what I know."

Anger flared within, so I drew my sword. "That will do for starters."

Her death was louder than most, but still no-one came to her aid. I doubt anyone even tried to call the police, but my followers were vigilant non-the-less. Once I was sure that she was dead, I wiped down my exoskeleton and retrieved my sword from within her carcass. It was a hollow victory for me because she posed no challenge. I turned to the tech-boy loitering in the corner. "Yes?"

"We have a trace on the money." He showed me his smartphone. "It leads us back to the same address as the exer."

"So the druggie killed Rochester, and ZeeGee skimmed the cards?" It seemed too neat, especially for the slums, and the Tartarus was still missing. "Search this place completely and check that the money did indeed go to our exer. And bring me the records of the police raid."

"Yes sir."

Something did not feel right. I was running out of options.

***

I'd never bought actual new clothes before, clothes that I'd actually picked out and bought through choice. My clothes had always been items thrown in as part of a trade of computer equipment or in part-exchange for drugs, so I felt like a million creds walking into The Bull in new threads. Makky nodded to me in greeting and went back to pouring a pint. I walked through the pub and went to my room to unpack my shopping when my phone buzzed. I activated the display. It was from ZeeGee:

Where are you at this moment?

Shibboleth told me that this was not ZeeGee, or any kind of net skimmer. I stared at the message and wondered whether I could be traced but my anti-hack suite was in place and had not registered an attempt to backtrack the message. I decided to play along.

At home. Will be back later. The message registered as received. I sat on the bed and wondered what had happened to ZeeGee.

I need to talk with you. Can you meet up with me?

Enough. Where is ZeeGee? Who are you?

We are coming, and then the connection closed. I blocked ZeeGee from my contacts for good measure, but my endpoint security remained silent. Probably some upmarket skeeters or loan sharks had invaded her home and killed her. Debt repaid. It happened. More importantly though, ZeeGee didn't know who I was so they couldn't find me. I was completely safe. My phone reactivated for a moment, then faded to black again.

***

I stared at the photo. It had been obtained through my spies in the police force and showed a suspect that was arrested and released during the raid on the home of Rochester's killer. He looked like every other person in the gutter; barely nourished and desperate, except this one had an intelligence in the eyes that could only be borne out of survival. Here was the man I hunted, and possibly the possessor of the Tartarus. An acolyte slid into the room and bowed. Ah, some news. "Report."

"Based on the information given to us about our target," he nodded to the corpse of the woman still in her couch, "we have been able to make contact."

"And?"

"I am afraid we were unable to arrange a meeting or trace the connection."

I did not punish my subjects unnecessarily. There was no such thing as failure, only feedback, and every result was an opportunity to improve and learn. "How do we find this person in the absence of a trace?"

"We have an image of him, and we know that they were in St Arati recently. We deploy agents and pull on our sources. We will find him."

I nodded. Golgon was one of my better acolytes and I believed that he would eventually succeed. "You have my thanks. Let me know when you have progress."

***

It was surprising how quickly I had settled into my new life as a tourist. The room in Makky's pub was now my home, and Makky was my provider of food and drink. In theory, I had the resource to remain in the pub for ever – in fact I could buy the pub and make it mine, except I would not know how to keep it alive – but I was finding it hard to think of reasons to leave.

It was the weekend, which meant that the pub would be busy from 5pm until late. This was the third Friday night spent in The Bull, and I was at the end of the bar reserved for favoured regulars, supping a pint of beer. Makky employed a couple of people for the weekends, which gave him some time to partake in some drinking too. This was my most favourite part of my life now, the nights of moderate drunkenness while listening to people talk about their lives, more interesting lives than mine.

"Oi Undercoat. You see that on the wall?" Makky pointed to a blackened triangle on a pillar behind the bar. "That's in remembrance of someone."

My nickname was Undercoat because my skin lacked any kind of pigment, apparently. "What is it?"

"It was a Cannon's pennant," replied Big Jon, one of the fellow favoured like me, "we bought it when Two Ton Tony passed away. You remember that?"

"Sure did," said Makky, "I was stood here one day, got a call that Tone had done himself in. Just like that, killed himself. We arranged a funeral, bought Cannon's flags and ties for the funeral, was a good turn out. Then, a few days later, one of the sniffers in here told us that he'd been arrested an hour before he'd topped himself. So we took down that flag, burned it, and stuck it back up."

I took a drink and thought better to ask what he'd been arrested for. Even down here, there were limits and lines that could not be crossed. There were only two that I could think of, and murder was not one of them. "So what are we doing this weekend?"

Big Jon furrowed his brow. "Drinking until Monday, maybe try to pull a bird."

"Yeah right," said Makky, "you couldn't pull your own dick."

"I can, and I do!"

We all share a smile. Self-deprecating humour seemed to be a display of friendship in Custers. "I think we'll all end up pulling our own," I said, "there's no birds in here."

"What about Old Meg?" Big Jon pointed to the other end of the bar. A wiry well-weathered woman gave him the finger.

Makky pulled himself a fresh pint. "No chance. I wouldn't crawl across her to get to you!"

I gazed across the pub, noting that almost everyone seemed to share the same tanned skin and worn clothing as Old Meg. It was probably a combination of working outdoors and financial hardship, although everyone always seemed to have the money for a few pints. My gaze stopped on a pair of ladies huddled near the windows, engaged in animated conversation with each other. I was still a NatVir like most down here, the real risk of disease making "natural virgins" a life choice, but had lost my cyber virginity to a virtual waifu almost as soon as I was able to get my hands on a CyberSet. I had absolutely no idea how to approach the opposite sex in the meat world, and this was the first time that I wished I had social skills. The subject of my attention was dressed in sexless brown shawls and wraps like everyone else, but her eyes sparkled green with blond hair that collected on her shoulders. I watched her for as long as I could and broke away when her eyes suddenly locked onto mine. Both Makky and Jon were staring at me. "What?"

Makky smirked. "See something you like, Undercoat?"

"Who are those girls by the windows?"

"Dunno," said Jon, "I see them here most weekends. Hey, didn't Pedge shag the brunette once?"

"Don't think so," replied Makky, "I think the blond one is a relative of Fat Lad though."

"You sure?" It was Jon's turn to stare at them. "Nah, she's far too pretty to be a relative of Fat Lad."

"Who's Fat Lad?" All I had were questions.

"He's a twat." Everyone was a twat by default. It wasn't malicious. I assumed that I was called a twat when I wasn't there. "Thinks himself better than everyone else because he lives in the Tower and has himself a nice earner going on with the gangers." Jon shrugged. "The twat. Anyway, you wouldn't have a chance with those birds, Undercoat."

I glanced back at the ladies. I didn't know whether it was the alcohol, or the perceived insult, but I suddenly found myself hopping off the stall, with my pint in my hand, and wobbling through the pub until I was at their table.

The girls stopped their conversation and looked up at me. "What do you want?"

"I just wanted to say..." the bravado drained away under their quizzical glares, "um, hello."

They burst into laughter. "Brilliant," said the blond-haired one, "you don't talk to people much, do you?"

"Um, no." I looked back at Makky and Jon, who were laughing. I took a quick swig of my pint.

"Did you want to go back to your friends, little boy?" The darker-haired one put her hair around her ears, revealing a tattoo across the right side of her face. It was strangely appealing.

"No, I'd rather chat to you two, um, gorgeous girls."

They laughed again, then dismissed me with a wave. "Get going pal, not interested."

"OK." I returned to my spot at the bar and ignored the restrained laughter from my friends.

"So what happened, Undercoat? Were they blinded by the sun reflecting off your skin?"

"Leave it," I replied, my honour bruised, and wandered to an empty table to drink alone. And that's how I spent the rest of the night, playing games on my phone and leaving my spot only to fetch a few more pints. Jon and Makky kept a respectful eye on me but left me to myself all the same.

It was late in the night when a female voice behind me said, "Alright sun bleached?" I was too pissed to turn around so just grunted in response. "Can I sit?"

I put my phone away. "Maybe." I sat up straighter and tried to casually motion to the seat opposite. Instead I knocked over one of my emptied pint glasses onto the floor. I saw Makky shake his head.

The blond girl sat down, cradling her drink. "You're new here."

"Yar."

"What is your name?"

"My name?" I had many online names, depending on what service I was using. It was stupid to use a real name online, and vice versa. The same rules applied here, maybe even more so since I was more vulnerable in person than I was online. "My name is Undercoat. You?"

"Veronica." She raised her glass. "What kind of name is Undercoat? Are you in a gang?"

"No. Well," I decided that I needed to add a bit of edge, "not anymore."

She looked into her glass. "Figures. It's impossible to meet anyone that has never been involved with the gangs."

"Are you in a gang?"

"You could say it runs in my family."

Over her shoulder I noticed her dark-haired friend sat at another table, watching us intently. "Why's your friend sat over there on her own? She can come over if she wants."

"She's not a friend."

"Oh? You two have an argument?"

"No," replied Veronica, "I mean she's more like an employee. It's not safe for a lady to be out in Custers on her own."

"She's your protection?" I looked back at the bodyguard, and then I saw the danger in the way she studied the room, the menace in her tattoo, and the definition of her muscles. She was a warrior. "Bloody hell."

"Quite." She downed her drink, stood and dropped a plastic card in front of me. "Call me if you want, Undercoat." She gave me a wink and left the pub, but not before her bodyguard could give me the most frightening look I'd ever received from a person.

"What the hell was that about?" said Makky, sweeping up the glass from under my table.

"She wants to go out for a date!"

"Bullshit." Makky picked up her card before I could get to it. "I've seen this symbol before. It's a corporate logo, not a ganger one. I wonder if she is Fat Lad's girl after all?"

"She has a bodyguard you know. Classy bird!" I felt drained and got to my feet. "I need to go to bed."

"I agree." Makky tucked the card in my top pocket. "Goodnight Romeo."

I staggered up the stairs, my head heavy with drink, but was still able to hear Makky yell, "Oi Jon! That twat Undercoat only went and pulled that blond bit, didn't he?" I couldn't help but smile.

***

I was growing impatient. Rochester's death had triggered the expected leadership challenges from within the organisation but my place as Iblis had been assured. There had only been one challenger but I had defeated Castani in an embarrassingly short bout of lethal combat. There was still one obstacle to my ascendancy though – the Tartarus. It contained not only the plan to wrestle power away from the ruling corporation in this sector, but also the means to do it. I had found it hard to accept that we almost had control of an artificial being, and yet it was true. Our own AB – it made my hairs stand on end. We would be able to become a legitimate corporation by that reason alone, but with MicroPep out of the way using the contents of the Tartarus, we would become a ruling corporation at the same time.

And I would be its public face.

Golgan entered my office without announcing himself. I wasn't one for formality, not during this time of urgency. "Is it that time already?"

"Yes sir." He put a holographic node onto the floor. "We have thirteen potential leads today."

"Very well. Begin." I had no expectation, based on the previous three weeks of reports. Some were genuine attempts to find our target, some were simply an attempt to cash in on the bounty. "Wait. Replay number six again." In the image was a busy bar, the down-and-outs getting drunk and making as much noise as possible – their reward for a "hard day's work". The video was taken from someone's recorder, the viewer on the periphery of the main activity. It gave a commanding view of the room, and I could already sense that the author was employed as a lookout because of the regular sweeps of the area. However, their focus always returned to a couple sat some way away, their conversation not possible through the din. The view zoomed into the male's face as the viewer tried to perform a facial recognition scan; NO RESULT flashed up. A shame, and I would get my own techs to check, but this was the man I wanted, no doubt. "It is him! Where was this taken?

"A tavern in Custer's Revenge called The Bull," replied Golgan.

"When?"

"Two days ago, sir."

A shame, although it was a place to start. Like most taverns, they were frequented by the same people. "Run facial recognition on the entire video. And hold all my calls."

***

I was awoken by my phone chirping as if a message had been received, but when I looked there was nothing. The Tartarus was starting to play up and if it were a commercial handset I would be searching for a firmware upgrade already. I went to put the handset away but then decided to see if there was anything further about the Tartarus online. I went to an anonymous search engine and started to type but the autocorrect replaced Tartarus with Taurus. I deleted it and tried again, but it corrected to Trapped instead. Third time lucky, but as the results appeared the phone reset itself. Bloody thing. I slid the handset back into my trousers and settled into the bed again. I had a date with the girl from the pub in a few hours, and I was nursing a significant hangover from the lock-in last night. I suddenly realised that my life had very little to do with cyberspace anymore. Makky, Jon, and all the regulars used the Internet in the way that the corporations wanted them to – as a way to shop, communicate, and digest adverts. I hadn't met another techie since crawling through the doorway of Makky's pub, and in one sense it was fantastic. This was life, not a computer screen. How much of my life had I wasted? I turned about in bed; I needed to go get some new clothes too.

***

Even from my vantage point above the street I could smell the filth emanating from the area. It was the urban patina of dust that covered every single surface, and I could feel it underneath my bionic fingers. Behind me stood the colossal Tower, like Atlas himself, holding up the sky and providing an artificial spray of stars from its millions of windows. I switched to night vision and marked the rest of my team spread about the rooftops, watching and listening to everyone that passed. We had been in position for three hours and my temper was becoming sour. I opened a chat with Golgan. Anything?

Negative sir. We have every street covered and have had no sightings.

I closed the link and stood up to stretch my servos. Although I was hidden in the darkness, it was not wise to reveal oneself unnecessarily. You never knew who was watching. I had taken a position opposite the pub in the video but had seen no-one that remotely resembled our target. I opened my link again. Golgan, go get yourself a drink from the tavern, and see if the landlord does lock-ins.

Yes sir.

I went to close the link but it froze in my field of view. Then a shaky line of text appeared. She is pretty, but she will betray you.

Golgan?

The link closed so I reopened it. Golgan?

Yes sir?

What did you mean by that?

By what, sir?

I sent a replay of the conversation. I'm afraid that wasn't me, sir.

I rebooted my communication suite. The last thing I needed was faulty equipment. I settled back into a crouch and watched Golgan enter the pub. I could do with a drink too.

***

I picked at my meal, still in a fog of bewilderment about the last hour. I tried not to think about how high I was, but I knew that there were thousands of floors below me and billions of tons of metal and people directly above me. I could almost feel the swaying of the tower. Did it sway? It must do in order to soak up vibrations. What about earthquakes? Would there be an earthquake? I tried to concentrate on Veronica instead, and realised she was staring at me. "Sorry?"

She smiled. She was in a golden sheer dress and black stilettos, far removed from the urban dust rat I'd met in the pub. I had no idea whether her jewellery, or her dress, or even this meal, was expensive or not, but it was certainly impressive. The restaurant itself was dimly-lit, quiet, and trimmed in black and gold. Had she accessorised the location with her outfit? Again, impressive. "You look preoccupied. Was it the signing-in process?"

"Yes, a little. Sorry." Veronica had sent a car to pick me up. A bloody car. No-one had a car in Custers, partially because of the cost of upkeeping it, but mostly because some bastard would have stolen it the moment its wheels touched the street.

"Don't be. Most people feel violated by the process."

"I feel a little inadequate, that's all. I'm not used to the attention." It hadn't been good attention either. It had been a 45 minute drive to the Portal, a small city in itself. It acted like a checkpoint for The Tower, where goods and people were checked, processed, and then allowed to ascend in one of the thousands of mile-long lifts up into the Tower. I was deposited in front of a building that looked like a library, given an envelope, and told to check in at the front desk. I watched the car leave and examined the envelope. Inside was a plastic data chit and a note that read La Fountaine, Ambrosia, 1945 -V. As soon as I handed the card to the receptionist, I was ordered into a holding cell by a policeman and told to strip. My clothes were scanned and checked, and my belongings searched.

"What's this?" The officer held up the Tartarus.

I suddenly realised that I'd made a grave error by taking a murdered man's stolen phone into a police station! They'd hang me. "It's my phone. Officer."

"Strange. Never seen one like this before. What make is it?"

I tried to be nonchalant – police were worse than the criminals that they were supposed to catch, according to Makky, and the Tartarus in someone else's hand was sending my anxiety through the roof. "Dunno, it's just a cheap no brand one. It's not wise to carry expensive phones around in Custers."

He rolled it about in his hands, and then thankfully put it back in his tray. "Figures. What's the purpose of your visit to the Tower?"

I felt my stomach spasm from the anxiety. "I have a date."

"You OK?"

"A bit of IBS, that's all."

"Oh." He picked up the chit from the tray and inserted it into his computer terminal. "Day pass confirmed, no contraband detected, provisional access granted." He handed me the chit together with a couple of booklets. "Do you want me to verbally relay your rights and limitations during your visit?" His expression said please no.

"Hello?" My mind snapped back to the restaurant and Veronica, who was staring at me. "Are you OK? You didn't take any drugs before coming here, did you?"

"No I did not! Sorry, I was remembering something." I put some steak into my mouth and smiled. It was absolutely delicious, the best meal I'd ever tasted, but I didn't know whether it was my uncultured palette or not. I decided to keep my opinion to myself. "Are you enjoying your meal?"

Veronica poked at her dish. "Not really. I should have ordered the steak too. What is the time?"

I must be boring her. I brought out my phone, which was showing exceptionally-strong data signal strength for the first time ever. How the other side live. "Quarter to ten. Do you have somewhere to be?"

"Not at all. I do have a proposition for you though." She put down her cutlery and sipped her wine. "You seem like a well-connected fella. Do you have any contacts in Custers?"

"Contacts? What kind of contacts?"

"I'll be blunt. My father is somewhat of an entrepreneur. He has a lot of legitimate business here in the Tower, and less-legitimate business on the Floor."

I remembered the conversation in the pub. "Your father isn't called Fat Lad, is he?"

She laughed. "So you are connected. Yes my father is Fat Lad, but I wouldn't call him that to his face."

"Oh sorry, I meant no disrespect."

Veronica touched my hand. "It's fine, don't worry. We had a recent falling-out with our main contact in Custers, and I've been tasked with recruiting a replacement. Would you be interested?"

This was a business meeting, not a date! I hoped that Makky and the others never got to hear of this and I vowed to keep it to myself. I then realised that there was the offer of a job in front of me. "What would I have to do?"

"All sorts really. Receive and send payments, contact suppliers, make sure that the logistical side of the business in Custers goes smoothly, whatever is needed. It's a straight-forward job and pays very well."

"I'm not sure." I'd never had a salaried job, very few people in Custers had. We were like teabags, numerous and valuable when needed, but disposable once we'd been used up. Very few people lasted long enough in a job to be considered a permanent employee. "I don't have any qualifications or anything." I felt vulnerable in front of Veronica by this statement.

"Nor do I. Experience and ability is more valuable than wasting time learning lies from failures." She sipped wine again. "I'll show you what to do, and you can call me anytime if you get lost. All we ask is that you work hard, are loyal to the operation, and are honest. What do you think?"

I briefly weight the pros and cons. I didn't need the money, but I had no purpose to my life apart from getting pissed in the pub. A job would expose me to people, which would bring me friends. If I did well at the job then maybe I'd get a promotion, respect, and then there was Veronica too... "OK then. Thank you."

"Excellent!" She raised her glass. "Here's to a bright future!"

***

"Come on guys, it's closing time." The landlord took some empty glasses from my table and I nodded in acknowledgement. I made eye contact with the others who were on separate tables, cradling their own drinks – seven of us in total. I watched the last of the drinkers make for the exit and followed them, then closed the doors and pushed the bolt across. "Hey come on now," said the landlord from behind the bar, "no funny business laddie. It's late and I have an early start tomorrow."

The others approached the bar, and I pulled back my hood. The landlord dropped his glasses in shock. "Help us with our enquiries and you will be left unharmed."

The landlord slung his hands in his pockets but did not pull out any kind of weapon. "Hey now lads, no need for anything painful, the till's over there, just take what you want."

"We do not need money." I raised my tablet. "We are looking for this man." I noticed a flash of recognition in his face.

"Sorry, never seen him before," replied the landlord.

I smashed my fist through the bar, a pure show of strength considering the thickness of the wood. "I will do this to your back if you lie to me again. Who is this man?"

The landlord backed away with his hands held high. "OK, OK. All I know is that his name is Jim Bob. He usually rents a room when he's had too much or had a pro with him. That's all I know."

"Where is he now?"

A nervous glance at the door. "Like I said, I don't know much about Jim, but there's a good chance that he'll be knocking on the door in the next hour, wanting a room for the night.

"Then we will wait here." Golgan, take him into the kitchen and restrain him for now. Once we have Jim Bob, kill him.

Yes sir. Golgan grabbed the landlord and gagged him with a cloth, but before he could lead him into the back room there was a terrific bang on the front door.

Get ready team. Positions! I opened the door. Outside were a large number of heavily-armed gangers. "Yes?"

"Who the frack are you?" said the lead ganger.

"I could ask the same of you."

The gang rushed at me and I stepped aside. Don't fire, I commanded. The gang flooded the pub, clocked the gagged landlord, and drew their own weapons. "This 'ere pub's under the protection of Custer's Crew," said the lead member, swinging an electro-mace on a chain, "so get going right now."

I shed my cloak, and the gang fell silent. "I don't think you realise the situation you're in."

"You're a cyber-hybrid," said the leader, "but you'll bleed the same as anyone else. Get out right now."

I threw my tablet at him. "I am looking for this man. Do you know him?"

The punk did a double-take at the image before throwing it back at me. "So what if I do? What's it to you?"

I suspected that the landlord was telling the truth then, and Jim Bob was known around these parts. However, the gang needed to be taken care of. Take them.

***

The car raced through the early morning streets of Custers, and I smiled despite the rough journey. I had expected to be sent back to the Floor as soon as the date/meeting had finished, but instead Veronica invited me back to her apartment, where we had some more wine, talked about our (very different) lives, and then engaged in sex. I wasn't a NatVir anymore, a badge that I never expected to lose. It had been amazing, although I severely doubted it to be the best way to get to know my new boss. I'd been allowed to stay at Veronicas afterwards, although I had taken the sofa on her request. It was probably for the best – I snored.

The car braked suddenly. "What's going on?" I asked.

"Police cordon," replied the driver, "gonna have to drop you here."

"Sure." I got out into the sun and stretched. Life was great! I watched the car race away and wondered if this was going to be my life from now on. A good job, regular sexual encounters with Veronica, steak dinners in the Tower, and car journeys. I was excited for a nanosecond, until I saw that The Bull was the focal point of the police cordon. I felt numb at the charred remains, and wondered what had happened to Makky, my clothes, my laptop. I touched a police offer on the arm, who spun around and pointed a gun at me. "Keep back citizen!"

"Sorry officer, but I was wondering if you can tell me what happened?"

"It's none of your damn business! Move along!"

"I was a resident here."

The officer lowered her gun, spoke into her collar, and then ushered me through. "The chief wants to talk to you. This way."

I shuffled through the area until I was at a tent just outside the remains of the pub. Inside was the police chief, who scowled at me. "What's your name?"

"Undercoat." It was my default name now.

"Tell me how you knew this place."

"I was renting a room, have been for a few weeks now." I suddenly realised that the man in front of me had been the same man who had processed me after Dirk's death. He obviously didn't recognise me, which was probably for the best. "Is Makky OK?"

"Who's Makky?"

"The landlord."

The chief shrugged. "Could be, could not be. We have a lot of burnt bodies, no witnesses, and no survivors."

I was perplexed. "Did the place burn down while everyone was drinking? Why didn't they just run out?"

The chief gave me a tablet with pictures on it. "Recognise any of these?"

The pictures were of dead people, blackened by the fire. There were also pictures of guns, knives, and other weaponry. There had been a fight, that much was obvious. "Wait. This one here. He was the leader in a gang that was pressurising Makky – the landlord – for protection money a few weeks ago."

"Really." The chief wrote on the screen. "None of the others look familiar? The landlord isn't here?"

"No," I said with some relief. "He's definitely not any of them."

The chief took some more details about where I had been, and then went to dismiss me. "Hang on," I said, "can I get my stuff?"

"There's nothing left kid," he replied.

Goodbye laptop, goodbye new clothes, goodbye nice comfortable life. I was homeless again, and then I realised that I was homeless and vulnerable in Custers. I was escorted back to the cordon, the last bit of protection I'd enjoy, and then left to my freedom again. What had happened, and where was Makky? He hadn't died, at least not in the pub, and I felt obliged to find out his fate. For now though, I needed a home, and somewhere safe to work out my next steps. I flipped open my phone to call Veronica but saw that it had already brought up her number. Odd.

"You're keen," said Veronica when she picked up, "do you not know the three-day rule?"

"My home has been burnt down," I said, not wanting to reveal that my home was a pub, "so I need somewhere to stay. Can you help?"

"Are you asking to move in with me? That's very forward of you."

"No of course not." Would she let me if I did ask? "I just can't get hold of anyone here to find a place to rent. Do you have anyone that rents places down here?"

"I'm sure I can work something out." She put me on hold for a few minutes, then sent a co-ordinate not far from where I was. "Thanks very much, I appreciate it."

"You haven't seen it yet."

I let the Tartarus' sat-nav guide me to the address, which was a very nice ground-floor apartment on the cusp of the Custers/Rittes border. It was further from the Tower, but also quieter and less troubled by the social problems of Custers. I punched in the PIN sent to me by Veronica for the door and it hissed open. Inside was a fully-furnished flat in dark browns and cream. I felt immense gratitude and gave Veronica a call.

"Thank you, it's absolutely perfect. Who do I pay?"

"Give your money to Clive every week."

"Who's Clive?"

"He's your flatmate."

"Oh right." I wandered through the apartment but I was alone. "He's not here."

"He is. I spoke to him and he's expecting you."

"Believe me, I'm here alone."

"You're definitely at the right place?"

"I followed your co-ordinates." I sent them back to her.

"These are not the ones I sent you," she said coldly. "That is one of our properties, but it's used as a hideaway. Very few people know of it."

"Impossible. You sent me the correct PIN. It let me into the building."

"I didn't send you the PIN." She was silent for a moment. "You might as well stay there," she said finally, "but the rent will be higher."

"Not a problem. Thank you." I hung up and wondered what the hell had happened with the mix-up of locations. It was probably for the best, I really didn't like the idea of a random flatmate. The Tartarus chirped, then reset itself. Bloody phone.

***

I nodded to the techs and they started servicing my other leg servos. The fight against the gangers had done me the world of good, but a few lucky hits had damaged my augments. Still, the gang had put up a good fight and I saved some of the footage to savour later. Sadly, the one I now knew as Jim Bob had not appeared, and so the survivors of my team had cleansed the pub in blessed flame. It could be that our attack on the pub alerted Jim Bob and therefore he was now laying low, even removing himself from the area entirely. The Tartarus was slipping out of my reach.

Golgon entered the room and bowed. "Sir, latest reports from our field agents."

"Summarise please."

"Nothing."

I sighed. "Very well, continue."

He paused. "Sir, maybe we should be more overt in our search?"

"Overt? How would that help?"

"Custers is a poor area, with little strength in it. If we started kicking down some doors and stringing up some innocent people, maybe the community would flush him out for us."

I mulled this over. The survival of the organisation depended on being quiet and opaque as so to avoid the attention of the bigger corporations. We were strong and determined yet small, and therefore could be over-run if any of the big corporations decided to attack in force. Still, Golgon's plan had merit. "Let us continue as we are for another couple of weeks," I decided, "and then if we are unsuccessful, we'll do it your way."

"Very good. Thank you sir."

***

I had definitely landed on my feet. The apartment was nothing like I'd ever lived in before, and I spent the first night stretching my arms and legs in the cool clean bedsheets. It was pure bliss to be allowed so much quiet space to myself, an extremely rare luxury. I even had a bathtub. The next morning I realised that I needed food and clothes, but was reluctant to leave the apartment just in case I couldn't get back in. I contemplated calling Veronica just to make sure but decided against bothering her with such a paranoid question. It would look weak and I had a reputation with her to consider, regardless of how flimsy it was. I queried the Tartarus for the nearest shop and discovered a small mall nearby. It wasn't even Disputed, and I was feeling overwhelmed by this change of circumstance. I had considered living in a pub a huge improvement to my social standing, but this apartment, and the Tower, and the new job, and Veronica... it was like I'd suddenly become royalty.

The roads leading to the Mall were pristine compared to the roads in Custers. I knew that Custers was a craphole, but I didn't realise how bad it was until I'd seen how good it could be. Rittes didn't seem to suffer from homelessness and excessive litter, and some of the houses even lacked bars across its windows. Despite it all, I still found myself looking in all directions as I walked.

The entrance to the Mall was secured by a checkpoint. Rittes wasn't that far removed from Custers, and I felt a strange sense of familiarity as the police scanned me in line. "You have no cash or chits?"

"No." I brandished the Tartarus. "Handset payments."

The officer brandished a reader in response. "When you're ready."

I placed the phone on the pad and it beeped. "OK, happy shopping."

"I need to pay to get into the Mall?"

"We don't want vagrants and thieves here."

I entered the Mall proper and marvelled at the blatant consumerism around me. Everything was bountiful, friendly, comforting. I was welcome, but on condition. I used the Tartarus to pull cash out of an ATM, which was a first for me since ATMs last as long as a chocolate fireplace in Custers. Here though, no-one looked twice at me, even when I left the ATM with a handful of notes. No-one wanted to rob me because they were not in need. Despite being in a safe zone, I spent little time in the shops. I bought long-life food, cans of meat and beans, some cereals and chocolate, the basics of toiletries, and a few standard beige robes and socks. I hurried back through the streets with my carriers, unable to shake the feeling that I was about to be spotted and pursued, but my journey was uneventful. The apartment swallowed these wares hungrily, and the vacuous cupboards demanded more. I'd have to find a way to satisfy it. Maybe I could buy a car.

Later that evening there was a knock on the door. I struggled to get off the sofa, feeling sick from gorging, and I stood to one side before speaking.

"Who's there?"

"Landlord."

This was not unexpected and I had pulled enough cash to meet rent for a couple of months at least. I was very uncomfortable allowing a stranger into my new home, but I guess technically I was in theirs. However, it was Veronica. She held a bottle and a white carrier. "House warming." She walked in and unloaded onto the coffee table. "How is your new home?"

"I love it. Thank you."

She took her coat off and sat on the sofa. "Fetch some plates and cutlery. I'm starving." I brought in a handful of forks and spoons, and two glasses. She dished up the Chinese meal rapidly and poured the wine without talking. Once we were eating, she raised a glass to me. "Here's to escaping death."

I clinked my glass to hers, a little mystified. "Escaping death?"

There was a smugness about her now, she had information about me that I had not volunteered. She had the upper hand in this relationship, if that's what we had. "The Bull public house, the one that burned down. You were living there. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I don't know. Embarrassment, I guess. It doesn't say much about me."

"It does." She sipped the wine, and let the conversation sit for a moment. I was quite grateful for the food, the chicken chow mein was absolutely exquisite. Again, I think it was more to do with my limited and poor experiences than the food itself. "What's more interesting," she continued, "is that I don't think you know what happened. Not really."

"No I don't, but I would love to. I lost a good friend to that fire."

"Makky, the landlord?"

"Yes." I was numb; was she a mind-reader?

"He's alive, thanks to one of the local gangs that came in to protect him."

I let my fork fall. "Protect him from what? Please tell me what you know."

"It's not much, but from my sources, a fairly dangerous organisation were interrogating Makky when a gang came to his aid. A fight ensued, Makky slipped away, and the pub was burnt to the ground to cover their tracks. Do you know what they were searching for?"

"No idea."

She grinned. "They were searching for you, Undercoat."

"Me? Why?"

"Have you ever heard of the RSC? The Red Saint Corporation?"

My blood stopped in my veins, and visions of my slum past bubbled up. Dirk, death, a car key –

The Tartarus...

"Undercoat?"

I swallowed, then nodded. "I have heard of them," I said quietly. "My friend killed a man who worked for them."

"Your friend, where is he now?"

"Dead."

Veronica smiled. "Not surprising. The Red Saints think you have something. We're not sure what, but it's massively valuable. Daddy's keen on keeping you safe, but he'd like to know what you know about all of this."

Suddenly I could feel the weight of a dozen bodyguards outside the door. Veronica was the nice way of interrogating me, and I didn't know what they knew, especially about the murder of Rochester. I decided to tell all, especially since my life was in the balance, either by daddy or these Red Saints. "There was money, some encrypted notes, a car key, and a phone."

"Go on."

"My server with the encrypted notes got destroyed, my laptop got burnt in the pub fire, and the car key was destroyed by the police."

"And the phone?"

I placed the Tartarus on the table. "There it is, but there's nothing on it other than my applications."

She picked it up, but it refused to turn on. "Is it broken?"

"It does that sometimes. It's a prototype, apparently."

She stood and went out of the front door, then returned, hands empty. "I will return it tomorrow, I promise. In the meantime, there is a landline in the bedroom." She downed the rest of her wine, and then took me by the hand. "Let me show you."

***

She was as good as her word and returned the Tartarus the very next evening. "There wasn't anything other than your data," she said, "and the tech guys asked me to send their regards. You didn't make it easy for them."

"That's something I guess." I felt violated and exposed, but again I owed Veronica and her benefactors my gratitude, maybe even my life, and so this trespass on my digital life was a necessary price to be paid. The landline was pissing me off though. It rang every half-hour, but whenever I managed to answer it the line was dead. It was getting pulled out of the socket now that I had the Tartarus back. "What's next for me?"

"Daddy's asked me to make sure you remain out of sight. Do not leave this apartment. I will order anything you need and have it delivered by one of our runners."

"Why?"

She squeezed my arm. "Don't panic, but the Red Saints have stepped up their efforts to find you. If they do then they will probably kill you to avenge the death of their leader."

"Rochester was their leader?" I'd lived with the threat of death every moment when in Custers, but now I had a life to lose. I had potential, and I was willing to fight for it. I was scared. "I need a gun or something."

To my amazement Veronica pulled out a handgun and gave it to me. "We have a few trustees watching this apartment, but I agree that you do need to be armed. Do you know how to use it?"

"No."

"Online it, you're a smart boy." She gave me a kiss on the cheek. "Stay safe Undercoat, and don't answer the door."

I would have been grateful for some company, especially Veronica's soft promises, but I was forced to watch her leave. I looked at the handgun and wondered whether I would have to use it.

***

Golgan's tracing suite tracked the call to a well-known anonymising relay and hit a logical brick wall. Professional. "You have him?"

"Yes." The stranger's accent was like a knife covered in honey. "I want three billion for him."

"I have no guarantee that this is the man I'm after, or whether he has what I want." Three billion was substantial, but against the potential of rising the company to a corporation, it was nothing. I would try to delay payment for when the RSC was better-positioned, if I had to pay.

"He is the man you are after, and he has what you want."

"I severely doubt it."

"Very well. Accept this as an apology for wasting your time." I received a picture attachment just as the caller disconnected. I scanned it in case it was a logic bomb, and then opened the image.

On top of today's newspaper was the Tartarus.

***

It was difficult to describe how incredible a cold beer with a hot shower was, other than it was my favourite part of my day. Veronica had catered – quite literally – to my needs, ensuring that the apartment was heavily-stocked with food and drink. I stepped out onto the tiled floor and rubbed myself down with a towel three times my size, then padded into the living room and flopped onto the sofa. I had only been awake for an hour and I already felt sleepy again. A week of watching TV, eating well, and drinking beer had numbed my senses quite nicely, and I smiled at how fortunate I was. I started to nap when my phone chimed. The contact was a mess of digits which was becoming a common feature of the Tartarus now. The memory was beginning to fault and I seriously contemplated replacing it. The message was clearly defined on the display though; Run and take me with you.

The best reaction when being stalked was to become motionless so that you didn't give your position away, and this advice applied to electronic communications. If you didn't react, then it wasn't clear whether you'd even got the message, let-alone taken it seriously. However I'd received a dozen of these cryptic messages over the last week, and if it wasn't for the Tartarus' dodgy storage then I'd have tried to trace the number. I decided to react. Who is this?

I waited for the reply, which came a lot quicker than I expected. Here. 22 Hick Avenue. RUN.

That scared me. That freaked the hell out of me, and I ran for the bedroom and the assurance of Veronica's gun. I half-scurried under the bed, found the handgun wrapped inside the bug-out bag I'd created, and waved it at the empty room. The same flight-or-fight response tingled through my limbs as it had done in my hovel in Custers, propelled me to the wardrobe, forced the clothes over my body while I kept the gun trained on the door, while I willed whoever was stalking me to show themselves. Apart from the TV, I couldn't hear anything else, and I slowly calmed down. It was clear that I was being hunted though, and I thought to contact Veronica. My phone chimed in the living room. I pulled the bug-out bag into the middle of the floor and forced some extra clothes into it before putting it over my shoulder and venturing out into the living room. I was getting out of here, it was obvious that these Red Saints or whoever they were had found me, and the only people who knew I was here was Veronica and her father. I scanned the room and approached my phone, then flipped its display. Good. Run. Now.

Frack you. There wasn't any other way out of this building, so I'd have to go out of the front. Veronica had said that she had people watching the apartment, so I'd have to make it look like I was going shopping or for a stroll. So be it. I tucked the gun into my waistband and pulled my jacket over the top. I breathed hard to relax myself, said a silent, and reluctant, goodbye to the best apartment I'd ever lived in, and returned to the world of filth from where I'd come.

***

Although I had nowhere to go, I knew how to lose the people who would undoubtedly be following me. I walked towards Custers for a few minutes, took a couple of turns until the people who were tailing me had to take the same turns. A portly gentleman and a thin waif of a girl seemed to be walking at the same speed as me, trying not to look at me while somehow looking at me.

I skipped across the road so I was on the same side as the waif, then hopped into a large beaten supermarket. I wandered the aisles, waiting for the pair to follow me in, then hurried down the furthest row and back into the street. I took a brisk jog towards the nearest signposted underground station but was interrupted by my phone. I stepped into a shop doorway and flipped open the display.

They're coming. Stay here. Crouch down. I put the phone away and peered back down the road. No sign of my stalkers, but a half-dozen bikers had pulled up outside the shop and had formed a loose perimeter. Were they for me? Suddenly a black sedan screeched around the corner and blocked the road. Out stepped Veronica, holding a semi-automatic rifle. The phone chimed. I told you.

Enough of this. I called the number and it answered immediately. "Hello?" All I could hear was my own voice. "Who is this?" Nothing but the ambient noise around me, amplified and sent back to my ear. I hung up and instantly received a message.

I have ordered a car. Stay here and get in when it pulls up.

I need to talk to you

You are.

A taxi pulled up opposite and the driver opened the door. "Are you Tartarus?"

"What did you say?"

"Are you Tartarus? Did you order a taxi?"

More shock and panic. My mystery contact knew about my phone. "Yeah." I peeked down the road but the gang were still checking out the shop. I chanced it and hurried to the taxi. I flopped into the back seat and was relieved that no-one had made a move in my direction.

The driver got in and pointed a zapper at me. "Fifty creds, up front."

"Are you robbing me?!"

"Fifty creds for your journey. Up front."

"Oh right." I pulled the cash out. "Where am I going?"

The driver squinted at me. "You high?"

"No, my friend made the booking."

She shook her head. "The Tower. You on a date or something?"

"Yeah, something like that." The Tower wasn't a place that any old scuzzer could walk up to and get allowed in. There was paperwork, approvals, waiting time, social standing checks... there was a clear and definite social line between the Tower and the Floor, and I was not part of the Tower Power class. I assumed that my stalker was though, so I pulled out the Tartarus and replied to the last message. Thanks. So what's the deal?

There is no deal. We start again in the tower.

Who are you?

There was no reply.

***

A car drew up to the alley and I commanded my operatives to ready themselves. I seethed that I had to "play ball" with those who had the Tartarus but I knew better than to let my emotions dictate my moves. At least, not yet. I'd modified my cybernetics for close-quarters combat, but I doubted that they would be used in this meet-up. The headlights of the car were interrupted by several figures approaching me, and I held my arms out wide to show that I wasn't armed. "The time is late."

The lead figure resolved into a rather pretty girl. "The clock strikes." She hefted a rifle casually. "Do you have the cash?"

I put a briefcase on the door and kicked it towards her. "Fifty thousand."

Her associates shifted behind her. "That is not the amount I asked for."

"It is to show my interest, nothing more. Where is the person I seek?"

The woman kicked the briefcase back to me. "This is an insult. Our business is concluded." She turned to go, but her way was blocked by some of my team. "This is not a clever move on your part."

"Consider your position." I activated the floodlights around us and allowed my cowl to flow from my body. "Do you think that you are in a position of power?"

Surprisingly, the girl brandished an EMP device above her head. "I'd like to think that I am."

"I'm impressed that you've done your research into our organization." It was unknown whether the EMP would be powerful enough to knock out my cybernetics, but for her to bring such a device was either good preparation or a bluff. I sent a command out to my team as I spoke. "You need to show me more than a picture. I do not give away money on a promise. Where is the person I seek?"

She walked towards me, the EMP still above her head. "He is in a secure location known only to me."

Now that she was within range, I activated my body analysis suite and trained it on her. "You have him and the Tartarus?"

"Yes." The analysis came back as negative.

"You lie."

"You saw the picture. I have both him and your handset."

The analysis came back with a slightly different conclusion. "Miss...?"

"Veronica."

I chanced a bluff. "Miss Veronica, my intelligence suggests that you did have the person and the device but they have escaped you." I needed no suite of tools to recognize shock. "You come to me with your hands empty and your promises false. You tell me everything that has happened," I extended some of my arm blades, "and I will not kill you for wasting my time."

There was a blinding flash and then silence. The EMP. I was trapped inside my immobilized exosuit with nothing but my thoughts for company. I waited for the battle to conclude and then, with a little relief, found myself in the alley still standing. There were some dead bodies around me, but I was unscathed. "Did we win?"

Golgan held his arm with a bandage. "A draw my lord. They retreated with their leader and escaped. We did kill most of their crew though."

"And the tracker?"

"Working. If she does manage to recapture our friend then we will be able to liberate him from them."

Despite the modest resources at my disposal I was also aware of reducing visibility. Too much was at stake to risk gaining the attention of the authorities or the corporations. "Let us await his discovery then. He is a nobody without money or status. He cannot have gone too far." I also needed to get my revenge on Veronica and whoever she worked for. Much blood would be spilled soon. Oh what sweet anticipation!

***

"Mr Undercoat?" I stood up to greet the administrator who had called my name. Everyone else in the waiting room looked at me with pure hate, probably wondering why I had been called within minutes of arriving. I hurried over to him and entered his office, which was as bare as could be. "Please be seated."

"Thanks." I ran my fingers through my hair, a little dismayed by how greasy it felt already. I was simply reacting to events, because I had no plan and no idea what I was doing here, yet someone was orchestrating events for me. I needed to go along with the flow.

The administrator sat opposite and stabbed at his keyboard. "My apologies if we're missing information about you, we don't usually get many fast-tracked applicants."

"No worries, please take your time."

"It says here that you're being relocated from Custers Revenge to an apartment in L5. Congratulations."

"Thank you." I had an apartment here in the Tower?

"Where will you be working?" The admin paused and looked at me.

"I don't know," I replied, "not yet. I have a few options."

The admin opened a drawer and passed me a leaflet. "You may already be aware, but here is a list of the laws and regulations about being a resident of the Tower. Most notably is that you cannot be unemployed for more than 90 days, otherwise you will be evicted."

"Of course." I pretend to look through the leaflet. "It shouldn't be a problem."

"Good." The admin typed before passing me a data tablet. "Sign these forms, and then I will take your biometrics, perform the pledge of acceptance, and then order you a TicTuk to take you to your new abode. I suggest you take your own copies of these documents." I nodded and placed the Tartarus on the connectivity pad. It chimed happily.

The pledge of acceptance was a shortened version of the laws laid out in the leaflet; stay in employment, do not default on any debt, and do not commit any major crime, otherwise the punishment was eviction back to the ground. I gave a saliva sample, had my fingers and eyes scanned, and pissed into a device that checked for drugs. Once all of this had been completed, the admin took me through a door that led into a long corridor filled with people, who gave me bags of sample goods, hearty handshakes, faux-affectionate hugs, and messages of congratulations in many different languages. I was now a resident of The Tower, elevated above the shit of mankind, privileged because of my wealth. I gripped the Tartarus in fear of losing it in the confusion and walked towards my new life.

