He smiled, imbuing it with the last vestiges of confidence he could dig up. “You will.”
24
* * *
Perrin studied the crowd spilling out of Serpens Sate with a wary eye. She tried to size up the situation the way Joaquim had taught her to do…but she just couldn’t make herself see the world through the same lens he did.
The would-be patrons of the club looked angry bordering on dangerous, and that was how he would see them. But she knew better.
Joaquim had found her in a club not much different from this one over a decade ago. She’d been on her fourth up-gen in barely a century, frantically chasing some combination of traits and algorithms that would make her feel right—would turn her into a whole person comfortable in her own skin and confident about her purpose in the world. He had given her the second and helped her find her own way to the first.
Places like Serpens Sate never held those answers, but they did reassure you that you weren’t alone in seeking them—and created enough noise to drown out the traitorous whispers of doubt and despair in your head.
She doubted the mindset which led individuals to act out in their clothes, visible augments and choices of entertainment locale had changed much, if at all, in the intervening years since she’d been one of them. It was a state of psyche that had little to do with current political or sociological trends and everything to do with the nature of imperfect beings cursed to yearn for their own particular flavor of perfection.
Tonight she’d worn her favorite angsty-outcast outfit—a frilled purple shirtdress with opalescent holoshimmer leggings and knee boots—but studying the crowd now, she realized hair fashions did change, and hers was out. She’d tinted it platinum and wound it into a plethora of braids, but wearing them long and free appeared to be passé.
She hurriedly pulled the braids together and secured the bases atop her head so they formed a waterfall around her face, then sauntered across the street to the entrance.
No security gated the doors—which was kind of the point—and she weaved through the patrons who opted to remain on the sidewalk to reach the interior.
As soon as she got inside, she activated a visual scan routine. The tech dealer in the Mirai One Southern Market had provided an image capture of the man’s face, so the routine was primed with the physical markers to search for.
Ηq (visual) | scan (190°:100°) | Η μ (Λ) = (parameters (hairHue(#6B4226 +- 10%), height(180cm +- 4%), weight(68kg +- 6%), faceChar (/img_ ββθθ +- 5% pf)))
He might not be here—but odds were he was. There weren’t many of these type of clubs on Mirai, and this was the only one in the same sector as the Southern Market. She didn’t want to stereotype thoughtlessly, but hanging out at Serpens Sate and its ilk was what people like her mark did.
NOIR enjoyed a large network of sympathizers, of whom this particular tech dealer was only one. In his case, he informed NOIR when a customer meeting a certain profile—disaffected, troubled, desperate—showed up trying to buy a simmed ID, a routine to erase their signature from the grid or similar software.
You couldn’t buy those types of illegal software in the Southern Market, not even from the gray market merchants lurking in the rear section, but grid-dwellers didn’t know that. If they went to the wrong merchant in search of it, they’d find themselves reported to Justice; if they went to the right merchant, they’d find themselves reported to NOIR.
Perrin’s eyes swept across the patrons for a second pass, but a man with three arms and an extra-long neck passed in front of her scan, blocking her view for several seconds.
After a few millennia of experimentation in the early days of the Dominion, a general consensus had developed that, in most circumstances most of the time, nature and evolution had already worked out the best physical form. While some argued selection/confirmation bias tainted the analysis, it became widely accepted that bipedal bodies with two arms, two eyes and one head, walking upright using a solid central torso, offered the best balance of durability and finesse.
But part of being disaffected was rejecting the conventional wisdom, so you still saw the occasional radical alteration in this sort of crowd.
The man moved on, and she resumed her search.
Τ → Η μ (Λ) = gridpoint (32.3,8.1), P(83.2%)
The man the scan routine had identified fidgeted at a standing table near the back. Alone in a bar filled with people.
She swung by the kiosk and grabbed two drinks, then casually wound her way toward the man’s table. When she arrived, she sidled in opposite him and slid one of the drinks across the small table. “You look like you could use this.”
He jumped back so far he bumped into the wall behind him. “What—why would you think that?”
She gave him a speculative look and sipped on her drink. “You’re practically vibrating. If someone didn’t know better, they might think you were up to something.”
“N-no, I was….” He picked up the glass and guzzled half of it down in one swig. “Thanks. But why are you here? Talking to me? Women don’t usually seek me out.”
She wasn’t surprised. He’d be average-looking if he cleaned himself up, but too much sweating had given his brown hair a greasy appearance, not to mention what it did to his skin. Ill-fitting clothes hung sloppily on a skinny frame, and his shirt was marred by a food stain near the center of his chest.
He could be in direr straits than she’d initially thought. She set her drink on the table, freeing her hands. “I heard you might be trying to escape the grid—”
“What! Who told you—I’m not—”
She laid a hand gently on his arm, which was in fact both vibrating and sweating. “Calm down. I’m not with Justice, I promise.”
His pupils contracted despite the dim lighting in the club. “Then who are you with?”
“A group of people who can help you, if you want to be helped.”
Now his eyes, though not his pupils, widened. “You’re with NOIR, aren’t you?”
She smiled placidly, but inwardly she was giggling. It was so fantastic to discover their presence and purpose had thoroughly penetrated the popular culture, or at least this faction of it. “Let’s not worry about specifics right now. Why don’t you tell me what happened? Why are you trying to go underground?”
He glanced around the club. “Can we go somewhere quieter? I hate crowds.”
“Sure. I know a bench by the riverbank. First, though, what’s your name?”
His chin dropped, and he found sudden interest in his feet. “I’m Theo.”
“Hi, Theo. I’m Perrin.”
The reflection of a patina quarter-moon danced across the Hataori River, accompanied by echoes of light from the rows of lamps framing each bank.
The street traffic behind them was busy enough that Perrin didn’t fear for her personal safety; she also didn’t fear for it because Joaquim had long ago insisted she install enough combat routines to be able to defend herself against a small army should the need ever arise.
Theo’s legs kicked erratically beneath the bench. They’d become his latest outlet to release the nervous energy consuming him.
She shifted to half-face him and curled one leg under her on the bench. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”
He nodded. “I was out with two of my friends one night a couple of weeks ago. When we were at Riyuki’s down near the Southern Market, they bought some dose off this random woman and loaded it up.”
“But you didn’t?”
“They tried to get me to join them, but I told them I didn’t want to. I’ve heard horror stories about how street doses can fuck up your kernel. Um…it didn’t do that to them, I don’t think, but it did fuck them up pretty bad. After we left the bar, they were crazy maniacal.
“I stayed with them, trying to calm them down and convince them to go home, but they weren’t listening. When we got to the Southern Market shops, they decided to vandalize the storefront of this expensive clothing store. The
y broke the front glass and ripped up the clothes on the automatons. The store’s security system tripped, and patrol dynes showed up in seconds. They arrested all three of us.”
“But you hadn’t done anything wrong?”
“Right! I got arrested because I was there.” He cleared his throat. “So we got locked up, then our hearing happened two days later. The only reason I wasn’t convicted was because the Rep managed to prove that I wasn’t on any of the security cam footage, plus my tox screen came out negative. But my friends were both convicted of burglary and vandalism, with aggravating factors due to the illegal dose. They got sentenced to ten years in Zaidam Bastille. For vandalism!”
He fisted his hand at his chin. “My friends, they had credits. They could have simply paid for the damage and made the shop owner whole, but Justice didn’t give them that option. I expect they’ll get a forced up-gen before they’re released. When they finally come back, they won’t be the people I knew any longer.”
He had a good head of steam going now, so she kept projecting an encouraging expression and let him talk.
“I was lucky—but what if I hadn’t been? What if I’d tried to pull one of them back from the storefront and ended up on the cam footage? Justice wouldn’t care that I was trying to stop them. What if…?” His voice trailed off, and his posture sagged, all the righteous anger abandoning him as abruptly as it had arrived.
He stared at the water flowing past them. “All my generations, I blissfully assumed Justice existed to protect us. I assumed the system was fair and, well, just. But now, I’m worried if I step off the curb wrong some patrol dyne is going to put me in restraints and haul me off to Zaidam. I’m terrified to do…anything.
“So I saw the news reports about NOIR’s hit on the Dominion Transit building, and I realized there are people who’ve escaped the system. People who are living their lives free, and Justice can’t touch them. I thought…I thought maybe I could do that. But every tech dealer I’ve visited has told me no. So I guess I don’t know how to do it….”
Perrin had to restrain herself from hugging him. He was far from the first person she’d encountered who was broken, feeling beaten and helpless—in fact, one of her jobs in NOIR was to collect those people—but it wrenched her heart every single time. This was why she did what she did. She wasn’t in NOIR for her own freedom, but to help others find theirs.
She compromised by reaching over and squeezing his hand. “It’s going to be okay, Theo. We do know how to do it. We can help show you the way.”
He hurriedly wiped a tear off his cheek. “Are you NOIR? Will you tell me? Will I get to be one of you?”
This was always the delicate dance. They did what they could for people in trouble, but they had to be so cautious, for their own and the individual’s safety. “We need to take things slowly. We’ll help you get off the grid, and we’ll point you toward resources that will help you survive once you are. If things go well, then we’ll see about taking more steps down the road.”
His face fell. “I understand. You can’t just let anyone in.”
“We do have to be careful. You should be careful, too—careful, but not afraid. All right?”
He nodded hopefully.
“Good. I’m going to give you the name and contact information of someone who can get you started, and I’ll be in touch in a day or two to check on you. Also, here’s an emergency nex node address you can contact if you get in real trouble. Send a message to it, and if it’s at all possible for us to help, we will.”
“Thank you. For the first time in weeks, I feel like I actually have a chance.”
“You’ve got more than a chance, Theo. You’ve got a life of your own choosing waiting for you.”
25
* * *
Nika adopted a demeanor of aloof disinterest as she entered the clothing boutique. She’d never visited Rivers Trust during the five years of her current life, but she knew enough about it to recognize she couldn’t very well walk up to the counter wearing fatigues and a tactical shirt and jacket. It was a sketchy play walking into the upscale boutique wearing them, but with any luck the staff wouldn’t kick her out for slumming down the store if she promised to buy something.
She scanned the merchandise on display incredulously. How did anyone wear this attire and keep a straight face?
“May I help you find what you desire?”
She glanced over at the sales attendant. Most dynes she encountered in her daily life were security of one kind of another, and they usually looked the part. This one, however, sported a smooth, brushed cream exterior casing, glittering accents at appropriate joints and a permanent smile carved onto the outlines of a ceramic face.
“I just need something simple. Professional and understated. It’s for a business meeting, you see.”
“This way, if you please.”
She followed the attendant to the rear of the shop, past the garish and the audacious to a small section of attire that began to approach decency. It was tucked into a corner as if being shamed, but thankfully the shop did sell it. “Thank you. I’ll browse for a minute.”
“Summon me if you need further assistance.” The attendant backed away, though she had no doubt it continued to watch her discreetly from a distance. Pleasant exterior aside, it probably doubled as security.
She frowned dubiously at the racks. What style of fashion did she fancy? She’d never been in a position to consider the question until now.
Her fingertips trailed across the fabrics until finally a dash of burgundy caught her eye. A simple but elegantly cut pantsuit. She lifted it out of the rack and studied it. The legs swooshed a little too flamboyantly at the ankles for her taste, and the high neck of the collar looked too restrictive to be comfortable, but it was the best she was apt to do.
She paid for the suit and matching shoes with untraceable credits and left the store, then found a public lounge two blocks down. She quickly changed, but spent five minutes scowling at the mirror before deciding the outfit must be acceptable to a certain social class.
With a sigh she stuffed her normal clothes in her bag. She’d need to change back into them before returning home, because no way was she stepping onto The Floor wearing this.
The Rivers Trust security measures made Justice buildings look like flop houses. This was why the wealthy and connected used it; unbreakable security protections constituted an important aspect of its meticulously crafted reputation. In fact, every corner and every surface conveyed a message of reliability, of inviolability.
It was a deliberate performance, but it also had to be true, else all the window dressing in the world would not have kept the business operating and serving the most elite of clientele for many centuries.
She waited in a short line. The people in front of her didn’t wear the sparkly bangles and ostentatious garb that had dominated the racks of the store she’d visited, so she’d chosen well with the pantsuit. These were serious people, going about serious business. This at least she respected.
Had any of them known her before? If she’d genuinely been a diplomat and frequented the social and professional circles Ridani inhabited, perhaps some had. She wore a simmed ID and a morph, though she’d have to deactivate them at the counter, so she wouldn’t get an answer to the question. Not today.
She’d also deactivated the disguise for Ridani. Why? Why had it mattered that he see her as she was? It was the appearance he was expecting to see, but it wasn’t her job to make him feel comfortable.
She supposed she’d simply wanted to be for those few minutes, to not feel like an imposter around the one person who knew her as she’d once been.
The line crept forward, and the fire of hope ignited to flicker and dance across her skin. Answers, true answers, waited a few meters away. She tamped down fidgeting hands.
When her turn arrived, she straightened her shoulders, notched her chin up in a confident set, deactivated the morph and approached the counter. “Nika Kirumase. I want
to access my holdings.”
“Identification, signature and passcode.”
She placed her fingertips on the waiting pane.
Σ → Identity:
< Nika Kirumase, 12th generation
Signature:
< θΨβαθΨ∀ΨαΩΞ
Passcode:
< αβ θθββ αβαα αββα ΩΞ βαα θβαθβ θαθ θαβα
The faceless interface whirred. She felt naked and exposed standing there with no layers of disguises, enunciating her real, if former, name where anyone could overhear it. Seconds ticked by.
“The Kirumase account is empty. Do you want to make a deposit or set up a new deposit route?”
She fought against the penetration of the words into her reality, trying frantically to hold onto that precious hope for one more second. Empty?
“Are you certain? Please check again.”
“The system is always accurate. The Kirumase account is empty.”
The walls closed in around her and every shadow became a threat as her mind raced through the implications. She struggled to keep her voice from shaking. “Can you tell me the date of the last withdrawal? I must have a corrupted memory node.”
“Y12,458.096 A7, 1340 local, 0920 APT.”
The same day she woke up. Mere hours before. It felt like a sinister connection, but in truth the information didn’t tell her anything new. Objectively, it made perverse sense. “Does the system say who made the withdrawal?”
“An individual possessing the required credentials. Do you wish to close the account?”
“Yes—no.” If someone had accessed the account five years ago, they could have put a watch on it. Closing it might alert them that she was on their trail—and by ‘trail’ she meant fumbling around naked in the dark, blindfolded. “No, thank you. I’m sure I’ll have a deposit to make soon. Good day.”
Every iota of discipline she possessed activated to prevent her from sprinting out of the building and tearing down the street in a frenzied panic. As it was, it took her a good thirty seconds and two blocks to realize it had begun to rain while she’d been inside.
Asterion Noir: The Complete Collection (Amaranthe Collections Book 4) Page 14