After all, this is what I have left of my brother: A HoloBand, a two-page suicide note and some ratty bills. He also gave me back the credit slips from my strongbox and the .38 with the hollow points. It’s a nice enough gesture, I guess.
The street perpendicular to mine is bathed in pulsing neon from a club. Blackstone insisted I meet his contact here, for safety reasons. I guess he didn’t entirely trust that I wasn’t backstabbing him. I shove my hands in my pockets, keep my head low, and walk around the corner.
The Red Bee casts a yellow and crimson light across the street. It’s a nice club, by the standards of the Otherlands—expensive, upscale. Which means that people are looking to party, rather than to snitch or score a quick bounty. Milling outside are party-goers bobbing and nodding their heads to an invisible beat. I clutch the handles of the bag, put my head down, and start walking.
A couple of them turn to look at me as I pass.
“Hey, you’re that guy,” one of the women says, her eyes glassed over. “You should be careful, man.”
I press onwards, through the black double doors. The pulsating bass hits me in the entry-room. A tired man with piercings lining his face gives me the once over.
“Press you neck up against the wall to pay,” he says. “Two hundred credits.”
I glance at the wall, where a hood-like object a little lower than head-height sits. Even if I wasn’t wanted, a scan would be impossible—my HoloBand’s been removed. Instead of walking over, I tap on the glass.
“Hey man, don’t do that.” His dull eyes stare back at me. “I’ll call security.”
“I got something better than that,” I say. “But I can’t scan.”
“Then you don’t get in,” he says. “Join everyone else and hunt that dude on the streets, man.”
If only he knew that dude was right in front of him. But he’s either too stoned or oblivious to notice. I take the plastic bag from the duffel and then press the cash up against the window. The kid’s eyes go wide, registering that this could be a huge score.
“Push me through manually.”
“That’s against policy, man, I don’t know.”
“There’s a couple thousand credits here,” I say.
“Nah,” the kid says. “I could lose my job.”
I pull out the credit slips, which are also worth a few thousand. “You can trade these in for HoloBand credit, man. Just gotta go to the corrections office.”
“I hate that place, man,” he says. “Everyone does.”
“You make what, maybe twenty-five credits a night?”
“Twenty,” he says, glancing at the slips nervously.
“This is almost a year of pay,” I say. “All you gotta do is let me through.”
“If I get caught, man—”
“Then don’t get caught.”
He presses the button and lets me through. Luckily for him, there are no cameras to watch him as he sneaks out from behind the bulletproof window to accept his haul. The kid stares at the slips and the bills, then catches a glimpse of what’s inside the open duffel.
“Hey, man, no guns inside.”
“I won’t tell if you won’t,” I say, then I zip up the bag and open the bright red doors with a black bee painted in relief in their center.
The music doesn’t play so much as throbs, the interior of the club one big dance floor. It’s largely dark, except for waitresses with flashing red lights arranged on their shapely backs like bee stripes. An occasional burst of red light rains down from the rafters, but otherwise the club resembles a sensory deprivation tank.
As my eyes adjust to the limited light, I try to locate the stairs. Blackstone told me to meet his man on the second floor. A little flash of crimson shows that the path is straight ahead and to the right. I begin cautiously making my way through the gyrating crowd, stepping on toes and bumping into elbows constantly.
I don’t know who designed this place, but either they’re a genius or a moron. If you’re not wasted, the design flaws immediately become apparent. A waitress comes up to me and a light flashes. I see that she has little nightvision goggles on, so that she can navigate the crowd.
“Nectar?” she says in a smooth purr during a lull in the undulating bass. Miniature pots of honey sit atop her golden tray.
I tell her no thanks and push past. After a couple of minutes, I make it to the stairs. It’s easy-going from here, since most of the people are on the dancefloor. I’m stopped by a big fella at the top, the intermittent flashes showing me that one of his eyes is missing. I remember Marshwood’s lifeless eye. Must be a hazard of living down here for too long.
“VIP only,” he says, with a tone that indicates I am not a VIP.
“I’m here to meet someone,” I yell over the sounds.
He glances down at the bag. “What’s in there?”
“Nothing.”
The big guy reaches for the handles. “Anything good for me?” I dodge him in the blackness, almost falling down the stairs. He grunts and laughs. “No fee, no entry.”
I’ve already spent all my money. A burst of red light, and he’s staring right at me.
“I’m meeting a friend,” I say, slowly and forcefully. “A friend of Director Blackstone’s.”
“I know you,” he says, his voice rising.
“I don’t think so.”
“Yeah, I do,” he says, and I back up a little as he tries to place it.
“Just one of those faces.”
Recognition flashes in his eyes with the next red burst. “You’re Luke Stokes.”
And then he lunges at me, and we’re tumbling down the stairs, his big arms wrapped around my chest. I manage to cling to the bag. We collide with a group of dancers at the bottom. They shriek with surprise and then begin to laugh.
I don’t find any of it funny, though. I elbow the bouncer in the face and his grip around my chest loosens. I try to slip away, but he trips me by the ankle, and I crash against one of the waitresses.
He catches up and puts his knees on my calves. I can hear him yelling over the bass. No one seems to care about this little melee. Then again, it’s hard to see. I feel his hands clawing up my back, towards the bag.
I wiggle forward, kicking backwards with my heel. I catch him in the thigh, and he lets loose again. Struggling with the zipper, I start on the only plan I can think of.
The .38 clatters to the floor as I shake the open bag out, the drive and HoloBand bouncing on to the ground too. I feel him pawing at the back of my shirt.
I point the gun over my shoulder and pull the trigger, feeling a spray of blood rain down. The bouncer falls off my back, the weight releasing from my calves. The Red Bee erupts into screams—everyone here is familiar with the flash of muzzle fire.
Footsteps stampede around me, trampling my hands. The house lights come on, sending shooting pains through my eyes. But the mass exit halts, everyone stunned by the sudden stream of light. Through watering eyes, I manage to locate the HoloBand and the drive. They’ve somehow both survived. I leave the empty duffel behind, stuff the valuables in my pockets, and stagger to my feet.
I push through the remaining crowd, .38 in hand. A few of the braver patrons venture quick glances at me, albeit through cracked fingers and squinted eyes. I probably look like a demon from the depths of hell, wild-gazed and covered in another man’s blood.
Climbing the stairs, I find no resistance at the top. I scan the balcony for my contact. At the end, overlooking the DJ’s stage, is a familiar face. Side-part, pale skin.
Kid Vegas waves me over.
“You look like you’ve been through the wringer, Stokes,” I say.
“You,” I say, the words failing to come. “You said you didn’t want to work with Blackstone.”
“Maybe I changed my mind,” he says, surveying the scene below. The anarchy has escal
ated, the actual sight of the dead man spurring new panic. “Maybe I’m a liar. Either way, our fates are tethered together, it seems.”
I have my money on liar. And I want to know why. I point the gun at him. “Tell me which one it is.”
“We don’t have time for this, Stokes. You’re a wanted man. That’s why you came here, remember? For help getting to the Black Hole. And judging by your little entry scene below, we don’t have a lot of time to waste getting to know each other over drinks.”
I jab the gun in his face, almost touching his nose. From the corner of my vision, I think I see some people pointing at the balcony. Apparently my little streak of violence has burst them out of their drugged haze. And here I thought that couldn’t be done.
“We can both die together.”
“I was part of the Gifted Minds Program,” Kid says. “I tricked them, really. I had to do whatever I could in order to survive after my old man died. Forced me to become good at surviving. Even Blackstone didn’t know I was Ford’s kid until I left. The HoloBands, you see, were going to be a problem. Mandatory for all Inner Circle members, complete with DNA profiles. I would be exposed.” He shrugs. “Nothing like digging your own grave, right Stokes? Or designing a piece of it, in this case. Your brother, he was the brilliant one.”
“So you’ve been lying from the beginning,” I say. “What do you want?”
“I told you that I had my own thing going,” Kid says. “Same as you, working the angles. You knew. I could see it in your eyes, the minute the glasses fell off my face. You knew. You just didn’t care.”
“What do you want?” I repeat.
“An actual seat at the table,” Kid says. “Not VP of nothing, or vagabond-in-chief. Somewhere that matters.”
I take the gun down with a trembling arm. “How’re you gonna help me?”
“That’s easy, Stokes.” He reaches into his pocket, ignoring the panic below, and extracts a coin. “I’m going to help you activate HIVE.”
He slides the coin across the table. Now I realize that none of this was by accident—the HoloBand, the .38, the money. These people from Gifted Minds—and their leader—they’re playing on a different field.
One where I might not see even a tenth of the variables.
“It’s obvious that your brother didn’t want anyone else running HIVE besides him,” Kid says. “But we’re hoping that maybe the system he created will also recognize you.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I spent seven years with Matt,” Kid says without sentimentality, “he always thought you were special. And he did want your help with this little undertaking, did he not? That’s why you came to New Manhattan in the first place. What project is bigger than this?”
I think about Marshwood leading me to the source, how Matt told him to help me if anything happened. So maybe I am part of the plan for HIVE. Put it together. Blackstone and Kid must think so, at least—that’s why I’m helping, after all. I reach into my pocket and take out the plastic case. It’s still intact. Kid preps the coin extractor as I remove the cover on the HoloBand.
Then, right in the Red Bee, I become Matt Stokes again.
Of course, there are a couple complications—naturally. The first is that, since I reinstalled the HoloBand, it means I’m back on the Circle’s grid. I can be tracked, and there’s just no way around that. They might not notice, since Matt’s HoloBand is supposed to be lying dormant in evidence. But that’s wishful thinking. The system will flag them somewhere along the line, and I’ll have a target on my back.
The second, and more pressing issue, is simple: I don’t have the second drive. It’s assumed that the third and final drive lies at the coordinates from the HIVE demo, which head to the Black Hole. Me and Kid are also running on the assumption that this place will include the computer hardware required to actually make sense of this so-called antidote.
But the drive I recovered from the Rems is still with the Ashes of the Fall. More specifically, it’s with Evelyn Vera. I can see their headquarters two blocks up. Me and Kid stop in front of a crumbling apartment building that disappears into the night sky.
“This is it,” he says.
“Why her?”
“She’s the one with the drive.”
“I meant why’d Slick give it to her,” I say. “She’s a nurse.”
“She’s also the resident computer tech,” Kid says. “The AoF uses old school networks, stays off the HoloBand grid that way. He sent the drive to her for analysis.”
“She have any other talents I need to know about?”
“Evelyn’s not dangerous.” Kid leans up against the side of the building, in the alley. “Clock’s ticking, Stokes.”
I pull the drive from my pocket and hand it to him. He takes it with a disinterested shrug. I begin walking out into the dim lit street. Then I pause. “You know, Blackstone gave me back all my stuff, except for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Matt’s travel journal,” I say. “It was in the strongbox.”
“Someone at the AoF probably tossed it before Slick handed over the contents to Blackstone,” Kid says. “No place for sentimentality.”
“Sure, I get that,” I say, the explanation ringing false in my mind. I hug the shadows as I walk into the main street. Before I enter the apartment building, I check to make sure the .38 is loaded. It’s good to go. I tuck gun in the waistband of my pants and pray that I won’t have to use it again tonight. Then I push through the rotating doors into a lobby that’s seen better days. Fluorescent lights hang from the ceiling, threatening to drop on my head from thirty feet up.
The front desk is abandoned and covered in graffiti. Most of the messages contradict each other. This is probably why Tanner has managed to hang on this long. The factions spend all their time fighting each other, rather than the real enemy. It’s like two small dogs who think they can crush the big bad Rottweiler by beating on each other. They didn’t stand a chance to begin with, but the added stupidity just makes the inevitable defeat extra brutal.
I walk past the desk and a planter filled with dirt that resembles white chalk. Two of the elevator doors are ajar, leading to empty shafts descending into infinite blackness. A third is cracked open, an exposed electrical wire buzzing and hissing inside, blue sparks pulsing from the ends.
I try my luck by pressing the button next to the fourth. The elevator car creaks and shakes its way down the decrepit building. As I wait, I spot two guys shuffling out of the shadows of the ruined mailboxes, dragging their bodies towards me like zombies.
The doors chime just as they join me.
“Hey man, you got a spare credit,” one of them drones in the far-off trademark tone of addicts and stoners everywhere. “Just like, anything you got.”
He fiddles with his oversized sweatshirt, his eyes totally glazed over. He’s looking at me, but not really. Whatever he’s seeing, it’s not reality. It dawns on me that this is what HIVE will be: the ultimate escapist drug. I step into the elevator car and give them an easy smile.
“You fellas going up?” I’m glad I have the .38. At the same time, it’s not really necessary. These guys are so lit that they’re more liable to collapse and die than kick my ass.
“Nah, I think I’ll stay here for a little bit.” His buddy keeps looking at me. “Dude, you’re like, glowing.”
“Good to know.” I jam my finger against the button that says 136 in faded letters. The doors begin to creak shut.
“Yeah, he’s got good vibes,” I hear the second guy finally say. Then I’m alone, rocketing through the shaft in what seems like a tin can. The walls of the elevator quake and shimmy, like the whole thing is about to spiral off the rails. There’s a good shot it either drops me down the shaft or launches me into orbit.
A metal on metal screech indicates, however, I am safe and have successfully re
ached my destination. The elevator groans, like it’s not sure how long it can continue working. I know the feeling. A printed and laminated sign on the peeling wall tells me that units 13,600 – 13,649 are to the right.
Underneath that, someone has taken the time to issue an important PSA—that “Mariah gives the best hed.” The author doesn’t win spelling points, but they’re probably too dead to care what I think.
I’m almost winded by the time I pass the sea of doors before Evelyn’s. I rub my palms together for luck and take a deep breath. Then I give the door my best knock.
The door swings open, and Evelyn is standing there, blonde hair wet, body wrapped in just a towel. I had this entire interaction planned from the start. Here I would be, leaning against the doorframe, cool as anything. Tell her yeah, thanks for saving me. I need your help to change the world. Because I heard you’re really good with computers. Or something to that effect. I’m still rusty from the wastes. But the general idea is simple: she would look at me and see my confidence and any doubts about what the hell my real plans were would go flying out the window.
Instead of that, however, I say, “Shit,” because that’s all I can actually manage. Been awhile since I’ve seen a woman like this. One variable I failed to consider.
She actually blushes, so it’s not completely wrong. Then she clutches the towel a little tighter and says, “What are you doing here, Luke?”
And she says my name. Like at least ninety percent pissed off that I’m just wandering in, but the other ten percent curious. It’s enough to make my mind immediately delete whatever I had to say next. So I blink and wrinkle my nose, then I clear my throat.
“So,” she says. Her damp hair shakes a little.
“You need to put some clothes on,” I say.
“Too risqué?”
“No,” I say. “I can’t think when you look like this.”
Her eyebrows knit together, and her face turns redder. “Like what?”
I regain my cool enough to say, “If you have to ask, you’ll never know.”
“I’m asking anyway.”
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