Virology

by Ren Warom

  A skinny, steel-topped bar hugs the back wall and curves round to touch the edge of a slender black stage graced with three go-go poles and currently rocking a turban-festooned lady in an off-the-shoulder gown made of feathers belting out Broadway hits through bright pink lips. No way Amiga could ever work pink with that much verve. It’s downright sassy.

  Fighting her way to the bar, Amiga roars at the first server to notice her, “Is that Shareen up there?”

  The server, five feet seven of blond bombshell decked in what can only be described as mobster fashion, shakes his head, “No hon. Shari’s out back doing her best impresh of Sheba. She’s on at midnight. Star act, don’t you know? Fetch you a drink maybe?”

  “No ta, but I’d sure love passage backstage for a royal audience.”

  He cocks his head. “Tell you what, you buy yourself a pretty cocktail and float me a decent tip, I’ll sneak you into the rabbit warren and to the throne room. Sound good?”

  Amiga flicks her cred chip on the bar, “I’m not drinking, but buy yourself an after-work cocktail and pop a twenty note on top for your trouble.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Snagging the chip up to scan it on his wrist, mobster bar boy beams before handing it back and crooking a finger. “Red carpet’s this way.”

  Offered up through a narrow red door, Amiga finds herself in a choked labyrinth of corridors studded with dressing rooms, all packed to capacity with drag queens and go-go dancers in various stages of undress, wearing enough glitter, sequins and silk to fill a hundred harems.

  Mobster boy leads her through, throwing finger waves like confetti. Stops at a door sporting a gigantic star and does some sort of twirl and hand gesture combo. “Ta da! This is her lair. You may want to enter at your own risk.”

  “Should I abandon hope?”

  “No, but do repent at leisure. Her Maj is an absolute beast until the post-show high sets in. Stage fright.”

  “Consider me forearmed.”

  “No hope of that, love,” he says as he leaves her high and dry outside the door.

  “Thanks for the vote of no confidence,” she yells after him, earning herself another twirl and a curtsey.

  Exchanging uncertain looks with Leopard Seal, Amiga knocks on the door. It flies open so hard it puts a dent in the wall and she’s confronted by a six-foot-plus man in a wig net, silk knickers and stockings. It takes him a moment to look down from such a great height and witness Amiga hovering in the doorway and then his eyes fly wide. Amiga sees horror in their depths and enough scorn to scorch the oceans dry. Ouch. This is Sheba Shareen all right.

  Shareen’s throaty voice is laden with more snark than Amiga’s ever had the pleasure of bathing in: “A serial killer kiss-o-gram? Really? Oh I will kill Bradley if he thinks this is going to worm him back into my good books. I’m sorry, darling, but I really must reject whatever sad little routine your paltry flim recompense gave you leave to void upon my threshold.” She spots Leopard Seal then, and her jaw drops. She points a wicked nail dipped in red. “And isn’t that some form of slavery? Or exploitation? I should have you reported!”

  The door slams in Amiga’s face, blowing her hair back. How exactly does one respond to that? There’s no manual for this shit. She knocks again. Shareen’s throaty voice barrels through the door, a vocal herd of bison trampling over her polite request for entry.

  “Fuck off! Scram. Go darken some other doorway. If you even try to sing at me through that door I will stab you to death with a bobby pin!”

  Losing her inconsiderable patience, Amiga snaps back, “If you could pull that shit off, I’d fucking let you kill me.”

  Silence. If silence could be quietly impressed, this is how she’d describe it. Heels tap on the carpet. The door cranks open again. Shareen leans on the frame, staring down at her, frowning. “Funny sort of kiss-o-gram you are,” she says.

  Amiga shrugs. “Sort of not a kiss-o-gram. Am a killer though. Bother you much?”

  That earns the elevation of a perfect brow. “Not unless you’re here to kill me, darling.”

  “You’d already be dead.”

  “Huh.” Apropos of nothing, Shareen moves aside and sweeps an arm. “Entrez! Drink? I have this complimentary shit I’m desp to offload on freeloaders. Some billionaire wanting to take me on a date. I loved his money, I mean who wouldn’t? But the man had no clue about hygiene.” She effects a full body shudder, more like a shimmy. “The pits must not stink like one, no? And just look at this shit. Even his gifts are more like visual insults.” Bustling around the dressing room and poking dresses aside, she shows Amiga a cabinet full of fifteen different types of outrageously expensive vodka, including one with what looks to be crushed diamonds gathered in the bottom, before practically shoving her on to a chaise longue covered in bright pillows and throws. “So. Killer. Fascinating job. Who do you kill?”

  “These days? Mostly Cartel members.”

  Throwing herself into the chair at her dressing table, Shareen begins a complicated contouring routine that all but hypnotises Amiga. “And do you kill often?”

  “With worrying frequency.”

  “Sounds like someone’s in the market for therapy.”

  “They couldn’t fix what’s wrong with me.”

  The snort she earns is ladylike. Cultured. Like a high five from a duchess. “Oh snap. So to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I need to find Zen.”

  Shareen drops her brush. “Why the hell would you wanna do that?”

  “Mother Zero is sick, so are the other Zeros. Her name is appearing on their skin. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but she’s involved and I want answers.”

  “Fuck.” Spoken almost too quiet to hear. Retrieving her brush, Shareen finishes with her contour and sets about turning her face into a flawless mask. Her eyes stand out, vivid sapphire against the ebony pale. They pin Amiga to her seat. “If Zen’s involved, you best give up now. Give up and run like fucking hell.”

  Amiga’s bat senses go wild. She asks the trillion-flim question, dreading the answer. “Exactly who is Zen?”

  Leaning in to the mirror to glue on her lashes, Shareen side-eyes the hell out of Amiga. It’s like being poked with sticks. “A Lakatos,” she snaps out. “A project. An asset. A megalomaniac with the face of an angel who fooled damn near everyone.”

  This is one of Amiga’s pet hates, being dumped into the middle of a story. “Context?”

  Shareen sighs. “Girl, I got no time for long stories, so brief as possible; Kamilla wanted a sister after she had her son. Why? Who knows: Kamilla was rich and spoilt and stupid, so go figure. So she had Zenada made, and Zen was beautiful and utterly brilliant. Hive. Core. Queens. Emblem. All made by Zen. Kamilla just took the credit. That was pretty much her single fucking life skill.”

  Amiga frowns. “Slip’s old. Like… old as Gung old. Isn’t it?”

  The pitying look Shareen slides her way guts her. “Oh hon. You think Earth Engines and escaping Queens were the only times Fulcrum messed with your head? Slip’s been a thing for twenty years and change. Before Slip, J-Net was it—J-Hack run and free for all. Then comes Zen, Kamilla’s little pet, who gave Kamilla the ideas and then the means to rig the system. Everything we know now she made Zen write into being: the Psychs, the Cads and Techs, all that petty bullshit.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “Breaker, hon. Breaker kept himself clear of the Slip. Never left his avi in there unchecked. He smelt trouble from day one and clued a handful of the Movement in. Too dangerous to spread it far, but that’s why we fought. Why we refused to give up. We had the truth. It was fucking heady. And fucking terrifying. You try knowing something no one else would believe. It fucks with you.”

  Now it’s Amiga’s turn to be scathing, “Oh I have the t-shirt on that one. Trust. So what happened to Zenada?”

  “She bit the hand that fed. Ended up locked away with the key thrown into a black hole, courtesy of Breaker, although Kamilla thought Josef
did it—she had no time for Breaker at all. Why do you think the Queens were all gung-ho for takeover? The big bitch, the main Queen— she was Zen’s avatar, and I can tell you they were peas in a fucking pod. This is why you need to leave Zen down whatever hole she was dropped.”

  “But the drives in our heads? We get them from Fulcrum.”

  All she gets for that is a pitying look. “Oh hon, no. The only thing truly new here is the Slip avatars, and Fulcrum didn’t bother to inform us of the creation process. Far as anyone knew, they were the same shit as J-Net avicles, except those aren’t alive, are they now?”

  Amiga thinks of the caterbike avicle she has in J-Net— just a tool, however cool and functional it is. Rage ignites her belly. “Why did we not know about Zen? Why did Mollie not tell us? Why didn’t Maggie?”

  “Breaker swore us all to secrecy. For our own safety, yeah? I’m pretty sure you’re not here because you listened to Maggie. She would have told you to leave it. I’m telling you to leave it. You should listen. Really.”

  Fuck but Amiga’s heartily bored of Movement folks telling her what she should do, even if this whole Slip being barely born thing explains so very fucking much about how they’re seen, why Breaker is such a big deal amongst J-Hacks. He’s their history, the reason why they fight. The reason they can fight.

  “I rarely listen when people tell me not to do shit,” she tells Shareen, fed up of having to repeat it time and again. It should be self-evident by now. She feels like she walks around with “takes no bullshit” carved into her forehead. “Mollie on the other hand told me to kill, and that’s a word that really grabs my attention. Do you have any clue where Breaker might have put this bitch?”

  Shareen swallows down a smile. “You’re cute. No, I have no idea where she is. All I know is that she’s on the hubs somewhere. Neutered. Neutralized. Hidden. In other words, no one’s concern. Why Mollie wants to crack open that Pandora’s Box, even to deep six the contents, is beyond my understanding.”

  “Me neither, but she does. Desperately. Asked without junk.”

  Shareen’s eyes flare comically wide. “None?”

  “Zip.”

  “So what about you? You do not need to do this. I would not advise it, no matter how desperate Mollie is.”

  Amiga takes a deep breath. “Yeah, Maggie said something similar but, you know what? I have no choice. Lives are in the balance. I have to do something. I’ll go crazy if I just sit back and let them die. Not acceptable.”

  Shareen raises both brows. “There’s always a choice, sugar, even if it’s a shitty one.”

  “Not if you give a shit.” Amiga pulls up her top, exposing the messy scar she refused to let Ravi fix. Like the healed bullet wound in her thigh it still hurts like fuck some days, though she’d sooner die than admit it. “This was my death sentence for turning tail on my boss to fight Fulcrum. Got commuted, don’t you know, but I keep this to remind me how close I came, how close I’d willingly come again, if need be, to do what’s right.”

  Lashes in place and looking magnificent, every bit the queen, Shareen turns to face her. Reaches out to touch the scar. “Impressive death sentence there. Who was the boss you quit on?”

  “Twist Calhoun. And I didn’t quit. I killed him.”

  Hissing surprise, Shareen pulls her hand away. “Well, well. How about that?” She looks at Amiga, blue eyes gleaming. “You promise me you’re planning to kill her? Not let her out or any crazy shit like that?”

  “You have my word. Maggie doesn’t think Mollie was fully herself when she asked it, but I was the one looking into her eyes. I saw it. She thinks Zen is in this somewhere and she wants her x’d the fuck out. It will be my sincere pleasure.”

  “Then go with my blessing. And take this,” Shareen rifles in her jewellery box and hands Amiga a little velvet ring case.

  “A ring?”

  “No, you moron. A fucking jack-chip. One of Breaker’s. Might have useful shit on it. Maybe a starting point. I warn you though, it’ll be VA’d within an inch of its life. Might burn a soul out to even jack it in. You might wanna run a few thousand anti-virals and then jack it remotely with a tablet you can handle losing.”

  “Duly noted.”

  And it is, though Amiga’s head is currently working like a jackhammer over a more pressing issue: getting to the hubs. They can’t even casually walk around on the Gung without wearing a skin, not if they don’t want all of hell to land on their heads. And all their problems right now? From the hubs. Joy. How the hell are they going to commandeer shuttles to take them to that action? This is not a fucking vid-stream, it’s life. Can go wrong, will go wrong, and always for them. Fucking always.

  Not for the first time, the sheer, unmitigated unfairness of the situation blasts through her. Stuck, reviled, hunted like dogs, and what the hell for? Seems like you do people a favour and they bite you for it. Shuffle that alongside her being no good for anything but killing, not in the way of marketable skills but goddamn fucking preference and it’s as if all life has done in the past month is beat her arse black and blue and then drop it in a cesspit for good measure.

  She leaves Shareen with a smile so forced it hurts and hurries back to the mono, resenting the skin over her face, the onus of more responsibility, the injustice of just about everything, and herself most of all.

  Knock, knock. Amiga taps on Shock’s IM.

  Amiga?

  So, shit got interesting.

  Is this where interesting is a word meaning seriously fucking awful?

  Bingo. I have a job for you, and a jack-chip. Heavily VA’d. Shareen, who gave it to me, says maybe crack it remote, with a burnable tablet.

  Gimme a moment. Find somewhere hidden.

  Sliding down a skinny alley full of filth and trying not to remember what she was doing the last time she was somewhere like this, Amiga waits for Shock to appear. When he does, link by link like any other fucking avi, which is weird enough to see, he’s not gold, he’s in goddamn technicolour. Normal colours. She wants to ask how he can avi like that, but equally doesn’t want to know the answer. And that’s only the first surprise. The second? What happens when he takes the chip. It vanishes into him, little sparks of white fire chasing up his arm to his head. Yeah, Emblem-avi-Shock freaks her the hell out.

  Get anything? she asks, striving for casual.

  He bites his lip. I will eventually. This fucker’s packed to the gills but there’s about a bazillion levels of VA. That Shareen was not kidding. What am I using it for?

  Amiga fills him in on Mollie and Zen, leaves him looking like she feels. Trashed. Ruined. Pissy as all hell.

  So I’m finding that bitch then? The human the Queen got her personality from?

  Yep.

  Jeez, Amiga. Fucking hell. Okay. I can’t promise anything, I highly doubt he’d hide relevant info in anything like this, but I’ll go look.

  All I’m asking.

  The quiet he leaves when he goes is cavernous. She floats in it, rootless, for long moments until Leopard Seal pops up next to her to remind her this is an alley, and standing in it isn’t going to get Amiga home. So she makes for the mono, breathing in air thick with the stench of dry ice and alcohol and wishing that, just once, her normal could be this; alcohol and dancing and bad decisions instead of blood and horror and never ending, terrifying reality.

  She’d give a hell of a lot to be that innocent again.

  Hu Hai In Hunin

  Hu Hai’s been in Hunin a mere twenty-four hours and he’s about ready to use one of the disposable chopsticks from his takeaway sushi to stab out his eyeballs. Aunty Dong hasn’t been quiet for a single second.

  Hu Hai, dear, it’s in your best interests to take your wife’s unhappiness as more of a list of instructions.

  Yes, Aunty Dong.

  Don’t “yes, Aunty Dong” me. Pay attention, or you’ll be a divorcee soon enough. The shame.

  He bites his lip hard. No point reminding her of the threats she’s made about getting h
is wife to divorce him. The fact that she’s given his wife her own lawyer’s IM. She remembers. This is all to test him. Constantly. His hands are trembling. They never stop. Not even when he drinks. Yes, Aunty Dong.

  Now let’s look at these matches.

  I’m looking at them, Aunty Dong.

  Rather a lot, are there not?

  Yes, Aunty Dong. Hunin is rather busy.

  I’m thinking we need more eyes. I’ll send more.

  Hu Hai tries to concentrate on the few almost/maybe matches that pop into his feed. It takes a moment to register what she’s said. No. Please, Aunty Dong. We’re over-staffed as it is.

  It’s taking too long. Work faster.

  Yes, Aunty Dong.

  Making a heroic effort to zone her out as she launches into a lecture on how to assert his will amongst his staff, Hu Hai focuses in on the streams. Bites back on the urge to swear aloud. These fucking algorithms aren’t sensitive enough. They’re not discriminating between similar types of body language. Fuck. Fuck. How’s he supposed to do anything with her in his drive droning on? He feels half mad. Sometimes he hears her talking to him even when she’s not. Gulping coffee and wishing with all his might it was baijiu, he sends the team an order to up the ratio of match points.

  He makes sure Dong doesn’t hear it.

  Then, for about the seventeenth time in twenty-four hours, he wishes the Cleaner were out and about. He’s viewed footage of Amiga Tanaka that Aunty Dong’s Archies found in the streams, admiring her in the same way as he’d admire a predator, with awe and from a distance. If she’d moved through recently, he’d know her in an instant. Of all the Hornets though, he’s expecting her the least. A creature like that lets off steam by killing, not clubbing.

  As the sun slinks from the sky, Hunin’s club district starts to wake up, pulling in crowds from surrounding districts, including the foothills and farms of Shandong. This is what Hu Hai was waiting for. A drunkard he might be, a terrified fool accountable to Aunty Dong’s whims, but he’s always been sharp when it comes to gut instinct.

  If tonight is his lucky night, he’ll get the holy grail: autonomy. Her top Execs make their own decisions. Are their own men and women. Claim a take-home wage so high it brings black spots to his vision. Finally he could buy that three-bed apartment he’s been yearning for, with double doors on to a sun terrace and no shared laundry facilities. Maybe let his wife divorce him after all and marry someone younger. Sweeter. Someone who likes beards. And baijiu.