by Ren Warom
Whip peers at the control screen. “Fucking Pretoria or some shit.”
“You cool with that, Pris?”
Prism shoots her the kind of look that comes right before bad choices. “I can give it my best. You want me to aim anywhere in particular? I’ve got the lock-in system on here figured.”
Vivid tries to think. They have two destinations they know of, a whole lot of hell following, and way too many people they love at stake, not to mention billions of avis to save yet the fuck again and no guarantee of a Haunt’s helping hand. What the hell to do? Only one thing. Prioritize.
“We need to cripple the Cartel first. They’re the ones we have most intel on.”
“Two possible hubs is intel?” KJ is not amused. “Sounds more like a crapshoot to me.”
She rolls her eyes. “Well if you wanna be negative.”
“I’m whatever the sitch calls for. Might I suggest we treat this intel as it deserves to be and throw dice?”
“Oh fuck off. We’ll hit Tokyo first.”
Both his eyebrows shoot up. “Walk me through this decision.”
“It’s one of the biggest. We need to cross it off.”
“I can go for that. Straight up hack and run, yeah? Only one needle in the haystack, what could be easier?” His scorn is world class.
“Two needles.”
“We’re Zen hunting there? Kinda spreads our brief to breaking point.”
“We’re hunting her everywhere, mainly because we’re all out of clues as to where in the hell she might be up here and her breathing her last is pretty much equal priority with every other fucker after us breathing theirs.”
“If you go by that logic she could be on fucking Pretoria,” he snaps.
“She could. She could be anywhere. But there’s only us up here and we can’t really kill more than one bird at a fucking time, so we hit Tokyo, hack and run for duPont’s hidey-hole, and if we happen to spy a lone Lakatos, we’re laughin’.”
“Your enthusiasm is genuinely disturbing.”
“That’s not enthusiasm, KJ, it’s desperation.”
* * *
Looming large in their sights until it’s all that they can see, Pretoria shines eerie blue light into the interior of the shuttle. Through the thick glass of the dome, they get a glimpse of a dark skyline, the soft purple of jacaranda trees painted dark as indigo by shadow. In daylight the city would be glorious with colour, a riot of bright purple and green amongst gold stone, but at this hour the only gold is the light from office windows. Red-eye office hours.
The rest of the city sleeps on, oblivious.
As they gather speed for the slingshot, Vivid catches sight of the trails of the shuttles in their wake, tails of cloud pulled out to wisps. She counts seven. So many. Each of these shuttles carries up to a hundred passengers. Are they full? Is that hangar security too or is it just the Cartel and whoever hit Shandong? Vivid hates not knowing, hates having to guess. Is driven to frustration and despair by this new, secretive enemy. There must be a way to find out who else has them in crosshairs. The most terrifying thing about an unknown enemy moving stealthy enough to avoid being clocked is the unknown agenda.
Could be they’re after the same thing as the Cartel— them dead, Shock alive—but the hit on Shandong did not give that impression. Who the hell would want them to burn? Who have they wounded so badly only their deaths will suffice? It has the distinct flavour of vendetta. Whoever hit the farm holds them responsible for something personal and won’t be happy until they’re dead.
“Countdown to slingshot in ten,” Prism calls out. “I know floating is fun, but I’d strap in unless you like seeing the contents of your stomachs. Not to mention I’ve never even done this in sim so it’s pretty much in fate’s hands as to whether we sling to the coords I tapped in or splat into the side of a hub like bugs on a windshield.”
“Please try not to squish us, Pris, love,” KJ pleads as he straps in next to Viv and grabs her hand. His fingers are freezing. Clench tight as they gather speed like crazy.
The pressure of the slingshot is intense, makes Viv’s body shrink around her spine. She peeks out the window, trying to distract her mind from the discomfort and immediately looks away. There’s nothing out there, like they’re heading into deep space rather than to a distant hub—all dark, no stars, unless those bright smears across the darkness are stars. It’s like purgatory. She’s rendered dizzy. Nauseous.
She sits there, KJ hanging on for grim death, the pressure getting more and more unbearable, until a soft chime echoes through her skull. Familiar. Very much welcome. She closes her eyes and lets Amiga speak first, just to hear it and know for sure.
Viv? You there?
Vivid’s spine snaps straight. KJ’s eyes hit hers, wide and alarmed. She shakes her head. Smiles. Mouths “Amiga”, and grins as he pumps a fist into the air and whoops, as the rest of her weary crew follows suit the second he explains. Not one of them doubted that the others would find a shuttle, but it’s good to be certain. Real fucking good.
Damn, bitch, it’s about time. Where are you guys?
Paris bound. You? Please don’t say Paris.
Tokyo.
Good call. You have most of the heat. Reckon we’ll fly real loud to borrow some. I know how you love to share.
Anything but chocolate, lovers and lingerie. You have Shock safe?
Amiga’s pause makes her gut go cold. Yeah. But he’s out. He did something.
Did what?
Killed us an exit route.
Come again?
You heard. Anyway, it took him out of the picture for now. She disappears for a second. Comes back in a hurry. Gonna bounce. We’re about to sling it to Paris or as close as dammit and I may puke.
Word, bitch. Keep me updated on the Haunt.
Keeping her eyes closed, Vivid rests her head back against the shuttle, anchored on. Lulled unexpectedly by the rattle and hum of metal, she falls asleep, dreaming of flames, gunfire, the sound of screaming, the clink of heating metal—wakes gasping and cold with sweat to see KJ, head lolling, fast asleep beside her.
“How long?” she calls out softly to Prism, wary of waking other Hornets who’ve taken the opportunity to catch some much-needed rest.
“Not sure. We’re losing momentum now, so not long. I didn’t go as fast as I could have so we might be a ways off, but I’d rather that than plough us into Tokyo nose first.”
“You need to sleep?”
“I will when we have Tokyo in sight. Whip’s going to take over for the straight flight.”
“Where’s our company? Still following?”
“Of course. A fair bit behind though. We’ll have a bit of leeway once we dock.”
“I love leeway.”
Another twenty minutes or so passes and Vivid begins to feel the deceleration in her bones; it’s worse than the speed of sling shot. Lasts longer. Once they’re back to normal speed though, the benefits of taking the chance become clear; they can see Tokyo, a dazzling dot in the distance, bright as a satellite. Prism wakes Whip then and takes his seat, dropping to sleep like a child.
Viv could go back to sleep but she wants to watch the approach, curious to see Tokyo up close and personal. Tokyo is the hub she’s most familiar with, if only from a distance, having seen it sail over her head many times, blazing lights into the night sky. She remembers as a child, learning the history of the hubs and trying to imagine it happening as she craned her neck to watch Tokyo fly over.
How do you fly a whole city into orbit? It seemed impossible then, still impossible now when she can see it approaching at speed, growing larger and larger, a single blaze of light clarifying to the gleam of sunlight off the curve of the dome, that selfsame glass muting the glare to a daylight glow within. At the base of the dome, a large, sleek ring of metal contains the hangars, the mechanisms of flight and centrifugal force, the processing plants for water and weather, all driven by the glass solar dome, sucking in sunlight and spewing it out as energy
.
They dug deep under these cities, built the hubs from way beneath the ground up, constructing the domes last, sheet by sheet, with such perfection that the joints are all but invisible. A monumental accomplishment of humanity and engineering. What a sight they must have been, lifting off into the sky. How terrifying to see them go.
She can’t imagine the world as it was then. Before. So much land. All she’s ever known is the Gung, the endless, shard-filled oceans, the impossible beauty of land ships, and the hubs, glittering like stars. Self-contained and arrogant and yet bound to the last land left by Fulcrum. With Fulcrum gone, she wonders if the world will drift apart, or perhaps the hubs, no longer reliant upon anything the Gung has to offer, will turn their noses up at it once and for all.
What will happen to it then? How will her home survive isolation that profound?
Close enough to see beyond the dome, Tokyo is vaster than she imagined and like every tourist picture she’s ever seen. A panorama of hills, high-rises and towers, the green of parks like oases in stone. The red jut of Tokyo Tower in miniature behind a fragile-seeming Rainbow Bridge. At night from this distance, with the neon signs lit up through the streets, it would be awe-inspiring.
But then, everything about these cities in orbit is no less than astounding.
Hard to believe they exist, even seeing their lights pass over, or watching Tokyo drift across in low orbit.
Living in the Gung she never thinks of it as the last earthbound city, only ever as home. How far away they are now. Viv wonders if they’ll ever go back. If they’ll live to. From the cockpit, Whip begins to work a little camo-magic, identifying them to Tokyo as a tourist flight. Not all flights are scheduled, which stands in their favour, nor do all flights originate from the Gung. People fly between hubs all the time, and this is what they’re going to be, just a flight bringing in a party of sightseers.
Whip wakes Prism for the final approach, as they sail down the curve of the dome, staring in at the edges of Katsushika, the easternmost point of Tokyo’s twenty-three main districts, the only ones saved from Tokyo Prefecture, and preserved exactly as they were. Beneath them, in the metal base of the hub, several docking points yawn. Prism visibly holds her breath as she guides them in until the clamps take hold and they’re pulled with efficient grace to the disembarking points.
There’s no way to cheat here. They all have to go through the scans. They’ll all be logged, tagged and followed. If they do anything illegal, and they plan to do a lot, they’ll have to jack it and wipe it clean every time. Waiting for clearance to enter Tokyo proper, Viv gives the Hornets the lowdown via IM, just in case there are mics in the room. There are definitely cams.
We’re moving in threes and fours; I’ll take KJ, Sandro and Prism, because I plan on keeping our pilot alive. Everyone else I expect an orderly move out—split into useful groups, we need a mix of skills. We know what we’re doing. Jack and run and jack and clean. Do not leave a trace. Considering the Cartel have presence here, we can expect company even before the ones in pursuit arrive. Be on guard. Weapon up. Keep in contact. Do not be heroes. You find anything you call for the team.
From the edges of the room a robotic voice announces, “You’re free to go. Thank you for your patience. Enjoy your time on Tokyo Hub.”
The Unholy Trinity
Sat at the breakfast bar, a thick cut-crystal glass of Louis XIII not far from his elbow, Lucian uses the tip of a penknife to carve complex designs into the oak surface. Tension thrums through his body, electricity through wire, but the only movement he makes is the knife. Precise cuts. Organic scrolls reeling out across the surface, dug deep enough to send curls of wood tumbling to the floor. Jessamine clicks into the kitchen, clucks her tongue. Rolls on over to rub a finger over his designs. Rub the selfsame finger over his mouth, hers twitching to a smile.
“Whose body are you imagining?” she asks, fond and exasperated.
He lifts a shoulder into an elegant shrug. Carves out a petal shape, blade digging in to lift it, paper-thin, from the surface. “Haunt. Cleaner. Evelyn. That odious little worm who did her dirty work and screwed our connection to Slip. Might be pocket change to access it, but I find myself reluctant to pay that bitch so much as a single flim. You name it, darling, I want it flayed and mounted. I’m fucking bored. I need to hurt something before I go insane.” He hands her the petal. “I could make you a bouquet of their flesh, my love.”
She cradles the petal in the palm of her hand. Nips the curve of his ear. “Absurd. Such a romantic. Whatever shall we do with you?”
“Find me something to kill.”
Plucking the penknife from his long fingers, she settles herself in his lap, crosses her legs, and begins to cut their names into the wood. Long looping letters, each a work of art. She curls them around each other: Lucian, Jessamine and Iyawa, an unholy trinity written into wood. Indelible.
They’ve known each other forever, all sent away at age six to the same boarding school on St Gallen Hub. All outcast in a way for not being the same as their families. Not demure, or sane, or safe enough, they were expected to learn to excel, to be a proper representative of the family name. Isolated and disliked they all have horror stories from the weeks before they found each other and clung together to survive. Slowly then, sneakily, they made everyone who harmed them pay for it.
They were never caught, despite the deaths of at least seven of their tormentors.
Since graduating, they’ve worked tirelessly to deal the same punishment to their families, one by one. Toppling their dynasties and taking the spoils. Revenge is most assuredly a dish best served cold. Now they’ve set their sights on bigger fish, the biggest fish—the Haunt that holds the key. They’ve been having less luck than usual, but this is not the usual game, and other players have changed the nature of the board.
“Wasn’t long pig a delicacy amongst certain tribes?” Lucian asks after a moment of watching her work.
“I think it was more absorbing one’s enemy to take their strength,” she says. “Ritualistic. I like ritual. Delineation. Placing careful structure around everything one does. Ratifying one’s actions. Cementing intent. Magic is all about intent, you know.”
He rests his chin on her shoulder, reaching for his cognac and taking a long sip, rolling it over his tongue. “Are we working magic then, my love?” He kisses her, sharing the flavour. She smiles.
“We’re acting with intent. So yes, I imagine by the definitions of magic we likely are. Isn’t that something?”
“Only if it works.”
“Magic wouldn’t be half as much fun if it was easy,” she teases. Finishes her carving with a flourish. Steals his glass to take a sip. “Delicious.” She tilts her head, responding to an IM call. He adores how she takes them, head cocked like a corvid, all that bright intelligence gleaming in too-perceptive whisky-coloured eyes. If he could melt them in a glass he’d savour them over and above the rarest cognac. “Cole and his unit are waiting to see us,” she says.
“In person?”
“Apparently so.”
“How novel.”
Shown in by Lucian’s butler, Cole and his unit look worn out; ragged and covered in ash and dust. Lucian flicks his hand as the butler backs out, shutting the kitchen door with deft quiet in his wake.
“Well, Cole. Report.”
His commander steps forward, face carefully devoid of emotion. “The Haunt and Hornets were in Shandong, at the Harmony farm.”
“So where are they?” His Jess is beautiful when she demands. “Produce them for us.”
“Fucking Dong got there first somehow.”
Twitching slightly, Lucian says, “Dong? And here I thought we were practically friends, she and I. Well at least it makes sense, it being the Harmony farm and all. I presume someone loyal to her surrendered their whereabouts?”
“They’ve been hidden there since Fulcrum fell. No one on the staff breathed a word. No loyalty for that family in the whole damn place.”
Lucian quells quite the surge of irritation. “So does Dong have them or not?”
“No. Most of them got away. Loss of maybe twenty or so lives, none of them our main players.”
“You came here to tell me neither your troops or Dong’s were able to catch a few scrawny J-Hacks and an ex-Haunt? Don’t tell me the loss of your avis addled your wits. I didn’t hire you for your sentiment.” He sneers at them, disgusted.
Jess pets his hair. “Dong’s rage will be most amusing.”
Brightening a touch, Lucian says, “There is that. But in the meantime, we have a problem.” He returns his attention to Cole. “Why did you feel the need to vomit this nonsense in my presence?”
Cole glances at his second-in-commands, his lack of certainty is deeply amusing. “The Haunt. He did something. Killed over a hundred of my troops, Dong’s and some of the hangar security by looking at them. He dropped them where they stood.”
“Absolutely fascinating. I’m wondering why it should concern me?”
“The Hornets are searching for you, sir. They came direct to the two hubs where we have HQ. I thought it might be pertinent to warn you and stand on guard.”
Leaning back and resting her head on Lucian’s shoulder, Jess murmurs, “What was that you were saying about being bored?”
“I spoke too soon.”
“You did. And what about this debacle?” She nuzzles behind his ear. “We can’t become lax in our duties.”
“My love, are you suggesting a firing? Of one of my best units? Really?” he murmurs back, trying not to smile.
She spins the knife between her fingers. “I rather think they’ve jumped the gun, not to mention they seem to imagine we aren’t up to swatting a few Hornets.”
He sighs. “Give me the knife, petal. This may take a while.”
* * *
Iyawa walks in on carnage. Directly into it in fact, splashing gore all over his brogues. He snarls at the stains. The whole kitchen and dining area is strewn with off-cuts of skin and drying lumps of flesh. Puddles of blood slowly soak into the wood of the floorboards and the air is thick copper overlaying bowel stench, the tang of piss.