by Gwynn White
“You should be more discriminating with the women you pick up.”
“Well,” Jazz said as he stood, “I’ll tell you later if she’s really a brunette.”
Abby pretended not to hear. He slipped his arms into his long gray woolen overcoat, adjusted the black leather mandarin collar, then tossed his fedora onto his head.
“Dre,” he said, raising his hand for Dre to scan for payment.
He waved Abby off.
Abby shot a pirate’s smile toward the barman, then turned toward the door.
2
Abby sucked in a large breath tinged with sweat, whiskey, and ale, and charged outside. The filters behind him erupted into a roar, then went silent with the sucking thud of the door.
The acrid moisture of the lower canyons wrapped around his face.
Apart from the kid across the street, the intersection was quiet. There were the gas-masked sleepers, tightly hugging the walls in an endless line along the inner edge of the sidewalks. Abby didn’t count them.
He glanced up to the neon sign that hung above the entranceway and marveled at the emanating red aura. The screens across the street all had halos of color seeping away from them. He’d drank a lot, but not that much. There was the light rain gas and ozone cocktail sent down from the filtration condensers.
Abby blinked.
The haze wasn’t from the mist. He’d triggered an echo—the result of decades of using DMT and LSD to shift sight up and down the spectrum.
The fringe spectrum of the echo didn’t alarm him. The quantum harmonics were subtle, and sometimes he enjoyed the show. But right now, he didn’t want to be distracted. The best way to beat an echo was with more psychedelics. With a flex of a muscle in his brow and a clench of his jaw, Abby engaged the small implant that allowed him to control his reality perception.
The world shifted to the gray scale of the ultraviolet end of the spectrum. The images on the screens muted and the halos disappeared, replaced by UV-emitting LEDs spelling words like buy, spend, and an odd sign that read love.
The images on the vid signs weren’t the only details around Abby to change when he shifted. The orange-headed teen may as well have been standing behind a spectral panel. The hilt of a fire blade glowed bright orange beneath his hoodie. Fire blades like the one the kid was carrying extended a beam when drawn, a rod of energy that could slice through flesh, a flame through butter. Abby had a variation himself, a modified Bureau model that glowed fuchsia and could shoot seen and unseen blasts depending on the spectrum or plane.
Virtually invisible in the Alpha Plane, the fire blade the kid was carrying was an assassin’s weapon, a certain sign he was looking for trouble.
The question was which type.
The teen was too small to abduct him and the fire blade was a kill blade, not the type of weapon one would wave around as a threat. Abby figured the kid could possibly be aiming to make his bones. Abby was known in the Low to have been an agent—a Bureau Boy—and knocking him off would buy quick status and a mod that would give him brilliant green eyes.
Then there were those who knew he’d been not just an agent, but a Warlock. That was a whole other kind of trouble. But whatever the kid’s intent, if the two were going to have a confrontation, Abby would choose the ground.
The first steps from the sidewalk onto the street were spongy. At the corner, he continued past the teen, taking care not to alert the kid he was onto him.
Abby didn’t need to see his back to sense if the kid was shadowing him. Every agent had a chip embedded in the dimple of their chin to boost audio vibration from the jawbone to the inner ear. Abby could tune in on a specific conversation among hundreds, or the kid’s footfalls at his back.
Abby led the kid up the side street to Roosevelt Avenue—previously a six-lane highway that circled the island, before the superstructures ate the riverbanks and reduced the East River waterway to a canal, before the Bubble, the planes, the spectral realms, and the tech that came with them morphed the overblown society. It had become the Low’s main artery, a thick river of street-level commerce that flowed as a single organism. Abby stopped at the edge. The kid stopped, too. Crowds of surgical mask-wearing vendors, workmen, and shoppers jostled LED-glowing bicycles through the mortal traffic along with motorbikes, low cars, high cars, and trucks delivering fresh synth food from the Bubble. Shifted up spectrum, Abby could see through each shimmer, see them all for what they were. A mingling of races, the norms, the Anarchs, and the Haunts and Reds disguised as their mortal counterparts.
Just as their ancestors, the Maro, who roamed the Alpha Plane wanted to be seen as mortal. To norms, the huge crowd gathered in front of a curio a few doors down looked like a gang of heavily tattooed skinheads. Abby saw the red-eyed beasts for what they really were: a legion of shorthorns.
Yesterday’s war clans were today’s soldiers for hire, and the mob was always hiring scum.
The Haunts lived most of their lives in the cool blue of the Homeland spectrum. They had learned to hide from the electronic sensors, facial recognition software, detectors, and the agents trained to hunt them: Warlocks. Abby wasn’t a Warlock anymore. That didn’t seem to matter to the Haunts, though. They were the few in the throng to turn their heads his way, pinpoint him on the edge of the avenue, their coal-black eyes revealing nothing.
Abby entered the crowd, but not so fast that the kid couldn’t follow. From the spectral perimeter, colors, sounds, and smells were muted. Had Abby not set the world to hues of gray, the five-story sheets of LED fixed to the filters above the bustling shops would’ve displayed spectacular animation in lieu of four-story UV block letter words, relax, calm, and buy. The tropical landscape posters that invited citizens to Travel to Paradise, Settle the New Frontier held luster but appeared lifeless without the bright colors of the sun, sand, and palms.
The iridescent bellies of the eels and snakes dangling above the market stalls, absent of their rainbow palette, appeared bland and oily, as did the lines of genderless prostitutes beckoning the passersby. From the train trestle above, huge floating holograms, invisible to him, drew the attention of the crowd. In lieu of the holograms, Abby saw countless white UV lasers darting across the multitude of faces, and he could see the otherwise hidden face tattoos on the Anarchs, thugs, and tech paranoids, designed to confuse the facial recognition software. A step up from the tattoos were the advanced shimmer mods that masked faces in glowing balls of white light, telltale signs of an Upper or anyone connected to the Arcadians or the Mob. Abby himself, like all agents of the Bureau past and present, was blocked from the scans, showing up as a white orb as well.
Above that trestle were stacks of others. Every twenty to thirty floors were another four lanes of mag-trains soaring at varying speeds. The closer to the sky, the higher society status, a train for every caste. The Uppers, though they weren’t Arcadian, were at the top of the Homeland food chain, the penthouses skytop predominantly inhabited by senior corporate managers, top Bureau officials, and members of the Mob—the Meg’s other ruling syndicate. As far as Abby was concerned, they were all equal; there wasn’t much difference between a mob boss, a syndicate big wig, or even a Bureau big shot living skytop—an Upper was an Upper. Even some Reds and Haunts lived atop the HiEast Super Structures. The way Abby saw things, the Uppers were just a higher class of wannabes. If they were really the painting they pictured, they would be in the Arcadia with the true elites, instead of being their lap dogs. That’s how things rolled. The Arcadians ruled the Uppers, and the Uppers, in surrogate, ruled the MidHi Corporates and the little people of the Low City. Even the Anarchs, despite their belief that hiding away in the sublevels shielded them, were under the thumb of the Uppers as well.
As a child, Abby lived in the MidHi band of the first of Manhattan’s mammoth buildings—high ceilings, glass walls, and so much natural light. His mother painted the sunrises that filled the eastern horizon. A horizon beautified with the colorful toxins of urban blight. MidHi, his family wa
s shielded from the squalor and poverty the masses suffered below. During the day, a celestial tangerine haze hid the sprawl of the Meg that at night became a carpet of a million lights. But the morning sun hadn’t touched that apartment, or this avenue, in a century. Artificial light created a state of eternal day, or eternal night, depending on the venue.
The K-kid had stopped a safe distance behind. Abby could easily lose the kid on the street or by simply shifting a bit farther out. Three more steps into the ocean of flesh and he may never see the kid again. But then he wouldn’t learn whether the hooded teen was going solo or someone else’s button. He would have to keep an eye over his shoulder. Better to continue to lure the kid. He double stepped to his right, toward the entrance of the sublevels.
Abby descended the steps. The pounding of electronic drums emanating from the platform bled into his chin chip. He paused halfway down to ensure the kid was able to catch up. At the bottom of the stairwell, two heavily ornamented Anarchs jacked into the same Dream Box, rested back against the filthy wall with their mouths agape and their eyes closed. Abby continued past the two stoned Anarchs. He stopped past the gates and waited for the teen to reach the bottom of the stairs, then strolled left out of the boy’s view and onto the platform. Remnants of the fog that had misted down from the street swirled into banks of filters. The back wall of the platform was lined with dark-lit shops, and those loitering in front of them or waiting for the sub-rail were without the thin masks so many wore up top. The shops were tailored for the sub-level denizens. The best shops, where illegal mods and real nonsynth goods could be found, were levels below. In the first shop to his left, a Haunt was tattooing the neck of a large, bronze-skinned man. As Abby passed, the Haunt abruptly lifted his head, his all-black orbs locked on him.
Abby kept walking.
He passed a piercing stall, a leather shop advertising genuine skins, and a small cocktail bar. He stopped at a gate at the end of the platform to let the kid move a bit closer, then descended a stairwell leading to the next level down.
Amid the heavy drumbeats, Abby detected the teen hastening his pace to catch up. The first landing was empty of traffic. Abby shifted further to the edge of the UV spectrum, making himself invisible to any mortal without ocular mods. A wave of nausea rolled through his gut as the DMT kicked in. He paused to stabilize himself. The walls lit up with luminescent hieroglyphics, symbols, and graffiti tags left by Anarchs, invisible without a black light, an ocular mod, or a spectral shift. Abby recognized some, dismissing the true ancient meanings for the adopted intent. He descended to the next level. The stairs were elastic, bowing below each step.
Luck was on his side. He would have to go no farther.
The lower landing was empty except for a mid-sized bolt snaking shoulder high in the air near the wall. The bolt—a flying ribbon eel so named for their glowing electric blue bodies and the bioluminescent yellow light emanating from their long, thin spinal fins—was brilliantly colored, even in his hue-dulled state. They were the worst of the known creatures from the edge, but harmless compared to some of the beasts that roamed the other spectral planes. The flying eels, ranging from one to four feet, wriggled the air of the outer spectrum as effortlessly as any fluid, their mouths constantly gaping, life-long on the prowl, always ready to strike. But they were harmless. The long needle teeth only sought the insects their long lit dorsal attracted. After having one clamp into his arm for a mosquito feast, Abby felt they were all better dead. With the back of his hand, Abby slammed the floating slug’s toothy jaw to the wall, spattering the bright symbols with glowing blood. The bolt’s carcass dropped to the floor.
The slap of rubber soles on metal grew louder.
The hooded teen leapt from the last step and raced toward the next set of stairs. As Abby thought, the kid had no optics so he passed right by. Abby shifted slightly back to phase, raised his left forearm, and hooked the boy’s throat. The kid’s feet slid forward as he fell back onto the nearly invisible man’s chest. With his right arm, Abby relieved the would-be assailant of his brightly glowing fire blade and brought the weapon to the boy’s throat.
As Abby prepared to shift full back, to confront the boy and discover his purpose, a calm, reassuring voice came from the stairwell; the deep, dark familiar voice of a man Abby had known for decades.
“Don’t worry, Devon,” the dark voice said. “Doctor Squire won’t hurt you.”
3
Mistaken that he was about to be released, the kid twisted his frail upper frame. Unable to squirm from the hold, he relented and limply hung on Abby’s arm. Abby didn’t loosen his vise grip on the orange-haired teen. Shifted in spectrum, he was a shadowy haze to the boy but clearly visible to the familiar man descending the stairs, another colleague from his days in the Bureau, Yun Lin.
Yun had served as a Warlock alongside Abby and Jazz in the Spectral War.
Familiarity was no guarantee of safety.
Yun had already appeared perpetually young when he received the age mod. The only flaw on his otherwise perfectly sculpted face was a hairline scar above his cheek that could easily have been erased, a vanity badge from the Spectral War. His well-groomed jet-black hair and smooth light skin accentuated the self-lauding that’d aged with him. Yun’s greatest vanity was that of his Korean heritage. The corporation syndicates that ran most of the show, that ran the Bureau, were pan-national, but the Koreans ruled the tech. Yun had been assigned a position as an agent to satiate the leaders of the Korean Meg, and he did his best to showboat his special place in the Bureau hierarchy. He was raised practicing Tae Kwon Do, was an expert with a blade, and, Abby suspected from their first meeting a century before, Yun was loaded with mods few others had.
He wore a black, mandarin-collared, single stitched suit, obviously tailored in the Upper, and his glossy, shined shoes were leather—real leather. The ensemble cost a pile of credit. The audacity to wear the garb in Low City cost a lot more. That was, if anyone in Low saw him. Abby did the math. He hadn’t detected Yun because his old colleague had somehow shifted out to the edge—a trick he’d thought was his own. Only when Abby slid out to the same range of the spectrum was Yun revealed.
Tourists twisted Abby’s gut.
To force Yun out of his sterile comfort, Abby continued his shift back mid-spectrum. Yun followed, twitching his nose and curling his lip.
“Smells pretty, don’t it, Yun?”
Yun shrugged his brow, then forced a subtle smile. “A bit sourer than I remember. The drumming is clearer, though.” He stepped closer to Abby. “Seems to improve over time.”
Abby attempted to flash scan Yun. Not just to see what he was packing. Any agent could see that far, but to go there? Yun must’ve had a device on him, linked to his mods, in the lining of his suit. On his belt, perhaps. Either way, Abby couldn’t see past the suit. Yun’s tech was tight.
He tightened his grip on the teen. The kid gasped from the pressure.
“That’s far enough, old buddy,” Abby said. “What’s it been? Forty-four years?”
“Forty-four.” Yun nodded his head. “That’s right,” he said. “Cartwright’s wedding.” Yun lifted his open palms up to his shoulders in surrender. “Bureau business, Abby, I assure you.”
“They certainly updated the uniforms as of late.”
“Oh, this,” Yun said. “This is from my own wardrobe.” He spread his arms apart to model the jacket. “Real silk. Do you like? I have a man.” He paused to pucker his lips. “A Korean, of course. I would be happy to have one made up for you.”
“Not my style,” Abby said.
Yun scanned Abby’s gray woolen overcoat then, with a familiar condescending slowness, said, “No. I guess not.”
“You’re still working for the Bureau?” Abby asked. “After all these years?”
“Why leave?” Yun tilted his head slightly down to take himself in. “The Bureau has treated me well.” He lifted his eyes back up toward Abby. His pupils shone an iridescent blue. Upgrades. “The
Bureau treated you well too, as I remember.”
“I have no issues. I served my time.”
Yun lowered his hands. “If you have no issues, perhaps you can release the cadet.” Yun threw a glance toward the far stairwell. Someone was coming.
Abby tightened his arm under the kid’s chin, a lesson, then released the boy. Devon dropped to his feet, rubbing his throat, then stepped back to face the two men.
The knock of hard-soled boots against metal steps grew louder.
“Here,” Abby said in a soft voice. He handed Devon his fire blade. “Tuck that away.”
Devon slipped the blade back onto his side.
Two muscle-bound Anarchs, their faces thickly tattooed, ascended the stairs onto the landing. As the two passed the quiet three, they slowed to take in Yun’s out of place silk suit. Yun’s pupils flared cerulean blue. The two took the hint and continued across the landing to the next set of stairs. Abby kept an eye over Yun’s shoulder to ensure the Anarchs weren’t about to double back. Bright streams of magenta and neon indigo abruptly resonated from the two men. Abby blinked away the sensation. As rapidly as the lights appeared, they dispersed, another echo flash from the DMT spat into his brain during the shift.
Yun’s brow minutely dropped.
The advanced mod buried in Yun’s eyes had detected something from Abby, a drop in breath, a slight change in heart rate. Abby was sure of it. “You need to do a better job with your recruits,” he said, attempting to control the focus of the moment.
“We’re not at war anymore, Abby. Devon will do quite well once he is trained up.”
“I just need a few mods,” Devon said.
Abby scowled at the naïve cadet.
“Now, now, Devon. I told you. Doctor Squire was a natural even before his mods. That’s why he was a Warlock. He could sniff the Umbra right from the shadows.” Yun flashed a thin smile toward Abby. “I’ll bet he filled a camp or two single-handed.”