Memento Mori

4.9 - FUNNEL WEB

"They started in the same place, though."

"The Orange twists us all." Matthias quietly shakes his head. "You see the Iros walking free while you're forced to serve patron after patron, and you loathe them, but you would do anything to escape this life. Even if it means becoming one of them. They have the power to change their fate. The power to rule themselves. And when you acquire that kind of strength, it's all too easy to look down at those who were too weak to acquire it for themselves. See them as something lesser, simply because they could not do what you could and they envy you for it." He shrugs, fixes an earring. "Some, I imagine, were just born cruel. One doesn't climb the Dynasty rung unless they have a certain capacity for evil."

"Says a lot about the Vents that they're allowed to exist so openly."

"That's why we're here. Isn't it?"

"Speaking of, that checkpoint was awfully easy."

"Because I've been doing my job. Tricky balance, smoothing things out like that. Anyone can notice if you're applying pressure to their mind, even if they don't have a JOY on. Working unnoticed takes an extremely light touch and a convenient distraction."

Another explosion rumbles somewhere far higher in the Vents, smearing a chasm between the bridges with waves of firelight. I pick up the pace. "Let's not waste ours."

"Couldn't agree more," Lain drawls in our ears. "Central tower is where you're headed. Stay away from the high traffic areas. Should be a couple passages between the tower and the docks, next intersection. Cut down the alley and hang a right."

We do, leaving the illusion behind and reentering concrete reality. Grey walls of acid-resistant stone rise to bracket my vision as we draw closer to the tower. I've been inside once before, though a haze of Shatter covers my memories of the night. I feel naked now without my gun. Several times I catch myself reaching down unconsciously, searching for the reassurance of its grip.

At the end of the alley, a squeaky-clean holopad accepts the Iros' digital signature at a tap from my JOY. Green light, faint click, Matthias releases a breath I didn't realize he was holding as he opens the door for me and dutifully falls in behind. I narrowly resist the urge to mention it.

A cold chill of familiarity settles between my shoulder blades as my wooden sandals clack down against polished wood instead of concrete. I sink into the zen state Sarah drilled into me. Catalog every second as a singular instance of information. Again, the Orange morphs in presentation as it insulates us from the grime of the undercity. The outer shell of village culture is for anyone who can afford a night of entertainment. Only patrons who offer more than money see these halls. They're tight and efficient, like everything in the Vents. Dynasty renovated the look, not the size. Hooded lamps and tech-torches glow pale orange at regular intervals. Plush wine-colored carpet covers vast stretches of the wooden passages. Gold trim, lacquer, authentic grains. I have to wonder how many millions of credits they poured into this place. Billions, even.

Room after room of private chambers sprawls on either side. Some ludicrously massive, others intimately confined, others like any you'd see in a corporation skyscraper. Scantily clad servants wearing silk robes or nothing at all slip out of doors and drift between the chambers at regular intervals. While they work, the main body of the enforcers is out fighting Krey- or more likely, recovering from the battle that still has to be waging in the Kwa-Hon.

My disguise passes muster at what few encounters we have with servants on our way to a reclusive bank of lifts that our maps told us was at the rear of the tower. We're only on the ground floor. Sarah's best guess put the Executor's private quarters somewhere on the sixth story, north-facing wing. Lain keeps her commentary to a minimum, calling out our turns only a few seconds in advance until interference from the tower's insulation is obliterating almost all her words.