Burn Code

Two

Most hid the tattoos and their implanted tech — buried and covered it by clothing. Very few kept them exposed for anyone to see. Such was the case back when tattoos were plain ink and only in counter culture circles was it encouraged to display skin artwork.

I never understood the point of spending thousands of dollars on something only to hide it from the daylight. The top I wore exposed majority of the ink I had, but the fall cold air won and I pulled on my leather jacket and zipped it tight.

I caught a cab at the corner nearest my apartment. Sliding into the back seat, I programmed my destination and authorized access to my credit account for the toll. The automatic vehicle merged into traffic in the designated driverless lane, taking the most direct route its internal navigation system found.

Maggie’s was a little hole-in-the-wall diner in a very crappy part of town. I suspected he chose the place so we’d have some expectation of privacy. Despite all the advances, live ink like mine was still expensive and above the pay grade of the diner’s usual clientele. If anyone had tech, it would be first or second generation stuff.

When I walked into the diner, no one looked up from their seats. Nobody cared.

Fesserton’s own ink as a police officer also gave him access to a few static protocols for all possible eavesdroppers. But it would require me to give him one of my PIPs, personal internet protocol numbers for interactive transfer. I had no intent in giving him that privilege.

“I’m here,” I said, slipping into the booth across from his at the table. “What do you want?”

He looked the same, but more aged than his avatar. Grey streaked through the dark hair at his temples and his eyes were more creased at their corners. Raising a coffee mug to his lips, he took a sip then smiled.

“Hello to you, too.”

I wanted to smack the smirk off his face. “Whatever it is, I’m not interested.”

“Don’t be hasty.” Fesserton set down his mug and reached into the breast pocket of his coat. He pulled out an envelope. “I have a signed offer from the District Attorney to change your sentence to time served, but only if you agree.”

“Time served as in no more parole?” He had my attention then. “You’ll take this damned jack off my TPU?”

Fesserton nodded, his smile returning. “Until the next time you’re arrested anyway.”

The waitress made a pass by and I flagged her down to order a club sandwich and a coffee — he was still buying dinner and I told her to put it on his bill.

“What’s the catch?”

“Give me a port.”

“No way.” I shook my head and slid out of the booth. Screw his deal — I wasn’t going to give him any access to my tech.

“Wait, Cara.” His hand grabbed mine. “I have something you need to see concerning the deal. Give me a port.”

“No deal!” I spat, trying to pull my hand out of his grasp. Damn his cop implants that added to his strength.

He stood then and stepped close, using his extra foot of height as intimidation. The smile was gone, replaced with a hard jawline and narrowed brown eyes.

“If you don’t want to do this the easy way, Cara, you’ll give me no choice but to use that jack on your TPU.” Fesserton’ voice was low but hard.

“Go to hell, Paul.”

His hand tightened on my wrist. “Cara, for God’s sake—”

“No!”

I felt the buzzing at my TPU — the tattoo processor unit that usually gave me command of the nanites swimming in the ink etched on my body. It was the same sensation that made stim ports such a profitable exploit for the pleasure industry. Millions of microscopic bots rippled under the surface of my skin in the shape of each tattoo. It set my teeth on edge.

Fesserton called the bit of programming that let the police block and monitor me. It was making a lot of noise but wasn’t accessing anything. Saber rattling was all he did and I realized then I called his bluff. He couldn’t bring himself to force a download on me.

I swallowed hard against the sensation as every bit of ink I had swarmed at the impulse. “You said you wanted to talk. So talk. Maybe then I’ll give you a port.”

He finally released my hand and I gasped when the swarming suddenly stopped. An involuntary shiver suppressed the rest.

“All right. Sit down.”

The waitress finally arrived with my sandwich, but the thought of food made my stomach turn. I took a small sip of the coffee — hot and bitter, just like I remembered it.

“I don’t have any hard copies, so you’ll have to do without for now.” Fesserton started, giving me a pointed look before continuing. “We’re trying to track down a perp that goes by the name of Grendel.”

I snorted at the choice of name. “So who’s your Beowulf?”

“You.” He smiled a wide mocking smile. “We need — I need you to figure out where he’s hiding and see if there’s any way to exploit his tech.”

I blinked at him. “So, basically you want me to do the same stuff I was doing when you arrested me?”

“Yes.” Fesserton admitted with a shrug. “But if we catch him, you’ll have immunity. It comes with the deal.”

“And if I don’t catch him?”

“You’ll probably still have immunity. This guy needs to be taken off the streets, Cara. He’s escalating faster than the shrinks predicted.”

The coffee had settled my nerves a bit. I took a tentative bite of the sandwich. “What is he doing?”

“Port me.”

I shook my head. “You still haven’t convinced me. What is he doing?”

Fesserton sucked on his front teeth, debating it. He looked away for a moment and spun his mug in place on the table. “None of it’s pleasant.”

“If you’re involving felons you busted, probably not.” I snorted and took another bite of my sandwich when the first one stayed down. “Tell me, Paul.”

“He’s turning the tech against his victims. Hacking into their TPUs, nanites, and neuronets to fry them from the inside out. Burning them out came first. Do you know what billions of molten hot bits of metal can do to the human body?”

“Burns holes through anything in its path simply by following gravity,” I replied. Suddenly my own tattoos felt incredibly hot and heavy.

“Exactly. No one knows what killed these people until the cross sections were examined by the coroner. Massive internal bleeding caused by microscopic punctures.” Fesserton waived the waitress off from pouring more coffee into his cup. “If you don’t think that’s interesting enough, he got inventive after that.”

“In what way?”

“Reprogrammed the tech. The one I thought was particularly tasteless was turning an eighty year old man’s pacemaker into an arrhythmia inducer.”

“Christ.”

“It gets worse.”

“How?”

“Port me,” he said again, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. He had me and he knew it.

“All right, but not here.”

His smile grew. “We’ll go to my place. It’s closer.”