Light drizzle gently darkened the Hellebore City market with a wet, navy gloss. Bright neon discolored Jessica's visage through every block of Cayde District until green letters rose above the rim of her hood. Visceral they read. Squatters stumbled outside the display windows. One bumbled right next to her, a pair of bloodshot eyes dimmed beneath greasy bangs. Up close, his neck tattoo failed to cover up the obvious brand of a Rager: a general prohibition sign.
"Hey, killer. Got a few spare tokens?" he sniffed. "I'm not asking a bunch. The next game will fix me. High score and all. I'm close to the high score. One more shot is all I need. A shot." She glanced at him and recalled everything he represented.
One day, somebody figured out how to create a fictional world, no hardware required. Eavision is a drug that lets you hallucinate virtual reality, making the real feel like a game; no screen and no UI. Pharmaceutics and video game industries partnered up to improved human motor function, meanwhile sent dopamine levels into overdrive. In other words, addiction. The profit margins were ludicrous until the Union declared a worldwide ban on the substance, years after the population had been milked. Many eSports players fell from grace. Many more tried to chase that high by earning the top spot in royale subscriptions; but, anyone who developed a dependence on Eavision became prone to bouts of rabid violence after losing a game. Hence, the term Rager defined and defamed anyone who perverted the meaning of gamer, who abused substances in the pursuit of a high score. Nothing happened to the corporations.
"You need to go home," Jess told him, almost believing it would make a difference, then proceeded into the arcade. His voice trailed off as she entered.
"The whole scene is home, you casual!"
Pink, neon thread lined the ceiling and meandered down the pillars of the Visc. Like a classic diner, the bar opposed the lounge; but the farther back it went, the narrower it got. On the other side of headsets and virtual plug-in machines humming every color of the LED, there was a corridor for private game rooms.
Whimsical, Jessica approached the counter and, with a single jive, signaled the bartender for a drink. For the next few seconds, she scanned the room in search of tails but, aside from forehead lozenges and a lone cowboy hat, caught no one remotely interesting. At the sound of a tap, she reached back and wrapped her fingers around a red glass.
"Was wondering when you'd reach out." The man sitting on the next stool shifted slightly. He adjusted his duster's collar, blue eyes peering straight ahead—at nothing and no one—but he was clearly speaking to Jessica. He had to the most average-looking man in the room, which might have raised some eyebrows. Just a coconut brown crew cut and a straight jawline carved his square features.
His name was Case: former cop turned journalist, wound up on Goliath's list of public enemies when he started snooping too close to the sun. After Jessica rescued him from the top of their headquarters, he became part of WON's Corporate Espionage and Counter-Terrorism unit, CECT, a human outfit whose unofficial mission was to investigate Azarean corporations and subsidiary networks.
"Case," Jess acknowledged, swirling the glass in her hand, "I don't have to tell you how serious it is."
"I know. When exactly did you go on a media purge?"
"97 days ago."
"Jeez. Where do I start, then?"
"Start with what happened."
"I don't need to explain the aftermath of 15 months ago—"
"How exactly is it related?"
"Okay." Case took a shot of whiskey and inhaled through his teeth. "The tension between the Union and the Old Conglomerates has... thickened. Genuine or not, the Azareans put forward several motions for affirmative action. They want to rebuild the bridges that Goliath burned. Their bright idea was to invite the High-risers into the fold, but everybody else saw that as the rich getting richer. So, the feds opted for a partnership with Valkyrie Industries, to help stimulate the old-world economy. But word got out that the middle class would lose access to automated conveniences, Azarean aversion to AI and all that. Those drones floating around 24/7? No one wants 'em gone. Plus, virtually everybody outside the TEN is afraid of falling under the thumb of Azarean corpos. You can imagine why."
"Azareans are tone-deaf. They need humans in their PR just to read a room properly, non-tactically."
"A job made all the more difficult when somebody funds an entire ad campaign condemning them. The media tells one side of the story. Just one: 'Union Big-wigs want to monopolize Synether.' I think the last headline had a typo."
"Sounds like a classic smear campaign. Some very disgruntled humans are involved."
"You don't have to be disgruntled to be an exploiter."
Jess gulped down her glass. "You have a name in mind?"
"No, but we must be theorizing the same thing,"
"If somebody bankrolls an ad campaign, there should be a paper trail; right?"
She nodded to the beat of arcade music.
"The trail leads back to New Switzerland and goes cold from there."
"What about the companies and people involved in the ads?"
"They used shell devices. We identified an ASIC, which is—"
"Amnesiac Software Input Computer," she said with him. "FYI: A sneaky firmware update can process and recycle the data before it's deleted. It'll eat up the battery, sure, but it'll work long enough to help you track things."
"It's all encrypted, Jess," he said soberly.
Jess rotated on her stool and faced the counter. "You got your hands on a shell?"
"People who've run the ads on Azarean smear campaigns, their calls and messages, people rigged with pulmonary and neural circuitry, they're encrypted like we've never seen before. They have no memory of who they were. Imagine your whole life deleted, replaced with fake memories... or nothing at all. "
Setting her cup down, she bitterly breathed, "Another reason to avoid implants..."
"Pardon?"
"So, what does this have to do with dead children?"
"Excelsior was a test," Case sighed. "The Azareans were so desperate for peace, they put desegregation on the table. If their own offspring would share academic classes with human children, maybe it'd restore some faith. Establish a clear line of dialogue, at least, right?"
"Now that's gone to hell, which is no coincidence; is it?"
"Goliath's name drop, the smear campaign, the attack on Excelsior Academy, I think one organization is behind it all."
"Which brings me to my last question." Jessica faced Case directly.
It was only for a second, but Case made eye contact then turned away. "That image you sent me, with the dead pixels," he hesitated, "your hunch was right; it's not random."
"Who is behind it?"
"That image was the harbinger to a cross-axis blackout event and a few library data farm infiltrations. Same MO: drop in, interrupt node connectivity, exfiltrate. Unfortunately, we don't know how they got into those high-security compounds."
"What was inside the libraries?"
"Archived ROMS. There'd have to be people on the inside, but even if their memories were erased, there's nothing to indicate that there were boots on the ground. At first, CECT wanted to credit the Lynx with these breaches. Made sense, but too obvious. For a while, Sub Terra was a prime suspect. But, my contacts tell me that Sub Terra's intelligence network has deteriorated. Plus, not their MO."
"Uhuh. I can practically vouch for that."
"People in the counter-terrorism community link the MO to a black hat whose clientele includes several high-value Fixers from the old world: Gang lords, generals, stealth corpos.
"That's a start..."
"And they all refer to this cyberspace maestro by the same alias."
"Yes?"
"You ever hear of Neon Grave?"
Jessica rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "Not a bad villain name. But no. They must be good. What can you tell me?"
"Nothing I haven't already mentioned. He, she, them—Neon Grave isn't working alone. Too many logistics involved. My guess, whoever's got a bone to pick with the Azareans enlisted Neon Grave as their personal netrunner. The encryption we've seen is custom. I'll take my theory a step further, and you're not gonna like it."
"It only gets better, right?" she said sarcastically then took a sip from her glass.
I think Neon Grave is their answer to you."
A prickly chillpulled the hairs on her skin. "Me?"
"Think about it. Think about how you took down down Goliath, the international juggernaut. Think of the notoriety that brings. If you wanted to conduct espionage, government-bending espionage, wouldn't an icon like the Lynx be on your radar?"
There was more going on in Jessica's head at that moment. "Which means, whoever we're dealing with has already factored me into their risk assessment..."As the TUPS fiasco shows. "Good to know."
"A variable," Case corrected and stood up. He topped his crew cut with a fedora before flicking a credit chip on the counter. "Watch your back. Whoever's behind all this probably wants to find you as much as Spearhead does." After the bartender deducted his fee, Case grabbed his chip and exited the Visc, hands deep in his pockets.
Suddenly, Jessica was deaf to her surroundings, spinning around on her stool to face the lounge. The silence faded in, from a muffled pitch to the ding of high scores. Then she performed a double-take when she noticed a familiar woman sitting alone in the lounge. Cowboy hat on the table, she propped her boots on the hardwood surface next to it; silver studs tipped the fine stitching of the leather. From her bronze complexion, she flashed a white, cocky grin and winked from afar. She was one of Beelz's friends from the AV concert. Her style was hard to forget, head split into pink and shaved, parted hair combed into a tip that brushed her cheekbone. Her sharp eyes had a stranglehold on the room. And that dirty duster could probably hide a carnival teddy bear.
The hell with it.
Another seat lay conveniently situated behind the woman's backrest, and Jessica grabbed it as quickly and casually as able. They practically sat ear to ear.
"Did Beelz send you?" Jessica started.
"Oh, yea," the woman replied. Even her voice was cocky, like butter on a slow sizzle. "I see you trying to play detective. You're light on your feet but not agile enough to ghost."
"Duly noted. Why are you here?"
Her head cocked. "Our high-brow friends have recovered over the past year. You've got plenty of enemies, and for good reason. They'll be coming after you now because you're literally just fuel for every fire they need to put out." This woman covered her left hand with a fingerless glove.
Jessica eyeballed the gun she knew was under the coat. "Not how the word 'literally' works."
"Oh, literally?"
"How do you know you don't have tails? You might lead them straight to me."
"I'm literally like a ghost, so you don't have to worry. Not my first rodeo, L. Literally."
Jess tongued her cheek. "So, what do I call you?"
"Castro. Caster if you can't roll the R."
"What will you do if I'm made, Castro?"
"I will unmake you." She took a swig of her shot glass and gurgled.
"I don't really see how a Dissent operative can outclass Goliath."
She casually spit the alcohol back into her glass. "You haven't seen anything, little girl."
Jessica stood up. "I'll be seeing you, I guess."
"You've got it backward." The cocky grin was everlasting.
That was weird. Outside the Visc, a black nimbus began to digest the city. Back in carefree New Sumer, there was hearsay of old-world spindles and how they mimicked a clear sky. Only half true. Since nothing was above moderation, the sun included, artificial clouds hovered above Hellebore. All the coverage without the beauty of rain.
Now, for the first time since Mod Merrick's deletion, Jessica had a ball on her Spine. She thought about visiting a few clinics or paying Karl a visit for the answers to a question. A series of questions, more like. Implant procedures were complex but more accessible than ever. To improve her chances in the real and digital realm, whenever she grew nervous, she entertained a crazy idea. What if she melded her hippocampus with Babel? Computational integration, as it were. But like every other time, she quickly dismissed the idea.