NEON Calico, page 1
NEON Calico
by J. Webb Garrett
Neon Calico
Copyright © 2017 J. Webb Garrett. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be constructed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any many whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information, please contact the author.
SPECIAL THANKS AND DEDICATION
First, I would like to thank the incredible faculty in the English Department of Eastern Illinois University, namely Dr. Abella, Dr. Ludlow, Dr. Smith, and Dr. Beebe, for being a constant source of encouragement and feedback during my time with them. I would also like to thank Dr. Roxane Gay for telling me “You need to go further” when I was still an undergraduate, helping me to see that my writing could actually be something more than just a hobby. I would also like to thank my mother and my Aunt Mary for always being there for me, a constant source of love and support in my life. These two women, above all others, are my heroes. Finally, I would like to thank all of my friends, family, and everyone who has ever rolled dice and told crazy stories with me for being the greatest sources of creative inspiration anyone could ask for.
I would also like to dedicate this, my first book, to the loving memories of Charles and Francis Webb. I miss you both so much but am glad that the two of you are finally together again.
“A cyborg is a cybernetic organism, a hybrid of machine and organism, a creature of social reality as well as a creature of fiction.”
Donna J. Haraway, The Cyborg Manifesto
CHAPTER 01
Flickering neon street signs illuminate the bleak pavement and slate colored buildings that surround me on all sides like towering grave markers. Shadows rave in the corners where the pink, purple, green, red, and blue lights don’t quite touch. The upper plate, where all the rich people live stealing all the sunlight for themselves, blots out the sky above and puts the lower city in an eternal state of timeless night. The air is wet and smells of piss, decay, and exhaust and there is always this constant fog that trails around your ankles so thick it sometimes feels like walking through a bog. Welcome to the lower level of the Chicago Metropolis; it’s gross but it’s home.
People around here call me Calico. Not the name I was given, sure, but it’s the one I’ve chosen to go by. It’s who I am. My birth name is who I was. Who I used to be. I didn’t like her very much. I’m twenty-four, half-Caucasian/half-Chinese, and am an auger. A cyborg. I’ve probably got as much plastic and metal in me as I do meat. It wasn’t my choice to be this way, at least at first, but once you go chrome its hard to stop. I’m also a troubleshooter, a sort-of freelance agent that does the sort of things polite society tends to frown at. Breaking and entering, robbery, corporate sabotage, and just about anything a client might ask me to do, so long as the money is right and it doesn’t risk my rep. Troubleshooters were born out of a need for mega-corporations to get an edge up on their fellow megas and the practice sort of grew out of that. Troubleshooters are deniable assets and we’re expendable, and that is why we’re in high demand. Not just from corporations, either, but just about anyone who needs something done and can’t work through the proper channels to handle it. So yeah, I’m a crook, a petty thief as some might say, and right now I’m on a job.
My mark is walking ahead of me by about twelve yards. I can close that quick if I have to, but right now I’m keeping my distance. To him, I likely look like just another Asian punker-girl or wannabe ganger in a black synth-leather jacket. A girl who probably went against daddy’s wishes with color changing fiber-optic implants in her hair that I’ve currently got going through various shades of purple, violet, red, and blue. Null threat to him, and that’s what I want him to think.
He’s walking fast, anxious, but trying not to make that too obvious. Definitely a C-man, a corporate drone, way out of his element down here under the plate. He’s dressed a bit too nice for this neighborhood in his off-the-shelf sway suit, his designer glasses with built in AR feed and light amplification, and his fifty-cred haircut. He came down here for a cheap drink and a cheap thrill, banged a Jill in one of the many seedy hotels I passed a few blocks back, scored some cheap dream-pills from a local dealer, and is now hurrying to make it to the nearest tram that will take him safely back to his luxury single bedroom condo on the upper plate. How do I know all this? Because I’ve been tailing this drone for the past few hours. Stupid C-man doesn’t even have half a clue.
[[INCOMING LINK: PIXIE]]
The message flashes in the upper right corner of my field of vision, my N-link sending the notification straight into the visual feed of my cyber-eyes. No one can see or hear it but me as it’s all happening in my head. I silently accept the link with her using a neural command.
[[PIXIE: STANDING BY. READY WHEN YOU ARE, CALLY.]]
Jazz, I reply, the neural-link implanted in my brain translating my directed thoughts into audio and sending them back to her. This is the link I’ve been waiting for. It’s time to make my move.
A quick scan of my surroundings tells me that there is nobody around. Perfect. I close in. The C-man has good instincts, though. He seems to sense me coming at him and turns to look back at me when I approach. Not that it matters. He tries to move out of the way but I grab him by his cheap lapels and force him up against the wall of a nearby alleyway, face first, arm locked behind his back. The guy probably outweighs me by a least a full hundred pounds, but my muscles have all been augmented with synthetic reinforcements which make me much stronger and faster than I look. He struggles, of course, but this drone likely hasn’t been in a fight since grade school – if that. It’s pretty sad. No skill. He’s mine.
“I’ve got no cred!” he shouts, the liar. “What do you want?”
“Chill,” I tell him, giving his arm a little tug to reinforce the fact that I’m in control. “This’ll be quick.” The C-man thinks this is just a mugging? That’s cute. Ready, Pix? I ask over our open link, speaking to her with only my mind like I’m a psychic from one of those fake-as-drek supernat trids.
[[PIXIE: READY.]]
I pull the C-man away from the wall, letting go of his arm, shift both his weight and mine to judo him down onto the alley floor – he’ll have to pay top cred if he wants those stains out of that suit – and re-pin his arm behind his back, keeping my weight pressed down on him to keep him from even thinking about trying to go anywhere. Next, I pull a link-cable out of my pocket and hook it into one of the ports to my N-link located at the base of my skull, pull his collar down to reveal his bare neck and link ports, and plug the other end of the cable into him. Go! I tell Pixie over our link, giving her the signal to start working her ‘trix magic.
What I have done is provide her a direct link into his PAN – his Personal Area Network – through me. Normally, my good friend and ace slicer Pixie wouldn’t have access to his PAN while it’s in autonomous mode. There’s no ‘trix connection for her to ride. However, by plugging in to him I’ve created a bridge for her that our mark here can’t disconnect from. I’m basically playing transmitter right now as she rides through my open connection into his closed off system. Now all she has to do is crack throughout whatever firewall he might have, swipe the data we need, and-
[[PIXIE: GOT IT!]]
Damn. Fast work. Good job, I tell her. That firewall must have been total cake. Not sayin’ my girl doesn’t have skills, though. She’s one of the best slicers in the biz.
“What the hell?” the drone, Gene, asks. Yeah, I know his name now. All the data Pix swiped is currently uploading itself into the digital storage centers of my brain via the N-link. I now know more about this guy than I ever wanted to. Like how he’s been diverting funds from his corp’s personnel budget into unlisted subsidiary accounts, which is what my current employer wanted me to find, for example. Also a bunch of junk data like his ‘trix search history. Ew. This guy is into some weird drek.
“Chill, Gene,” I tell him, climbing off of him and taking a step back to let him haul his own ass up off the pavement. “Job’s done. You can bail now.” It probably won’t be that easy, he’s got that look of someone who really doesn’t like to be tread on. Hey, after what I just put him through, the least I can do is give him an out. Whether he takes it or not is his call.
“Who the hell do you work for?” he shouts, as if he actually expects me to tell him, as he climbs back to his feet and leans up against the alley wall for support.
I don’t mean to smile, I really don’t, but I do anyway. “Someone who’ll be very interested in all of these unauthorized cred deposits into unregistered accounts, I’m sure,” I tell him, tapping the side of my head. “You’ve been a naughty little C-man, haven’t you, Gene?” I add as I start to walk away. Sure, I’m being kind of a bitch by provoking him, but I can’t stand drones. I especially can’t stand corrupt drones like him which, to be fair, most drones are corrupt. You can’t climb too high up on that corporate ladder without stepping on the faces of those beneath you, right?
“Goddamn gink cyber-slit!” he shouts, coming in at me with an obvious hay-maker.
What did he just... Nope. Not having that. I don’t even bother dodging his punch. I’m a lot faster than he is and I bring my fist – my left fist
– straight on into his pudgy little name calling, racist face. My left arm is entirely a cybernetic prosthetic, pure chrome, which means getting hit with it is like taking an aluminum bat to the jaw. Its not something I like to show off so I keep it covered up most of the time, but that doesn’t mean I won’t gladly use it against a pig like him. I hear a satisfying crack as his nose shatters and I knock loose at least three teeth. He’s down, sprawled out on the slick, grimy street. Easy prey for any looter wanting to earn a few easy cred. They can have him. Not my problem anymore. He’s still breathing and that’s really all I care about.
I don’t kill. That’s my rule.
[[PIXIE: CALLY, YOU GOOD? YOUR HEART RATE JUST SPIKED.]]
Drek-head called me a gink. Wow, didn’t expect that which is what made it sting. A nice little reminder about how I’m an outsider here, in more ways than one. Yeah, I’m good, Pix, I tell her, knowing she probably watched the whole thing through the feed of my cyber-eyes. Time to deliver the goods and get paid. I’ll see you in a bit, okay?
[[PIXIE: OKAY. SURE THING. JUST WATCH YOUR BACK.]]
I always do. I stuff my hands in my jacket pockets and start walking away. I shouldn’t have hit him that hard. I shouldn’t have hit him period. It was just a job. I can’t let it get personal. Can’t let it get to me. Not anymore. Not again.
[[INCOMING LINK: UNKNOWN SOURCE.]]
The hell? Who would even have my link code that I don’t know? No message with it, just an anonymous call. Initiate trace. The last thing I want is for my brain to get sliced into. I’m no wiz slicer like Pixie, but my head-ware has some of the best cyber-protection on the market. It affords me some protection, but not enough that I’ll just let some random caller drop by unannounced.
[[TRACE INITIATED... SENDER: XUE AI – DYNAST GROUP]]
Ai? What the hell does he want with me? Instinctive my jaw clenches and my hand that is still flesh and blood balls into a fist. Frag him. Ignore link.
[[LINK IGNORED]]
Dealing with him is not something I need in my life right now. To say that we’ve got “bad blood” between us is an understatement. As far as blood goes, he’s spilled a good deal of mine.
- - -
Two hours later and my scene has done a complete flip. Dreary to fancy, smelling of piss and rot to rose-scented perfume and expensive cologne. I’m sitting at a small candle-lit table with a glass of wine in front of me made with actual fruit, not that synthetic stuff, and a plate of food that couldn’t feed a mouse but costs more than I usually spend on food in a month. It’s jazz, though, the client is covering this one. Not that I plan on eating any of it. This sort of food always tastes like biting into a spice rack to me. Welcome to how the so-called “other half ” lives. Decadent to the max and beyond. This used to be my favorite part of the job; meeting the clients, playing part of their world. Now, having done this for the better part of five years, I’m just fed up with the whole game. I’ve still got to play it, though, as long as I want to get paid. I still like getting paid.
In the intervening time since breaking Gene’s face I’ve managed to score a quick shower, traded my more comfortable synth-leathers, cropped tee, and biker boots for a showy, backless black dress, full-arm length black gloves, and high heels. I’ve set the fiber-optic implants in my hair to my natural black color rather than my normal ever-changing color scheme. My cyber-eyes are set to look natural, though I keep them a purple color, and have turned off my cyber-tats; a large set of six angel wings on my back, a Russian cross with twin doves on my upper meat-arm with a jazz looking tribal pattern under it that covers my forearm, and a half-crescent in the corner of my right eye – what can I say? I’m into body art. I keep my earrings in; six in my right ear, three in my left, though I make sure they are at least tasteful. Oh, and I use the gloves to cover up as much of my left arm as I can. Its fully synthetic, all the way up to the collarbone and the shoulder-plate. Can’t cover it all, not with as much skin as this dress is showing off, but I try to keep it modest. Being an auger – a cyborg – doesn’t trend well at these “higher society” affairs.
My client is sitting across from me, dressed in this hot little red thing that does wonders for her bod. She’s hot as hell for a woman who could likely be my mother. She’s a drone and much of her hotness is likely pro-job body-sculpting but I’m jazz with that. This is business though, not pleasure. I’m jazz with that too. The quicker I get out of here and I can become me again, the happier I’ll be.
“I’m so grateful you were able to handle this distasteful matter so quickly, Jessica,” she tells me, calling me by the name on the fake SIN – that’s Social Identification Number – I used to get in here. “And you are sure that all the data is here?”
“Every bit I was able to capture in the brain-drive of his N-link,” I assure her. “You wanted proof your associate was stealing credits from the company. Its here.” I tap the side of my head as I speak. I’m keeping the data under the protection of my firewall until we make the exchange so there is nothing for her to grab should she try and cross me. It doesn’t happen often, but every once in a while a client goes dumb and tries something really, really stupid. I don’t think she’s about that life, but you never know.
“And you are sure that he doesn’t know who hired you?”
I nod reassuringly. “He knows I was hired,” I say. “Not by who. Be smart with the data and I’m sure old jackass-Gene will be out a job and you’ll find yourself a cushy promotion within the week.” She flinches as I curse. It took her out of her comfort zone. Funny how that makes me smile on the inside.
The sexy drone scans me up and down, seeming to try and size me up or figure out if I’m lying. I’m not, but good luck trying to read me, lady. I was brought up in the corporate life of Hong Kong, an exec’s daughter. Looking as calm as a stoned-out porcelain doll is what I did for years over there. I may have run away from that life when I was fifteen, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten what it taught me. To be honest, those skills have proved really useful as a troubleshooter.
“Very good,” she says finally, pulling out a cred-chip from her purse. “Your payment, as promised.”
I take the chip, slotting it into a hand-held chip reader. No way am I slotting a mystery chip directly into my N-link. That’s asking for all sorts of bad juju. The creds are there, all twelve grand of them. Jazz. I send the data Pix and I got out of Gene to my client’s public access PAN along with the verification codes that assure her that I’ve deleted the data from my own brain-pan. Now I can’t be connected to her. Job done.
“It’s been a pleasure working with you, Jessica,” she says, pushing that sort of standard issue politeness that just always rubs me the wrong way. It feels so fake. “If we have another matter we would like handled off the record, we’ll be sure to reach out to you and your associates again.”
“Fine by me,” I say as I get up from the table, downing the wine in a single gulp that I instantly regret and start heading for the door. I’ve had enough high society for one evening. Below the plate might be gross, but when I am there I don’t have to pretend to be something I’m not. Give me freedom and the slums any day over this gilded cage.
- - -
It’s an hour tram ride, back down below the plate. It always gives me a weird sensation watching the sky disappear behind that dark metal monolith; like I’m waiting for something to just tear the thing away and bring down some sunlight into the lower city. Not that it’ll ever happen. Down here, we don’t get sunlight. The people who live down here, people like me, we’re not seen as being good enough for sunlight. That’s fine, though. In the dark, Big Brother can’t always see what I’m up to.
