by Ren Warom
“Or Ho dropped Li?” he says, finally smiling, thinking of those moments before the Queens got out, when he severed Li’s connection to her avatar and Ho compounded it by pushing her off the top of the Heights.
She snorts into laughter. “Oh now that was bitchy.”
He grins. “Yes. Yes it was. Now fuck off and let me concentrate.”
Hostile Takeover
At the heart of Foon Gung, the inner city is a diadema setosum set amongst lesser urchins. A priapic surge of architecture rising higher and higher until it culminates in the triple threat of the Heights, the Needle and the Spine, so vast their tops come perilously close to the low orbit of hubs. Four weeks on from the events leading to the fall of Fulcrum, the fall of the Harmonys, the Heights still bears the marks of the damage it accrued—a delicate splay of black scaffold clinging to its crown like spider’s web.
With no Lakatoses and no money, it will remain as an unwelcome reminder for the residents of the Heights of dark times they can no longer recall, the lack of memory almost as disturbing as the sudden chasm of power, the subtle struggle of the WAMOS against the system built to contain them.
In times such as these, even a fortress fit for gods feels unsafe. Conquerable.
Parallel to the Heights, across the vast grey swathe of glistening concrete courtyard set with statues and fountains, the Needle strikes into the sky sharp and arrogant, fit to stitch darkness to daytime, vicious in cool cream stone marbled with white streaks of quartz. They could be brothers, the Heights and the Needle, fraternal twins—tall and clean and cold, one conservative in its lines the other sharp-suited; old blood and old money clothed in detachment, in easy superiority.
The third giant, resting between them, separating them, is more the changeling child. The interloper. The Spine is a sinister rise of sinuous ink, like dark roots wound to the heavens in black, unfeeling coils, a sleeping dragon frozen to black carbon by the ravage of time. It leers and looms, casts nothing but shadows. Clothed in black glass that swallows any hint of light from its interior, the Spine absorbs light. Sneaks into night as if bleeding that very darkness into the sky.
In a boardroom on one of the topmost floors, the lights are all on for a late-night meeting. Titans vying over the vacuum left by Fulcrum, fruitlessly chasing the Haunt who holds the key to Slip in his head. With him lost to the wind, they’ve turned to each other, uneasy but too desperate to stop, circling and scheming to create power alliances big enough to claim the world.
Ranged around the table dominating the room, the boards of Olbax and Veritas have reached critical mass in their merger negotiations and tablets are going round the room for all parties to sign, formally rendering the companies a singular, powerful entity. A MegaCorp. Outside the boardroom, not visible to those within, stands a peculiarly silent trio, all dressed to the nines.
At their forefront is a tall blond man wrapped in a silver-grey suit. He’s the embodiment of the Needle rather than the Spine. Slender and sleek. Pale and exquisite. Aristocratic. Almost pretty except for the pale silver of his eyes, simmering like molten lead. The tightly wound energy radiating from his shoulders speaking eloquently of irritation.
Behind his left shoulder stands a tall Nigerian man with a regal bearing. He has the aura of a lawyer: calculation and razor-sharp cunning. Dressed in an almost identical suit, livened by a violet silk tie, he’s a full head taller and his choleric gaze assesses. Seeks shadows. Finds secrets within them to hoard and abuse.
Barely reaching the blond man’s right shoulder is a woman. A lush explosion of fleshy curves wrapped in a silken red dress and killer heels, she looks like a powder keg. Combustible. All fury and wild pleasure in snapping eyes the colour of old whisky.
Lucian duPont, Iyawa Fashola and Jessamine Amsel. They were not invited but here they are—drawn to wealth like lions to prey. There’s so much obscene wealth in that one room it takes their breath away, despite being raised in wealth themselves. What’s most delightful here, however, is this banquet of innocents, all trussed in hundred-thousand-flim suits and shoes. Served up all unknowing and so very delicious.
Lucian licks his lips. Jessamine touches the tip of a nail to his tongue as it swipes across, a sharp pinprick of pain. He nips at the nail. She chuckles.
“You had dinner.”
“Always hungry for you, petal.”
“Hungry for this too?”
“Starved.”
She smiles, eye teeth on show. “Then let’s eat. Iyawa?”
“My dear?”
“After you.”
Iyawa opens the door and they enter, moving to take the seats left strategically empty for them by the building staff. They’ve planned this moment meticulously since learning that Olbax and Veritas planned to meet here at the Spine to formally seal their merger. The staff of the Spine’s hire floor belongs to them—bought off or blackmailed— to make sure things would be as they needed them.
Everyone in this boardroom knows who they are, and knows to be afraid. This pleases them.
Nonetheless, Karl Eber, Chairman of the board of Olbax surges to his feet, sputtering with the sort of outrage only a member of the elite could express when in this much danger, a muted horror that anyone would dare. His face is a peculiar palette of reds and whites—shock fighting affront, rage warring with stark fear.
“What is the meaning of this!”
Tilting his head, Lucian replies casually, “We thought we’d sit in for this somewhat historic occasion.”
“You have no right to be here.”
Lucian examines his fingernails. “You know me, Karl. I like to stick my nose in where it’s not wanted.”
“Then kindly remove it.” The speaker is Esme Carstairs of Veritas. Ancient. Aristocratic as Lucian. Scornful. “I knew you as a child, Lucian. You’re nothing but a brat with too much money and too little discipline, and if rumours hold true, you’re now no more than criminal filth. We are done here. You may leave.” Her confidence is extraordinary. Absolute. It’s obvious she cannot believe that this situation is real. How could it be?
Lucian begins to laugh. Hyena howls. Loud and unrepentant. One hand slapping the table, the other clutched to his belly. His face is beautiful. Joyful. Genuine. Jessamine’s mouth twitches. No one sees her hand move, but there’s a soft thud and Esme’s impaled against warm leather, her neck dented and collapsed around the sharpened end of a steel kubotan.
The brash silver looks almost comical there in the ruins of her throat, sending thick gouts of crimson to rage up and over her face, her pristine jacket and shirt. This does not happen in a boardroom, categorically, and no one reacts, unable to process, giving the trio the time they were expecting.
They take it without hesitation. Lucian and Iyawa move in absolute accord to slam holes into the necks of those sat closest to them. Lucian still chuckling as if unable to stop. Iyawa all business, his cuffs pulled back, fastidious, his feet dancing away from the blood whilst Lucian splashes through it all, deranged and gleaming.
Down one kubotan, Jessamine half rises, breathing calm and quiet. Spins on her delicate heels. Halfway out of his seat, terror finally igniting movement, the Olbax board member to the right takes the sharpened steel point in three arteries. The left gets it so deep into his eyeball Jess has to yank hard to pull it out.
Three arteries slumps back into his seat, trying to stem three flows at once and failing, his hands becoming clumsy almost immediately. To his right, eyeball is trying to scream. Spewing blood and vitreous humour down his cheek he manages only stuttering, wet gurgles of nonsense sound before going into some sort of fit and hitting the floor hard, spattering blood everywhere. Jess places a heel on the back of his head. Unable to move, he slowly drowns, strangled gurgling fading to a high-pitched wheeze and then nothing.
The room is thick with the stench of blood. Piss. Fear. Enough to make her smile. Removing her heel, Jess strolls toward the rest, and they rush away from her, a riptide of white-faced dread, scrambling to ope
n the door, unaware that it’s locked. In no rush at all, Jess reaches out to snatch the prim chignon of a Veritas member, silky red hair held up by diamond pins. Yanks her back hard, ignoring the pain of pins in her palm, the choked-off scream bursting from the woman’s throat.
“Where are you going, lovely?” she asks softly, licking the porcelain curve of her ear, pressing the sharp end of the kubotan into the warm thud of the pulse-point inches below a millimetre at a time. The sound the woman makes is exquisite—the squeal of a small animal caught in sharp jaws. Her blood is warm. Thick. It oozes first and then bursts out in a flood as the kubotan pierces the jugular.
Jess catches a drop on her tongue. The taste is copper and salt and sour. Dropping the woman to the floor, she forgets her immediately. Strolls on to the next, laughing breathlessly, catching Iyawa’s eye as he slams both kubotans into the back of a dark-suited man from Olbax. They smile together. Feral. This is real business. Tooth and claw. Blood and screams.
“What is this?” screams the CEO of Olbax, Lance Oliver, Lucian’s palm clamped under his chin, long fingers flexing around his Adam’s apple, his other hand floating in front of Lance’s left eye, kubotan out.
“I would have thought that was obvious,” Lucian drawls in his ear, oh so very slowly pressing the point of the kubotan into his eye, licking his lips as the eyeball pops and gushes. “A hostile takeover.”
Lucian holds the Olbax CEO like a lover until his last breath flutters out, soft as a whisper. Lifting him, he drapes him over the end of the table, posing his limbs. Something Bacchanalian. Classical. Steps back to admire his work, casually flicking the tip of the kubotan buried deep in Lance’s eye socket to vibrate it a touch before taking a languid seat. He cocks a finger at Jess, who slides into his lap, playing with his tie. Iyawa props an arse cheek on the edge of the table.
“I feel better,” Lucian says to him.
“You were feeling less than well?” asks Iyawa, his top lip quirking.
“Frustrated, aboki na. You know how ill frustration sits with me.”
Acknowledging the truth of that with a wide smile, Iyawa says softly, “We have much work ahead of us now. I hear Evelyn has made a move also.”
Lucian raises a brow at Jess, who hisses and says, “A day or so ago. Her interest is not ours, although she has designs on the Gung. She does not want the Haunt. She thinks he is smoke and she would not move herself to chase smoke.”
Leaning back to button his jacket, Iyawa says softly, “Wannan daya ne ba za a buga tare da.”
“We won’t be rash, Iyawa. We wait and calculate as ever. We have troops all over the Gung.”
“They are being picked off like flies. The Cleaner and the Hornets are formidable opponents.”
“But that’s what makes all this so much fun,” Lucian insists. “A real challenge. Ousting my father was too easy. I imagined taking the Cartel over would test us a little more, but it has been depressingly simple. We need to be stretched, my dear friend. Tested. Only through trial does one become stronger. Remember the promises we made to one another? Would I ever let you down?”
Iyawa places his hand over Lucian’s. “Never. You never have, and you never will. Ka ko da yaushe suna da nake dõgara.”
Lucian throws his arm around Jessamine and squeezes her, tipping his other hand to hold Iyawa’s in a fierce grip. “That’s all I ask, aboki na. Trust. Faith. Loyalty. They shape us. They will see us lords—and lady—of all we survey.”
Zero Tolerance
Why are you still in here, idiot Haunt?
He turns his head, golden hair swirling into his eyes. Ex-Haunt.
Ex or not you’re still an idiot. You need to eat. To sleep. You remember Slip-immersion jobs, yes? How much they sucked? You’re doing the same thing to yourself voluntarily. If I had hands I’d slap you seventeen ways to Sunday.
You have tentacles; they’d probably hurt more.
So come eat before you feel how much, idiot. You need nourishment; you haven’t any fat to spare.
I need to find Lucian duPont is what I need. He’s got an Archie who can hide shit on side and Slip’s like a fucking Chinatown bazaar these days. I’m more likely to find a maneki neko and five thousand mint-condition flip phones from before the breaking.
Your point is? I’m almost certain you have one. Her tone is acid, eating away at his patience.
It’s a mess in here. I’m packing Emblem in my goddamn head and I’m the one gatekeeper this place has any more. I should’ve put my foot down.
Puss radiates disapproval vehement enough to make him wince. No, you really shouldn’t, she says. That’s not how we do things. That’s how Fulcrum and their ilk operate. They’ve had that. We’ve had that. There’s a reason we got rid of it.
But it’d be so much easier.
And that’s exactly how Fulcrum got to the point it did. Don’t you dare start to think that way. Where’s the Shock I know? He’d cast a wider net.
Where is the Shock she knows? He’s in there somewhere, looking at this new Shock, who thinks nothing of rearranging the world for his convenience and freaking the hell out. Yeah, he can admit to himself that he’s sliding further into thoughts he can’t condone than he ever imagined he’d allow, but stopping that shit is like dragging feet through tar. Emblem’s everywhere in his mind, a cloying mass of inhumanity. Trying to think around it, past it, is more complicated than he dares admit even to himself. He’s becoming less inclined to fight by the day.
As for casting a wider net. Yeah, old Shock would do that but not with new Shock’s power. Surely that would be crazy? Fuck knows what spreading himself through Slip will do to the tenuous hold he has on the parts of him he still trusts.
Aren’t you supposed to be my Jiminy Cricket? Are you insane?
She snorts, such a human response. These moments used to take him by surprise but now he thinks maybe she’s more human than him. Simple as that. Melodrama. I’m not a cricket by any stretch of the imagination, so that’s a hard no. And how is it insane to go deeper, look further? What are you in here, Shock? Human? Don’t kid yourself. You’re mere steps away from not being human IRL any more. Your signal’s in layers. I sense you everywhere, in Slip and beyond. You resonate through it all. There’s so much of you. At this point, killing you might not even make a difference.
He shudders, not only at how clearly she sees him, but at the picture she’s painting of what that actually means. No. Just no. The idea provokes worse nausea than a two-month immersion job. He’d rather go back in time four weeks and walk out on to the central avenue of inner city wearing a t-shirt with a target on it.
Whatever I am, I can admit to being scared of trying to look everywhere at once by myself. It’s bad enough being IRL and being unable to switch it all off. The only choice I get, the only peace, is in here. Why would I jeopardise that? Besides which, I might spread too thin, yunno? I don’t want to break. I’m done breaking.
So I’ll help. That’s what I’m here for.
I thought you were here to berate me for not eating?
I’m multi-tasking. I do have nine brains.
Show off.
Puss snakes a tentacle up into his hair like she used to IRL, but instead of sliding into his jack, it melts into him, tentacle becoming hair, hair becoming tentacle. Taking extra care, because even with Puss to help this scares him, he lets go of everything he is, and floods into Slip like a riptide. The first sensation is prickle and numb, as if he’s trying to touch something with a limb that’s fallen asleep, and all that registers in his senses is only what he usually sees IRL, the flows of information, conversations, processes, the shape of Slip all around.
And then the whole fucking universe explodes into him.
Billions of voices, thoughts, flavours, Slip selves, avis and IRL bodies asleep, awake and in all manner of moods; and the construction of the Slip is not around or below him, it’s in him. He’s being rebuilt. Re-made. Altered. And he knows it in the same way Slip does, something instinctu
al. A base comprehension. The realization slams through him. Slip is not static, not sleeping, not quiescent. There’s a vibration to it, a hum, a sighing beneath the weight of water and new architecture that seems almost living, and a sense of rightness in the changes being wrought. If Slip were alive, he might call this sense of rightness satisfaction.
It’s too much to take in. So much. Seeing it all. Hearing it. Being with it. If this is what it’s like being a god, he wants none of it, however extraordinary. Not to mention the fact that he’s acutely aware that this level of perception is not sustainable. He’ll go mad if he holds on too long to all this information. His head’s already burning, too full of Emblem’s changes to be too much more. With that in mind, Shock fights to focus through the overwhelming barrage of information and sensation for the location of duPont.
The moment he does it, he finds three things. The first, duPont’s been sneaky as per, his location is split, with no way to determine which is actual home base—could be Tokyo Hub, could be Paris Hub. The second is some disturbing news about Olbax and Veritas floating around the stock markets and connected to duPont’s name that will mean really bad things for the Hornets. And then there’s Paraderm. Under new ownership? What the fuck? It’s a family business. Owned by a married couple. New ownership smells all kinds of wrong.
You can’t leave the world alone for a second. You can’t fucking blink. Even that is enough space for all hell to break loose in.
Pulling himself in, he catches one last, disturbing thing: a fleeting glimpse of something with a taste of bitter lemon juice. Too tart, making him recoil.
What the hell was that shit?
Not a clue. Taste down here though… She sends concern. Something dangerous or powerful. Or both.
Ruthlessly stifling bucketloads of alarm, Shock allows himself to shrink back from the whole of Slip into the confines of his Emblem-filled skull. It’s strange, leaves him with a sensation as if he’s swallowed static. Unpleasant but kinda not. He opens a line to Amiga.
