by Jack Heath
The air above his head seemed to push him downward. Because he had jumped sideways, towards the dam, the water around him obscured his vision. Even as gravity scrambled his insides, even as the blood and adrenaline pumped in his veins, even as he calculated that he was falling at about thirty meters per second, he noticed crystal droplets of water floating around him, seemingly still but for small shivers and wobbles.
He had jumped sideways for a reason. Landing in water would not kill him, even from this height. If he had landed on the base of the staircase, he would certainly have died. But falling into the river would not be fatal, not for him. Not even from three hundred meters up.
Still, it was not going to be comfortable. He braced himself in midair, bending his knees and pointing his toes. He squinted into the wind as it rushed past his face.
Then he saw the sign. It was at a bend in the river a bit farther downstream—a white metal board on top of a grey post. CURRENT WATER DEPTH: 0.75 METERS—NO DIVING.
Seventy-five centimeters.
He gritted his teeth. There was no way he could fall this far into water that shallow. Even if the impact didn’t kill him, it would break all his bones and he’d drown trying to lift his head above the surface.
Again he blocked out all distractions. He ignored the water. He ignored the dam. He ignored the river below. Instead he reached forward for the rusty chains dangling from the dam.
He grabbed one, and his innards gasped as he suddenly stopped falling. The hanging droplets of water came to life and sped down, out of sight. The rust burned his hands as he slid down for a few meters, but he held on.
With a crack, the chain snapped. Not helpful, he thought. They were weakened by age and rust—they might even have been forged before Takeover. He let go as he started to fall, and reached for another to slow him down.
He gripped the next chain tightly, and one of the links above broke. Rusty metal splinters darted out, grazing his palms. But he had stopped falling for a moment. So far, so good, he thought. Back to zero meters per second.
Then he fell again, grabbing another chain wildly. Every time he grabbed one, he lost some of his falling speed.
He knew that if he grabbed the chains too frequently, he would run out of unbroken ones and be killed when he fell the rest of the distance. But if he waited and fell for too long in between stops, the act of grabbing the next chain could break it right away. Or if it didn’t, the jarring halt would snap tendons in his shoulders, leaving him helpless for the rest of the fall.
He compromised by grabbing the chains just before he felt that doing so would risk injury. Beyond that, there was nothing he could do.
The wind whistled through his hair. His wet clothes flapped against his skin as he fell. If I am going slowly enough when I hit the water, he thought, I will live. I’ve survived worse than this—I was made to.
The water far below was now crowded with the fallen chains, writhing slowly like drowning worms as they sank into the white froth.
The next time he reached out through the hovering water, he used both hands and grabbed a chain with each.
He came to a very sudden stop, nearly tearing the ligaments in his arms. But it had stopped him for an entire second.
His arms were very strong, but the chains weren’t. The one in his right hand split, so he quickly swung his arm around and grabbed the other with both hands. He could feel his weight stretching the metal.
Crack! It snapped. Hovering, he looked down again.
Sixty meters, he thought. Still more than enough to break his legs, even if it didn’t kill him. He needed to lose more speed.
He reached for the next chain, but his hands gripped empty air. He whirled his arms around, but there were no more chains.
The concrete dam was clean shaven. He had used up the last of them.
The dim sun burned down through the smothering fog. The water fell past him. The shallow river far below continued its rippling. Then the pause was over and he plummeted into the void.
He thrashed and flailed around, sending sprays of water in all directions. I’m going to die, he thought. Not being shot by ChaoSonic soldiers, not in an explosion while rescuing civilians, not executed by well-meaning fundamentalists nor dissected by Lab scientists. Just by falling a really, really long way. Then, if he were lucky, drowning.
His stomach clenched. Blood pumped. Gravity kept pulling at him, and he kept accelerating. The wind tore at his hair and beat at his unprotected face, making him squint. Drops of water crawled upward across his body, as though trying to escape the impact. His heart vibrated crazily, and the adrenaline flowed freely at the thrill of speed. At just a few meters from the water, he calculated that he was falling at more than thirty meters per second—a hundred ten kilometers per hour. He bent his legs slightly and braced himself for the impact, clenching his teeth.
Then he hit. His feet smashed down into the river, sending up showers of snowy white spray. He shot into the water, expecting the riverbed to break his fall at any moment—but there was nothing below. He was sucked down into a dark tunnel until he could only just see the light of day far above him.
What happened? he wondered. Why is the water so deep here?
Then he smiled. He had landed in the spillway. Flight time: 36.3 seconds.
He reacted quickly. He was exhausted, he needed to rest. But if he didn’t swim, he’d end up in the water storage tank and drown.
He spread his arms, kicked his aching feet, and stopped sinking. Holding his breath, he started to push upward. The weight of the water thundering down from the dam pressed him back, and he could feel that he was being sucked towards the storage tank, like a scrap of food heading for a kitchen drain.
The light of the sun wafted towards him like a lifeline, and he pressed on.
His head burst through the surface and he took a deep gasping breath. The roar of the water and the white spray deafened and blinded him for a moment. Forcing his eyes open, he scanned the area and spotted the riverbank in the distance.
Moments later he was dragging himself out of the water and clambering on all fours, when he shook his body violently like a dog. He climbed to his feet, checking that he still had the USB and that the water hadn’t penetrated the case.
There was no time for rest. Agent Six of Hearts took a deep breath and began running back to base.
THE DECK
The inquisitive digi-cams hummed and buzzed softly—recording what they saw and transmitting millions of digital images to screens inside the building. A thousand pictures of a single face were taken as it slipped swiftly under the ever-watchful digital eyes.
The people in the foyer glanced across as Six stepped through the revolving door. Like the digi-cams, they focused on him, recognized him, and then turned back to their work. He walked silently across the shining floor towards the reception desk, ignoring the dynamic sculptures and colorful paintings, the elaborately carved desks, and the sparkling ceiling high above—a daytime substitute for a clear night sky. The electric stars were mirrored in the trail of small puddles that followed his path across the foyer. His short black hair and dark coat were still dripping.
There was a large bronze plaque shining on the wall behind the reception desk. On it were printed the words save us from ourselves. Six ignored it, as he always did.
At a hundred seventy-eight centimeters, Six was the shortest agent in the Hearts department—most of them were good at their jobs simply because they were so big, giants of one ninety, one ninety-seven, and even two hundred two in one case. This gave them more power, more physical leverage, and faster running speeds than most.
But underneath the long black coat Agent Six always wore, his body was pure muscle. Everything not covered by his clothes (sharp profile, pale skin, white teeth, thin fingers) looked typical, but Six could lift more, run faster, and jump higher than any other agent at the Deck, no matter how tall. At sixteen years old, he was the youngest agent, too. He had been there since he was only thi
rteen, when the Deck had been founded. Although ChaoSonic now controlled most of the organizations and facilities in the City, there were still vigilante groups like the Deck that had pledged to uphold the moral and social values of the Code. They were determined to stop any illegal activity that might endanger the people of the City.
Six stopped in front of the large polished desk, and the man behind it looked up. He was in his late twenties, tall and lanky, with cinnamon skin and green-grey eyes—the sort of man who would have looked out of place anywhere. He was dressed in an ash-colored suit that was too short in the arms; he kept tugging absently at the cuffs as if trying to stretch them.
“Hello, Six,” he said, ignoring Six’s drenched clothes. “How are you?”
Six held up the USB case and slid it across the desk. “Buzz me in,” he said.
The receptionist raised his eyebrows, but didn’t appear overly surprised. “It’s good to see you made it back okay,” he persevered, “but you didn’t answer my question.”
His eyes roamed around the foyer as he spoke, rarely meeting Six’s. He seemed to be absorbing every detail of the activities of the people around him, watching them eat and talk and laugh, as if their actions had some special significance that only he could see.
The receptionist was a stickler for politeness and pleasantries. Every time Six checked in at the Deck, his time was wasted by this man. It’s a good thing that I’m the patient type, Six thought. A good thing for him, at any rate.
I could humor him, Six reasoned, and imitate the way he speaks. It would be easy enough, and I could get back to work more quickly. But then he would be encouraged, and would expect conversation from me the following morning, and the morning after that. I would become trapped in a loop of civility. No, this method is far better—one day he will yield and forget his efforts at politeness. Then I will be free to work in peace.
“I am well. Thank you. Buzz me in, please,” Six said flatly.
The receptionist sighed as he slid the USB case into a slot under his desk. He produced a plastic card, placed it on a metal square on the top of his desk, and pushed a nearby button. Then he held out the card, finally making eye contact with Six. “I have a name, incidentally,” he said with a wry smile. “But I’ve been here as long as you have, so you’ve probably worked that out.”
Six took the card from him and turned away.
“It’s Grysat,” the receptionist continued. “Feel free to use it in the future.”
Six ignored him and stepped into an elevator. Behind him the receptionist shook his head and turned away to greet more visitors.
The elevator was uncharacteristically full. Just my luck, Six thought.
He recognized the other occupants instantly as low-rank Deck agents: two from the Diamonds floor, where the reconnaissance, research, and forensic work was done, and one from Hearts—a field operative, like Six. They were all new to the Deck, probably with few skills and a sparse understanding of the Code. The one from Hearts was Agent Two—Six had never learned the names of the Diamonds.
He rarely encountered anyone from Clubs, where agents were trained, or Spades, where internal issues were investigated. Agents from these suits only came to this building under special circumstances.
The other agents smiled at Six as he pressed a button. He greeted their smiles with a blank stare and then turned to face the doors.
“Good morning, Six!” one of the Diamonds said as she slipped her paperwork into her binder, apparently expecting conversation. “How’s it going?”
“Well,” he replied.
There was a pause.
“Did the op at the water station go okay?” Agent Two asked. He tugged his fingers distractedly through his short, curly hair.
The doors opened and they all stepped out into the basement. Six turned away without replying and walked down the corridor.
“Maybe it went badly,” Six heard one of them mutter as he walked away.
Six smiled to himself.
The linoleum clicked a tongue at him in time with his footfalls. He walked purposefully down the corridor until he reached a smooth black door with a silver heart printed on it. The number six was embedded inside the heart.
Agent Six slid his card through the disarm slot, and the door swung open silently. He stepped into the office, carefully shutting and arming the door behind him.
He flicked on his computer and began to type deftly. He made no errors, never hesitated, and didn’t change a single sentence. He finished, reread, and saved the document in under a minute.
MISSION REPORT: 8066-7144-2731
AGENT NUMBER: 06–4 (Six of Hearts)
LOCATION: Leshuar Research Complex (LRC)
BRIEF: Retrieve Universal Serial Bus (USB), serial no. 0095-2766-9375 with minimal damage to on-location equipment, terrain, personnel, and within set time limit. Standard Deck Code applies. (Access code: Delta Nine Four Oscar Seven Seven Kilos)
AGENT IN CHARGE: 13–4 (Agent King of Hearts)
MISSION DESCRIPTION: Entered LRC through skylight in B block (0646 hours), second floor (west building) and removed USB immediately. Exited facility through A block (0654 hours), second administration (north building), second floor, and left Leshuar area via north water processing plant.
GENERAL CASUALTIES/INJURIES: None
DAMAGE TO AREA: Load-bearing implements and equipment on Leshuar Dam damaged. Evidence of presence in building (office reshaped), superficial damage to building interior (broken emergency bulb, one), and exterior (broken skylight lid, one).
ESTIMATED COST: 54,000 standard credits
DAMAGE TO PERSONAL PROPERTY: Water damage to mobile phone (Digi-Call 091), radio (multifrequency transmitter, 2226).
ESTIMATED COST: 5,300 standard credits
NUMBER OF KNOWN SIGHTINGS: None
ESTIMATED POTENTIAL FUNDS INTAKE: 800,000 standard credits
Six printed the document, folded it neatly in half, and slipped it into his pocket. He switched off the computer and printer, then stepped out the office door, locking it securely behind him.
His footfalls echoed through the silent corridor, which smelled of soap and disinfectant.
It wasn’t long before he reached the next door. Like his, it was black, but instead of the silver heart, this door had king inscribed on it in silver lettering. Six touched the door handle lightly with one finger and heard the buzzer whirring inside.
There was a pause. Six knew that he was being examined by hidden cameras, and that if he tried to enter before they had finished, he would be electrocuted automatically by a generator in the door.
The door disarmed and swung open, and the man behind the desk smiled as Six entered.
“Hello, Six,” he said cheerfully, winking one of his narrow green eyes. “Please, sit down.”
King had his feet on the edge of his desk, and was resting his head on the back of his tall, dark chair. He was forty-one years old, and his face was creased into a hard-edged frown that confused people at first, as he was not suspicious by nature.
Six sat down as King scratched the back of his neatly shaved head—a subconscious gesture of trust and security, Six knew from experience.
Six handed the mission report to King.
“Thank you,” King said. “Let me see—what have we here?”
He unfolded the paper, fastened a reading monocle, and scanned the document quickly. He looked up when he had read the whole page.
“Only eight hundred thousand credits in the PFI? You didn’t see anything particularly valuable?”
“Just computers, printers, faxes, scanners, photocopiers,” Six said. “As you said in your brief, the Code violation was in theft of information and design of weapons.”
“So they were working out ways to kill people rather than actually doing it,” King commented.
“The locations of factories, storage facilities, and the names of dealers and buyers are on the USB.”
“So we’ve got shutdown with the data you recover
ed,” King conceded. “That’s good. But you know as well as I do that by the time we get there, most of those factories will be deserted, and most of the dealers will be in hiding—or dead.”
“Hiding isn’t as easy now, not with the triple C system.”
ChaoSonic had started to enforce a new policy—everyone needed a ChaoSonic Citizen Card, or triple C, to buy anything. ChaoSonic said this was to ensure that all citizens received equal benefits and security from the company. But it also neatly forced people to let themselves be catalogued. If you had a triple C, there was nowhere you could hide from the company. Despite the Deck’s best efforts, ChaoSonic’s stranglehold on the people of the City had become a little tighter.
“The arms and drug dealers probably work for ChaoSonic, anyway,” King said. “And there was nothing of much value to take. Correct?”
“Correct.” Six’s expression did not change.
King put his feet down on the floor. “We need funds, Six. We need to bust someone doing practical experimentation. Or, better still, proper manufacture. Computers and photocopiers are easy to sell, but too cheap. If we could flog the pieces of a quantum constructor, or a botline—that’d be worth a bundle.”
Six was silent. King frequently complained about lack of funds.
“Law enforcement must’ve been easier when there were governments to pay the enforcers,” King grumbled. “And when there were actual laws to enforce, for that matter.”
“We uphold the Code,” Six said. “It is enough.”
“But it’s getting harder, Six. I’m old enough to remember what the world was like before, but you’re not. These new agents coming in aren’t. Who knows what the Code will be in another ten years’ time?”
Six said nothing.
“But no, of course,” King said with a wry smile, “you’ll uphold whatever Code there is, provided there’s money in it for you. Isn’t that right, Six?”
“Yes.” There was no point in denying it.
“The fate of civilization is not your concern?”
Six was silent.
