by Ren Warom
She sighs. “Idiot. Can’t name names, can I? Not with a might. But I can take you.”
Here comes the suspicion.
“Where?”
“J-Hack underground.”
“They’ve got an underground?”
“Dude,” she replies scornfully, “of course they fucking have. You just never dirtied yourself looking for it.”
Shock’s heart is a pincushion these days. Every needle strikes clean and true, lodges inside. He’d prefer to think she’s wrong about the idea of him not dirtying himself, but that’s almost exactly how it’s been. He’s fixated on Sendai above all else. Used it as an excuse to steer clear of any affiliations, to be almost terminally life avoidant. Surely that’s some kind of disorder?
“Take me.”
“Take you,” she says. “Suuuuure. Eaaaasy. Let’s just go, hey? Right now!”
“Joon, for serious, I am hardcore in need. If there is any way you can do just that, minus the sarcasm infection, I would be eternally grateful. Might even be persuaded to be in your debt.”
She stares at him a long time, scathing, then unwinds from the sofa, tossing the bow onto the cushion.
“Fine. I’ll take you. But that’s it. Rest is up to you.”
It’s only then the knot in his shoulders begins to untie. She snags her coat from the bewildering sprawl of branches on a coat tree painted to look like a neon giraffe wearing a medusa wig.
“We’ll take the limo,” she says.
Joon near his avis? Fuck no.
“Er… not sure it’s safe for you.” He’s giving away intel on avi location, but it can’t be helped.
She purses her lips. “Your fucking Shark, amirite?”
“Yup.”
She shrugs. “Plan B. You’ll come on my bike, the limo stays here.”
“Can’t it follow?”
“Your Shark can drive?” She’s unconvinced.
“No,” he replies. “But my Octopus can.”
* * *
Sakkura’s an upright urban wasteland. Miles of jutting ’scrapers slowly rotting against dull grey sky. It rains here as much as it does over Korea-town, drenching everything. Flooding the poorly built bridges strung in ugly shades of dirty concrete between dilapidated blocks.
Shock keeps his head close to Joon’s back to avoid the perpetual spill of old rain as she whips past each bridge, the heavy throb of her bike engine coughing too loud in the quiet. It does no good, ice-cold drops of two-day-old rain strike square down the back of his jacket, straight through his thin tee, and onto his spine. Make him shiver uncontrollably.
It begins to rain again. A desultory spatter fast develops into full-on deluge. Joon utters a wind-snatched curse and strangles the throttle. She’s got this ancient cater-bike, like the ones they use for avis in J-Net. The engine belches black smoke, and the cat-track tears at the tarmac like scrabbling hands, spraying them both with loose grit. They pass long-toothed factories, disgorging invisible walls of effluent rippled like heat haze against the clouds.
Pass the squats, where buildings so rotten they’ve been abandoned by paying tenants are repopulated by art collectives, their sides re-imagined to murals. Sculptures cling to corners and ledges like insects from other worlds, other dimensions, their fragile limbs at odds with the laws of physics.
One squat has an old mono carriage rigged against the side, halfway up, painted with a symbol that looks like the bastard offspring of the anarchy sign and a question mark. Anarchy? Shock tries to figure out what it means. Is it asking if anarchy still exists? He thinks it does, but then again, what’s anarchic about this life? Forced to live a certain way because normal society rejects you for your failure to pass a test, to conform.
He remembers the Pysch. Everyone does. Two hours of questions and reactions in a room where your every twitch is minutely recorded and catalogued against you. There’s no cheating this test. For those who would not consider themselves anarchists the unexpected betrayal of a rebellious brain must be devastating.
Shock was always aware he’d Fail. He didn’t really care. Working with Corps from the age of nine, he saw what their lives were like. The financial freedom disguising suffocating hierarchies and an impenetrable glass ceiling of Psych eval limitations often keeping those with brighter minds in duller jobs, allowing the unlimited advancement of the dull.
He didn’t want that, knew that even if he scraped a Pass he’d be one of those bright minds leashed into a harness, held back, held down. It reminded him of being born in the wrong body, restrained by biology. He didn’t ditch the tits to strap a desk to his chest. But he didn’t want this either. This rootless, dangerous, paycheck-to-paycheck scramble at the mercy of criminals and psychopaths.
Perhaps that’s what the symbol means. What’s the point of anarchy when the society you live in can shove you into a box no matter how hard you rebel? He can’t help but think that’s why the system evolved. To contain the uncontainable. Limit the prospects of those with limitless capacity for thought, creativity and analysis. In which case, what the fuck has he been doing skirting the borders?
Simple, complicated, painful answer?
Given a choice, he chose not to choose. He chose Sendai, aware how impossible a dream that was. No Fail has ever lived in Sendai, and no Pass who stayed out of line long enough to be harnessed ever made it there either. It’s a non-stance. Says: If I can’t win, I won’t play ball. But this is not ball, it’s life. Look at how badly he’s fucked it up.
Shock lifts his head, lets the rain slam into his face, hoping it will wake him on some deep, un-nameable level. Stir whatever spirit, whatever nerve he has remaining. Give him the fight he needs to make it through this. To get rid of Emblem, get off the Gung, and maybe start afresh on a hub, or even a land ship. If it means escape he can get over his fears, can’t he?
Besides, he could learn a lot from those peripatetic land ships, moving between continental shards and scavenging scraps of civilization. Utilising the old to build the new. Isn’t that how it’s always done, the re-building of something broken? If that’s so, he can do it too. Scavenge the scraps of himself worth keeping, the Shock he could have been, and rebuild a new Shock on those foundations. A better one.
It’s an unusual determination, one he attributes to the continued presence of his avis, whose appropriated limo follows in their wake, silent and sleek. Funny that Shock can see it and Joon can’t. Funny how secure that makes him feel, although he’s still not entirely comfortable with these constant companions. Never being alone in his own head is quite the state to acclimatize to, and one of his selves being female is even harder. He feels both attached to and alienated from his deepest self.
Joon aims the cater-bike left, and into the long, low darkness of a block tunnel. Carved out through what would be extra apartment space for traffic flow between overpopulated portions of the Gung’s provinces it takes them to the territory behind Sakkura, a neighbourhood Shock’s entirely unfamiliar with, where slender blocks crowd together like ghoulish onlookers to some gruesome murder—probably his.
Painted a dizzying array of bright colours, they appear at first glance to be uniform, as though built to an architectural formula. Pass that momentary confusion and they reveal an array of unique designs. The only thing these buildings have in common are the eye-watering blocks of colour daubed from foundation to roof, and multitudes of balconies strung with plants and clothes. Some hold wary tenants, peering aggressively out through the rain at the racket of the cater-bike in quiet streets, that throaty bugle of unwelcome noise.
The narrowness of the streets between bright ’scrapers provokes vague recollections of a drunken conversation with Yani, his old study-bud. A year ahead of him at Tech, Yani scraped a Pass on his Pysch and was relegated to work as a courier. That last conversation in some shabby little bar in Shimli was unpleasant.
Yani knocking back straight-up gin with grim dedication, muttering about some crazy plan to jump the system. Go rogue. He’d conv
inced himself that he could live without ends meeting if he didn’t have to meet the expectations of a life lived WAMOS. Shock wonders what the hell ever happened to him. He hopes Yani managed to do better than he has.
The cater-bike wobbles, throwing his shoulder dangerously close to a thick, filthy window on the ground floor of the nearest ’scraper. There’s literally no room here, the blocks growing direct from either side of muddy strips of cracked concrete passing for both sidewalk and road. Shock leans forward, instinctive, trying to protect himself from possible harm. Yells into Joon’s ear.
“Where are we?”
“Nanking,” she shouts back.
Oh. Nanking. Not a place Shock has any desire to be. This grotty back-district is part of Yang’s territory. There are no J-Hacks in Nanking. This is an overflow region, a densely populated adjunct to the main districts, scornful of amenities and probably an hour at least from the nearest district with schools, malls and hospitals. A residential hellhole, claustrophobic with misery. Living in such a place himself, Shock can’t judge, but neither can he rustle up any good reason for Joon to bring him here.
Yeah, good, that’s the pertinent word. Shock’s warning sirens, ever slow to react, begin to sound somewhere deep in his overfull skull.
“Why here?”
“Short cut.”
Why doesn’t he believe her? Shock explores his connection with Puss, trying to get a bead on the limo. Puss is skirting around, hunting for a way back to wherever it is Joon might be going. That’s when he knows she’s done this on purpose. He could call Shark and Puss now, but they’d have to leave the limo to come to him, and then everyone will know where he is. Where they are.
It occurs to Shock that he’s still not awake or aware. How is that? You’d think years of making the wrong decision would have armoured him against it. Not so. Clinging to Joon’s jacket, he tries to work out a way he can get out of this. Whatever this is.
The conclusion he reaches does nothing to reassure him. Unless Shark exposes itself by getting out of the limo and coming to Shock’s rescue should he need one, then he’s fucked, and he’s not risking Shark like that. His only hope at this point is that someone else tracking his signal will try to snatch him from Joon. Frying-pan-to-fire kind of hope, the sort that makes your bowels feel frisky, and boy do his feel frisky. He can’t try to fight to get away either. The likelihood of that going well is slim to none. He’s no fighter. He’s a skinny, unfit loser, with a serious dependence on illegal substances.
My name is Shock Pao, he thinks, half amused, half despairing, and I am an addict. And an idiot.
De-throttling, the cater-bike growls, a lion in narrow streets warning other predators away. Joon and Shock dismount, helmet-less, Joon out of sheer reckless bravado, Shock because there was none to wear, and leave the bike cooling in the rain. At this point Shock could probably run. Probably. Joon’s a giant by comparison. He runs, those excessive limbs of hers will catch him up in no time.
Puss radiates “keep cool” vibes from wherever she’s waiting with the limo, somewhere outside of Nanking. Reminds him that if he doesn’t know how to fix what’s happened to them, or what this Emblem shit is all about, then who will? Even Twist didn’t bank on this. Hell, he didn’t even bank on the Queens cutting his arse out of the deal. In other words, they can damage him, but that’s all. Shock’s survived plenty of damage, he can survive more.
Full of the subtle, puke-inducing panic of the soul walking into certain danger, Shock follows Joon into a ’scraper clashing in peacock blue and orange so bright his eyes try to turn inside out to escape the glare. Through grubby doors, the lobby is grim, the lifts stuck open, revealing stained grey walls and shiny red floors littered with cans and psy butts. None of these buildings have janitors. Poor folk can’t afford to fork out for such luxury, and the type of corporate interests who own areas like this don’t much care about how their tenants get to and from their accommodations.
They take the stairs, naturally, though these stairs are anything but natural. Eighteen flights of full-on thigh-burning horror, set at a gradient Shock’s convinced can’t be necessary, not even in a building as anorexic as this. At the apparently correct floor Joon sails through the door with zero indication of having raced up the stair equivalent of a mountain. Shock not so much. He slumps on the wall, fighting for air. Joon’s feet clomp back along the corridor. The door slams open. The wall groans. Joon snaps.
“Come on. Pussy.”
Shock glares through his hair and manages to squeeze out, “Sexist bitch.”
Leaning against the door to keep it open, Joon regards him with bland amusement.
“How? I have one, and you used to. If I want to use my own fucking parts in an insult, I will. You want to stop me, quit being so pathetic.”
Straightening up against the pain, Shock staggers past her into the corridor.
“I’m not the pathetic one.”
“Oh?”
“You think I don’t know what this is?”
Joon laughs. “So run.”
“Where? Where can I run? I needed help, Joon, not this shit. But I figure what the fuck, someone at some point is going to catch up with me. Let’s see what they think they can do. I don’t know what Emblem is now or what to do with it. It’s just in here,” he taps his head, “taking up all available space.”
“Hey.” She’s unmollified, but the tone is somewhat gentler. “Look, I gotta make a living. I feel for you. Honestly. But I have pre-existing ties with Yang, and I got a good offer. I’m sure you’ll be treated well enough. You’re the fucking holy grail walking right now.”
“I’m comforted. Really.” Full sarcasm mode. Yang hates him.
She shrugs. “Be comforted or don’t. Your choice.”
Third corridor, walking the line. Feels like Death Row. Green Mile. Shock would drag his feet, but delaying the inevitable won’t make it go away. Joon’s fully aware her reassurance is cold comfort. Yang has no qualms about hurting anyone. Hurt isn’t dead after all, and there’s a lot he can do with Shock before he can’t use him any more.
Besides, there’s that whole hating him thing. The Twist debacle, as Shock likes to call it. Twist hires him for a big job. Major flim. Yang comes along at the eleventh hour and bribes Twist’s shit away from Shock for even bigger flim—and honestly Shock does not make it that hard, being in full idiot mode.
Twist finds out quick smart what’s gone down, sets Amiga on Shock and retaliates against Yang, hard. Beyond all logic Yang blames Shock for this, putting his own price out on Shock’s head. Double trouble. Shock’s busy counting his fingers, enjoying his toes. He’s pretty sure he’s going to leave here without some.
Striding ahead, Joon knocks a random-seeming tattoo of knuckles on one of the doors. It opens to reveal Yang’s personal guard. The hulks. Goons with no necks and biceps like balloons. They step aside to allow him through, but when he’s between them they lunge in and grab his arms, yanking them up and back.
His muscles explode with pain. Shock grunts, gritting his teeth and rising up on his toes to try to relieve the pressure. Somewhere miles away, he senses Puss’s upset and Shark thrashing about, desperate to come rescue him.
Easy, easy, he sends down their connection. I’m okay.
Then there’s a blade at his throat, and he’s not actually sure he is.
“Shock. Here’s a surprise. Yet again I find you carrying something for Twist Calhoun that I myself am in dire need of.”
Yang.
Sat in the corner. His bulk resided in a grey leather chair that creaks with every movement. Yang was once rikishi. A Yokozuna. Part of the legendary Ineo stable, he was champion for seven years in a row before retiring to become the Chinese District’s most feared and revered crime lord.
Yang is his rikishi name, one he chose for himself when he entered training at thirteen. No one knows his real name any more, perhaps not even Yang, and no one outside of China District knows much about him at all beyond public histo
ry, and that’s exactly how he likes it.
“Is it really necessary to have the hulks restrain me?” Shock’s on the wrong side of scared, but the one thing you never do is show your fear. Showing fear to these crime lords is like bleeding in front of a shark.
Yang’s brows rise.
“You find this excessive?”
“A little. I’m no threat.”
“Your shark is.”
Shock chuckles. “I think Joon’s seen to that problem.”
“She’s always had a good grasp of my requirements. It’s why I continue to retain her services despite her inability to conduct herself in a manner becoming to her gender.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Shock sees Joon’s face blush vermilion. No pity. She shopped him, so she can take this BS right on her pert little nose for all he cares. Yang leans back into the plush leather of his chair and grins at Joon’s discomfort. He likes to bait. He’s akin to Li in that, but she’s crueller. No words for her when actions will do more damage. In a way, Shock’s glad it was Yang. He’s neither as complex nor as devious as Twist or the Harmonys. He’s a thug, straight up. No ice.
“How do you propose to get this out of my head then, Yang?” Shock asks the ten-million-flim question, shifting against the pain in his arms.
Lifting his hands in a supremely careless shrug, Yang replies, “I propose that you’ll do it for me, Haunt.”
As answers go, Shock could’ve used that one to prove psychic abilities. He sighs, because he also knows that his response is unlikely to be believed.
“Sorry, man, genuinely. I can’t. Dunno know how it’s stuck in there, or how to work it, and definitely not how to get it out.” He flexes each leg, the calves beginning to ache from standing on tiptoe; strives for time, for something to delay the moment Yang orders him tortured. “I know the Queens wanted me to have it though, they want it bad, and I suspect their drones are looking for it right now. How’s your VA?”
Shock’s actually not sure what the Queens can do. They’re still in Hive and he’s walking around with the lock in his head. Until they get hold of it they’re stuck inside Slip with no way out, and not his main concern despite their drones and their obvious influence IRL.
