Backstab (Worlds of Deception Book 1)

by Everet Martins

  I’m not sure why I continue. My death is inevitable. I’ll soon be just another shit-covered corpse to be disposed of in a back alley. Someone at the hotel had to have alerted the Falcon. They won’t be here in time, and I need help now.

  I’m hardly an athlete but running is one of the few fitness domains where I excel. Every night, I meet with my AR’s trainer for an endurance workout. I’ve been diligent about meeting its torturous goals, and it’d better fucking pay off. Mohawk is my opposite, faster, stronger and likely far more long-lasting. I grimace at how fucked I am.

  The boulevard is lined with high-end luxury shops. There are jewelers, clothing designers, augmentation surgeons, and butchers who sell real meat from once-living animals. It’s a high traffic area. The sidewalk is a gleaming dark marble with marbled curbstones. Drones buzz above the shops and administer shocks to beggars until they move back to the slums. They’re apparently not programmed to attack knife-wielding assholes.

  I approach the edge of the street, a four-lane disaster of zooming autocars. I make it through the first lane without getting annihilated and feel tendrils of vomit scorching up my throat. A hot gust flaps at my shirt.

  Where did I go wrong in my life?

  My vision starts to narrow at the edges. Blood gurgles against my temples. The sounds of the world are deadened. I’m driven by the mindless instinct to live.

  Higher thoughts vanish.

  Something pings off a nearby autocar, shattering its backseat window. It’s a bullet hole, I numbly realize. The inside of the back windshield is sprayed in chunks of brains and blood. The autocar drives on, its dead passenger unnoticed. The autocar will carry onto its destination and endlessly wait curbside until its battery drains and the body festers. The AI still has a few bugs to be worked out.

  I reach the third lane and hear the squeal of tires followed by the satisfying crunch of colliding polymers. Glass tinkles against the pavement. I leap onto the opposite curb and look back. Mohawk is standing inches away from where an autocar swerved to avoid him, striking the rear end of another.

  A curl of smoke issues from one of the cars. The twisted door of the same car creaks open. A man in a charcoal business suit rises out with a limp wave. “Hey, you okay?” he asks Mohawk. I backpedal as the murdering bastard raises his firearm. It barks three times and punches golf ball sized holes through the suit’s back. The man collapses with an, “Oof.”

  A woman’s shrill scream is muted from inside the rear-ended car. Mohawk aims and fires, spraying the front windshield with her blood. He snickers at his work. I slip into the shadows of an alley while he’s distracted, then peek my head out to watch the unfolding spectacle.

  Three, maybe four other cars smash into each other behind and in front of him. He aims and fires, repeats and reloads. He shoots everyone he sees. Everyone is collateral damage. He’s insane and uncaring.

  Worse, he fucking loves what he’s doing.

  The way you can ensure you’re fucked is when your would-be killer takes his time to aim among a whirlwind of chaos. Hotel patrons are still spilling into the street, parting as far as they can around Mohawk as if he were a gigantic boulder in their sea. They push and shove and stumble against each other. His calm is as deep as the dead forests, and it’s clear that he lives for these moments of slaughter.

  I’m not seduced into believing I’m safe. His primary desire despite it all is to kill me.

  The autocars are informed of the collision via the Net and traffic comes to an eventual halt. Those stuck behind the accident are re-routed. Many start to reverse and filter down side avenues.

  He sets his gaze across the street, searching for me, leaving another river of carnage in his wake. It only takes a second for him to find me, likely flipping the mode of his eyes to search for infrared signatures. He hunches low, maybe thinking I’m armed. He works his way to my flank and keeps disabled autocars between us.

  I turn to see the alley I’ve stepped into is a dead end. A mustard yellow dumpster whirs as its hydraulic compressor starts running. “Fucking hell,” I whisper. I try to depart, and he shoots at me, the bullet cracking into the cream brickwork. Bits spray across my cheek.

  Then I remember I’m in Chicago where countless law-abiding citizens masquerade as gang members. They’ve infiltrated the city under the Falcon’s nose. I peer inside the propped open door of a crashed autocar to find a tall skinny guy with dreads bleeding on the seat. He looks Latino. There’s a black and white rose tattoo trailing up his jawline. He moans and blinks at me with one eye, the other matted shut with blood. His prone form is decorated with shattered glass. On the car’s floor is what I instantly recognize as a Glock 18, a machine pistol. Lady luck has finally decided to grace me.

  I keep myself low as I slink toward the autocar, reaching inside and hefting the gun in my hand. Its grip is slicked with blood. I’m not much of a killer, but a sports marksman I am. I flip off the safety and make a mental note to myself to start carrying. Before I rise from the car, I see Mohawk in my peripheral vision, firearm raised, his face split with an icy grin.

  My bare foot swivels on glass as I turn, fire, and scream, “Fuck you!” I hit him twice in the chest, sending him into a half spin. He only grunts as the bullets ping to the ground, falling from his body armor. His expression is neither joyous nor enraged. He appears numb, and it terrifies me. More urine spills from my useless bladder. I have enough neurons remaining to unload the full magazine at his legs.

  He fires back and strafes into the street. He unloads, and I slip down into another alley. Two, maybe five seconds have passed. My breath rattles in my throat. “Still alive,” I reassure myself. I dare a glance from the side of the building, watching as he drags himself behind a car. Bright blood trails behind him. I don’t appear to have been hit.

  There is no time to celebrate that small achievement.

  I don’t look back. I run, and I keep running until I can run no more.

  5

  New Plans

  I don’t know what I’m going to do.

  My plans have been shattered and burned down to ashes. I have nothing but the clothes on my back, the shit in my underwear, and an empty Glock 18. I don’t have a single round, and I don’t have shoes. I’m easy prey.

  It strikes me then how quickly one can fall from the heights. Just hours ago, I was relaxing in one of the city’s, maybe the country’s, best hotels. Now, I’m no better off than one of the beggars I loathe.

  The Falcon is no doubt searching for me. They’re likely combing through video of the whole confrontation now, examining its every recorded angle. They’ll see I was merely defending myself from the psycho asshole, but they’ll certainly want to question me, and that would not be good for the longevity of my career as a String.

  They’ll want to understand what happened and why. They’ll need to find meaning in the massacre for the affected family’s. Perhaps they’ll even seek justice. The Falcon doesn’t like Strings. They know that the more of us they can get rid of, the less crime there will be on the whole.

  Subterfuge is a String’s currency. Shadows are our friends.

  I wonder what titles they’ll bestow upon me. Accomplice? Suspect? Person of interest? None of them are good.

  I have little influence on the Falcon. Some can be bribed, but it’s always a risk. They go through a rigorous screening program that whittles away all but the most honorable. I can’t let them apprehend me. If they do, there’s a chance Erinas will cut me off for life. They might send a better assassin.

  Strings persist in the shadows of the world through a series of protective layers. We’re the mark on the other side of the glass the Falcon tries to clean. They scrub and scrub, but we can’t be wiped away.

  My first layer is that I live under a false identity. The security cameras will index my facial features and find that I am a man named Shelby Holton from Austin. Shelby is a nobody, a doorman for a luxury high-rise. The Falcon is probably already kicking in his door and ransa
cking his cabinets.

  My second layer is that I pretend to be a meager corporate educator for Okox, specifically their dashboard software. There is another identity backing up this line of work. Okox is a front for Erinas. Erinas created the entity to bear the majority of the company’s heat if things were to go awry with a String. When lawsuits are successfully levied and grievances filed, the afflicted are sad to learn Okox is on the verge of bankruptcy. They’re chronically in this state, leaving no blood for the vampires.

  My third layer of defense is Erinas itself. We have the best lawyers Spectrals can buy. If a String is apprehended, they’re usually out of jail in under an hour. Maybe there’s a deal to be made, the knifing of a judge’s wife, or perhaps the threat of kidnapping his daughter. They all come through eventually, realizing keeping a String imprisoned isn’t worth the hassle. The Falcon remember their efforts are better deployed elsewhere. The corporate employee is always freed.

  The reality is that I’m no better than Mohawk. I just get less blood on my hands and greater monetary compensation. I lie to myself. With enough chems surging through my blood, I’m able to convince myself that my hands are clean. I sleep well most nights. Women, and sometimes men, help.

  As a String, I take tremendous preventative measures to ensure I’m not tied to the devastation I unleash upon the world. We don’t make finding evidence of our hands in a crime easy. I possess countless aliases and rarely meet in the same place twice. I do not have fingerprints. My nanobytes, robots that live alongside my blood, alter my DNA where I’ve slept, turning it into something unrecognizable.

  All of my protection is dependent upon my employer’s goodwill. Despite my self-deception, I am a slave. Without Erinas, I am nothing.

  For some unknown reason, Erinas has sentenced me to death. Mohawk’s arrival and Dagger’s message were not coincidental. I remind myself to buy him a drink. Maybe a new autocar, he did save my life after all.

  I finally lift my eyes from the sidewalk flowing beneath my feet. How long have I been walking with my head down? I need to project confidence to avoid becoming a target of a mugger or worse.

  The streets are caked with ancient gum, sun-faded cans, and piles of shit. Whether it’s human or feral dog, I can’t be sure. I’ve wandered into a bad part of town. I think I’ve been walking for at least two hours. I willed my brain to lead me in any direction away from the crime scene, and I haven’t paid attention to the direction my feet carry me.

  My back aches. I reach around and probe with my fingers, finding warm blood at the middle of my back. I remember Mohawk stabbed me in the stairwell. His strike was deeper than I thought.

  “Shit,” I mutter. The red swathe bright against my white shirt has likely kept the worst of the city away. I think I must appear like someone not to be fucked with.

  My legs feel wobbly, and my vision narrows to a red and black channel. I believe my blood sugar is dropping as the last of the adrenaline melts away. I want candy.

  My eyes drift to an alcove between two convenience stores hemmed in by a pair of rusted dumpsters. There’s graffiti on the brick wall of one of the stores depicting a skull with a bleeding bullet hole in the center. I snicker because skulls can’t bleed. My snicker turns into a full laugh at the absurdity of my thoughts.

  “Fuck,” I breathe, but the laugh is cut off in my chest at the realization that I’ve made my way into a gang-controlled area. My heart thrums against my chest for a few hard beats before I can get it back under control.

  Before slinking my way between the dumpsters, I glance down the sordid street to see if I’ve been followed. It seems empty. No assholes with pink mohawks to be found. The distance converges into a point. Along it a few sad streetlights flicker.

  I work my way into the alley. Observing this a prime spot for someone to take a piss or worse, I have a cursory search before sliding my ass down to sit. I lean my head against the brickwork and my side against a dumpster. I need to focus, think, and get control. Cold sweat worms down my temples. I’ve managed to ignore the shit in my underwear up until now, but there it is again, filling me with abject disgust. I have to ignore it. There is little I can do about it now.

  First, I need to asses my injury. Injuries, plural. Apparently, my shoulder has been grazed. I know I’m in deep water after walking for hours without noticing the sheen of blood trailing down from my shoulder to my fingertips.

  I peel up the tattered sleeve of my t-shirt to find the skin and some of the muscle below in a similar ragged state. I frown while I inspect my shoulder, pleased to see the blood is slowly oozing out and partially clotted. I don’t know why, but I press the spot with my very unsanitary index finger. My breath catches. The pain is a lot like that time I spent the day fucking for so long that I rubbed a layer of skin off the tip of my dick. It’s bad but survivable. I snicker at the memory.

  I lower my ragged sleeve and give it a loving pat against the wound. My blood has been integrated with nanobots that will cleanse any brewing infection. Now, I wish I had opted for the flesh knitting option. That shit is expensive and only made sense for Mercs. I wasn’t supposed to be the one shooting or getting shot at.

  I don’t dare turn on my AR. It has likely been compromised and will only serve as a homing beacon for whoever is trying to end me. Eventually, I will have to use it. It has my life. It contains my passport information, Spectrals, Erinas employee credentials, and investment passwords.

  There is a part of me that wants to find an augmentation surgeon who can remove it. I’m not sure I have time for that. Allowing myself to become incapacitated seems like a bad idea.

  The sun crawls over the horizon like a beggar with shattered knees. Its glow is deadened by the grim haze of radiated yellow intermingled with swirls of black dust before it. Night falls, and I remain in my hiding place between the dumpsters. It feels safe here.

  Erinas fucked me. I can’t get over it. Everything about my well-formed life was at the pinnacle of success, only to be torn down in an instant. I liked my job. I wasn’t crazy about Erinas as an employer, but they were good to me on the whole. The pay was satisfying. I can’t discern what I did or when I went off the path.

  Committing one’s life to a single employer was a high-risk gambit only fit for fools. Commitment is dangerous in all contexts. I’m not ignorant. Loyalty is a manipulative tool corporations use to lever your actions to suit their interests. If Spectrals won’t move you, they reason, perhaps the idea of loyalty will.

  I’m a firm believer in symbiotic relationships. If I provide top-notch service, then I expect the same in return. This is my religion and my deity. My god believes in fair deals.

  The bright side in all of this is that, from the bottom, there is only an upside. I can’t conceive of how this day could get worse. I think of all I’m about to lose and a bolus of vomit rises in my throat, involuntarily expelled from my mouth. I thankfully turn in time to avoid puking on myself. Thick streams of yellow cling to the corners of my mouth, and I don’t care at the moment. I close my eyes and will it all to go away.

  I think of my villa in St. Bart’s. I see the surfers from my open-air patio, watching them glide like dancers upon the white crests of lashing waves. I hear the birds singing. I gaze at the hibiscus flowers lolling on the perfect breeze. I feel the warmth of the sun on my throat.

  Then I start to think of my flat in London. The walls are white, furniture sheik, and made of real wood. Expensive stuff and only the best. I see my bare feet kicked up on the leather ottoman, a cup of perfect tea clutched between my hands. The steam tickles my nose.

  I blink, and my hands are wrong. They’re covered in blood so thick my cup clatters to the floor and shatters into a thousand pieces. My eyes snap open, and a gasp escapes my throat.

  “No,” I moan, twisting against the dumpster to glimpse the moon, a pale orb behind a black curtain of pollution.

  The scuff of boots reaches my ears. I huddle down lower against the dumpster. With a shiver that reaches down
to my balls, I remember I’m in a gang controlled area. Terror eclipses my pathetic self-pity.

  I scan about, searching for anything that might make my presence known before I move. There are a few crumbled soda cans with sun faded labels that didn’t make their way into the dumpster, but they’re well out of reach of my legs. I slowly raise my head for a glimpse beyond the rust.

  There are three figures who are clearly gang members. They pass under a street light. One guy is tall and lanky, head hairless with steel bull horns augmented on the front of his skull. He’s wearing a half-zipped combat vest and hefts a telescoping shock baton that emits occasional sparks.

  His gear has been stolen from a member of the Falcon, indicated where the patches had been poorly cut off on the shoulders. Poor guy was likely beaten to death. Maybe he’s writhing in an alley between two dumpsters. I see the bright chrome of a machete tucked into his belt. It’s a stupid spot for a naked blade. He does slow pirouettes and whoops as he walks. His gaze is raised to the sky, likely high as fuck on chems.

  Strolling beside him is an anorexic looking girl with green dyed hair that has faded to reveal the dirty blonde beneath. She’s topless, and her tits are painted with a pink glowing bioluminescent paint. She carries a nearly empty bottle in one hand and a bull muzzled revolver in the other. She staggers into the bald kid, and he playfully shoves her away.

  The third guy is a wall of muscle beneath a t-shirt slathered in muck. I think it might’ve been white once, but it looks like he crawled through a sewage pipe. He carries a baseball bat and twirls it in one hand. He grins and swings it at a storefront window. He laughs as shattered glass sprays across the sidewalk.

  I slowly lever myself back into my hiding spot, and my leg brushes something metallic. It pings like a damned shotgun blast in the gloom of the empty street. Shit. I missed an energy drink can because the damn label is printed in all matte black.