Knight in Cyber Armor

by Bard Constantine

  Jett shook his head, dispelling the memory. It had been six months, and he still couldn't shake the experience. At times he felt he was still asleep, trapped in the hibernation chamber, frozen in time. The dreams he experienced while within were almost indistinguishable from his current reality. Close enough to give him nagging doubts that kept him awake at night, afraid that if he fell asleep, he would never wake again. When he did sleep, nightmares of being trapped in the pod tormented him. He would awaken in a cold sweat, gasping for breath, unaware of where he was, what year it was.

  "It was…difficult." Jett motioned to Kermit the bartender for another shot, turning slightly away from LeBlanc. He hoped the man would get the message, but LeBlanc kept right on without notice.

  "Wow. That's gotta be one helluva mind job. Go into stasis in the twenty-first century, and wake up to this." He gestured to the dimly lit, dilapidated bar. Sectioned in the Warrens, it reflected the area's reputation for being the worst district in Neo York. The walls were cracked and pockmarked with holes, the tables mismatched and greasy, the floor lined with a mixed layer of spilled drinks, muck, and old vomit. Kermit hosed the place down once every three days, but it did little to make the place more palatable. Not that it mattered to the regulars. Customers like Jett were there for only one reason.

  The drinks were cheap.

  "Yeah. It's a mind job, all right." Jett downed a shot. The burn of the cheap liquor was a welcome sensation. It was something he could feel. Something beyond the numbness.

  There was no one in any of the other stasis chambers when he was resuscitated. William Golding had set his pod to open earlier and had left Jett alone, locked in stasis with no release date. He was only discovered because scavengers had found a way inside, where they alerted the authorities after looting the place for whatever wasn't bolted down.

  There was no welcome, no familiar or friendly faces. Just indifferent aides who processed him like an unwanted breed of animal. He was given a holoband, a tiny living space in the Warrens, and a job in the sewage department, wading through piss and shit every day. His sole companion for twelve hours was a hovering, all-purpose robotic tool. He made just enough to purchase meal rations, utilities, and second-hand clothes. He spent the little he had on drinks in Kermit's Pub.

  "I didn't think it was gonna be like…this." Jett grimaced. "When they finished building the Havens, there was this glorious feeling. The promise of a new future. Something better. We all felt it. Hope, you know? Even when you didn't get selected, you still felt good knowing a better world was secured. Things were as bad as they could get. There was no way the future would be anything like that. Just no way."

  LeBlanc took a swallow of beer. "Yeah, fate has a wicked sense of humor."

  Kermit glanced their direction. "Shut up a minute. The lottery numbers are on."

  The bar quieted when the flickering picjector in the corner projected a holographic display. The numbers rattled off while everyone held a collective breath. Everyone but Jett. He knew his chances of hitting were as likely as waking up back in 2046 from a bad dream.

  The announcement ended, and everyone went back to their drinks and inebriated conversations. Someone in Neo York had scored a fortuitous new life in Haven Core, but it wasn't any of them.

  LeBlanc turned back to his beer with a wry grin. "Well, hell. Another chance for life in paradise down the drain. Just like the last forty years and change."

  "Maybe tomorrow," Jett said.

  LeBlanc laughed. "Yeah, maybe tomorrow. Listen, I'd love to pick your brain about the old days. Been seeing you in here most nights. Maybe we can chat again sometime."

  "Yeah. Maybe."

  A wide smile stretched across LeBlanc's face. "Yeah? That's great, man. Well, I gotta roll. These cases don't get solved by themselves."

  Jett felt a jolt of curiosity, despite himself. "Cases?"

  "Yep. I'm what they call a Troubleshooter. I handle cases that slip through the cracks, stuff the RCE turns a blind eye to. Looking out for the little man. For a small fee, of course."

  "So, you're like a private eye or something?"

  Confusion flickered across LeBlanc's face. "Nothing private about my eyes, Chief."

  "That's what they were called back where I'm from. Private detectives."

  "Oh." LeBlanc grinned. "Yeah, that sounds about right."

  "Sounds a lot better than what I do."

  "Keep your head up, man. Everyone starts at the bottom. Gotta kick and scratch your way up around here."

  Jett gave a listless nod. "Yeah. Thanks."

  "See you next time." LeBlanc slipped a threadbare trench coat on, swiped his holoband across the counter scanner, and strode out into the night.

  Kermit chuckled, wiping a beer mug with a greasy rag. He was a hairless giant whose girth suggested he once had been a bruiser before letting flab conquer the muscle. "Piece of advice: don't go buying into the junk that comes outta LeBlanc's mouth. His one and only talent might be his gift for gab. The only reason he ain't been smoked is 'cause he can talk his way outta anything."

  "So he's not really a Troubleshooter?"

  "He calls himself one. Won't tell you he's gotta be the worst Troubleshooter anyone's ever seen. You meet a real Troubleshooter and you'll know what I mean. Those guys have an edge, killer instinct and all that. LeBlanc…he's just a worthless prick with delusions of grandeur. Professional snoop is about all he can claim to be."

  Jett nodded and lifted his shot glass. "One more for the road."

  Kermit snorted. "Whaddya take me for, a schmuck? You're tapped out, compadre. I know how much you pull, sewer rat. I'm not letting you dig a hole you can't get out of. Call it professional courtesy."

  "I know what to call it." Jett swiped his holoband. The scanner flashed green and added a discreet reminder display of his remaining v-notes. The amount was embarrassing.

  "Hey, listen." Kermit dropped his voice and leaned forward. "You looking to make some real scratch, let me know. Only thing sewer diving is good for is working scabs to death. There's a lot of better opportunities to get over if you know what I mean."

  Jett felt an uneasy feeling settle in his stomach. "Yeah, like what?"

  "You're a big dude. Lots of cats hiring on muscle all the time. I know people. Can put a good word in for you if you're interested."

  Jett reached for his coat. "Let me think on it."

  "You do that. When you get tired of sloshing around in other people's shit, that is." Kermit's face and tone were nonchalant, but Jett still felt the sting of contempt as he exited the bar into the frigid air outside.

  Flakes drifted down, a dirty mixture of ash and snow the locals dubbed snash. It was impossible to see where it originated from since brief flashes of the sky were only visible in between the massive, sprawling, interconnected tenements and shacks that made up the heart of the maze-like Warrens. Even then, the glimpses only revealed a thick haze that prevented any true view of sky or stars. The night lights were windows on high-rise stacks that stretched to infinity and winking flashes from surveillance drones that listlessly scanned the city in periodic sweeps. A few floaters dotted the city's heights as well—flying vehicles reserved for the RCE and other city-regulated personnel, or residents rich enough to afford them. The less wealthy drove in hovering skimmers or regular wheeled cars they called rollers. Most everyone else took public transport or walked.

  Jett thrust his hands in his pockets, once again regretting spending v-notes on booze instead of a good pair of gloves. Fur-lined, leather—like the ones he saw at the shop in the Garment District. He'd have to stop drinking for at least two months to afford them, and so far he just couldn't find the self-discipline. He couldn't imagine going sober for that long and still being able to face the city.

  Steam billowed from gutters and manholes, creating a fog that crawled like tentacles through the narrow streets and alleys. It was late, but streams of residents trundled along. Nearly every person had glowing goggles or holovisors that altered
visual data, transforming the person's surroundings into a more palatable option of choice. Some people viewed the city as it was in its bustling, pre-Cataclysm heyday. Others walked through fantasy cities of sweeping towers and cathedrals. There were anime settings, outer space settings, anything to take the resident's minds from focusing on the filth and decay of their actual surroundings.

  Neon flickered on ugly buildings, fluorescent heartbeats pulsing in the murk. Hooded and masked bruisers leaned against the walls of tattoo shops, bars, and Haze parlors, scowling and offering lewd suggestions to passersby. Prostitutes with striking wigs and painted faces stood under bright lights to disguise the sags and wrinkles of their well-worn bodies, sidling up to anyone who met their gaze. Occasionally screams and cries for help echoed out of the dark alleyways.

  Jett kept his head down and his eyes straight, having learned better than to stare or even greet anyone he passed. Too many near-violent encounters from twitchy gang members, tough acts, or plain old robbers. Too many sultry whispers from night ladies who immediately sensed his loneliness, the dull ache for intimacy he tried so hard to bury.

  He continued his sludgy trek home, a shadow in a city of shadows; a whisper in a city of shouts.

  He was nearly there when someone brushed past him, running at top speed before cutting into an alley. The runner was small, lithe, fast, and dressed in loose, baggy black clothes with a heavy hood like nearly everyone in the city. The universal dress code seemed a collective, unconscious response to the spy drones. When everyone was hooded or masked, it was harder to ID any one individual.

  Jett immediately checked to see if he'd been pick-pocketed before remembering he had nothing to steal. Shouts rang out behind him, and he sprang back against a wall as a gang of men ran past, faces obscured by hoods and masks. Had to be toughs, as they were called. In his day there known as thugs, gangsters, or as he used to call them: target practice. He counted at least fifteen, all who followed the runner down the alley. One of them spoke in a guttural voice.

  "Dead end. Got her now."

  Her.

  Jett pulled his hood over his head, trying to steady his beating heart. Go home. Nothing you can do. Nothing you haven't seen before.

  He slowly walked past the alley. Head down, eyes straight. The drones would pick it up. The RCE would take care of the situation. Even if they didn't, there was no reason for him to get involved. Not without putting his own life at risk.

  Raise hell, die well.

  The phantom phrase stopped Jett in his tracks. He hadn't thought of the words since he awakened from stasis. They were part of the past. Part of his old life. They were dead, just like him.

  He raised his head. Looked down the alley.

  The toughs surrounded the girl, who defiantly stared them down. Her hands balled into fists.

  "Get away from me. I'm warning you…"

  They gathered around, leering and giggling while they shoved her around. She took a swing at one of them, surprising him with a stiff right hook. He dropped to the ground, holding his jaw. The rest of the gang just laughed.

  "Look her stupid face. Jade got stugs."

  "You got stugs, jade? Lemme see 'em."

  "Ha. We cut 'em off, make jade again."

  "Jade look too pretty. We fix that."

  "Yeah, we fix her up good. Who first?"

  Jett stepped up so they could see him. "I am."

  They whirled around when he spoke. The girl plastered against the wall seemed far away, pale with shock. She was just a kid. A crowd of masked faces stared at him without surprise or fear. The only thing he saw was annoyance.

  "Who you 'pose to be, old man?"

  "He seven-thirty."

  "You deflicted or something?"

  "Maybe he dom. He into it."

  "You dirty old man? Wanna watch us mush this cunny bunny?"

  "Yeah, I wanna watch." Jett's fingers closed into fists. The world swayed, adrenaline mixed with alcohol. "I wanna watch you hurt. I wanna watch you die."

  They were shocked to silence. Finally, a chorus of laughs erupted.

  "See—scab seven-thirty."

  "Scab got death wish."

  "Okay, elderberry." One of them stepped forward, something glinting in his hand. "You wanna see your guts? I feed 'em to you."

  He lunged, makeshift knife flashing. Jett sidestepped, grabbing the knife wrist and slamming his elbow into the tough's face with a crunching sound. He followed the move by twisting the knife back into the man's stomach. The body hit the ground at Jett's feet.

  He slammed a fist against his chest, feeling fire feed his muscles. It was the first time he felt something since he awoke in the strange new world.

  "Who's next, huh? Who else wants some?"

  They all came at him.

  "Kill 'im."

  "Gonna break you, scab. Tear your face off."

  He saw weapons flashing, swinging. Bats, knives, chains, pipes. The only law that brought a felony charge other than rape and murder in the Warrens was carrying a firearm, so gangs made do with cutting and bludgeoning weapons. His mind rewound, trying to remember the last time he'd faced a mob that size using only hand-to-hand combat. He quickly remembered it was never.

  Don't think.

  He ducked. A pipe whistled past his head. Chest shot, uppercut. The assailant staggered back. Jett whirled. Something sharp slashed through his coat, grazing his ribs. Open hand to throat, followed by a sickening gurgle as the man dropped, clutching his neck. Jett's pores broke open; sweat trickled from an enveloping heat. He snarled when a baseball bat struck his arm, numbing it from the elbow down. He turned that direction just in time to see a shiny pair of brass knuckles swing at his face. Stars danced across his vision from the sharp impact. The world span around; a vicious circle of masked attackers watched him fall drunkenly to the ground. The lights went out.

  "C'mon, get the big bastard up."

  "Tough sonovabitch…"

  "Get those chains."

  "Think he snuffed Joey."

  "Who cares? Gonna carve 'im like a turkey."

  Jett blinked open his eyes. The taste of blood was thick in his mouth. He couldn't breathe. Thick chains were wrapped around his neck, held tightly by a burly man behind him. Several men stood in front of him, shadows with masks or goggles hiding their features. One of them stepped forward, brandishing a machete. A painted gas mask hid his features.

  "Looks like jade took a powder. You satisfied, rustnuts? Feel like a boss?" The blade licked out. Jett grunted when a shallow gash opened across his chest.

  Gasmask drew closer. "Gonna take my time. Show you what Crimson Kings do to—"

  Jett interrupted by lifting his legs and slammed both boots into Gasmask's face. The mask shattered, the man screamed and staggered back. Jett continued the motion, stomping down on his captor's toes. The big man yelped, the chains loosened. Jett slipped his hands under the chains and twisted, snatching himself free. He staggered two steps before a spiked bat slammed into his side. Agony lanced across his entire body. The bat followed with a blow to his back. The ground struck him in the face.

  He lay there, dimly aware of curses and shouts, boots and blunted weapons turning his body into butter. The pain was a cloud of buzzing insects, glimmering metallic ants tearing him apart. But the ground was cold. It was a welcome sensation, soothing the fire that seared his flesh. His vision blurred, gazing up through the latticework of rusted steel and concrete, where for the very first time he saw the silvery light of the moon slicing through the clouds.

  The pain lessened as the men shuffled in haphazard positions around him. Someone yelled in a shocked, disbelieving voice.

  "Holy shit. It's him."

  "Him who?"

  "Vigil."

  "Vigil dead, numbtard. Ain't been seen since—"

  Something hummed. Electricity lifted the hairs on Jett's arms. A body struck the ground beside him, convulsing. The air filled with grunts, metallic whistles, dull impacts, sharp snaps, and shrieks of
pain.

  Jett clenched his teeth and forced himself up, ignoring the protests of his bruised and battered body. One of his eyes had swollen shut, and he had to squint with the other. For a dazed second, he thought he had been hit in the head too hard.

  A man in a gleaming helmet and a dark trench coat fought against the remaining members of the gang. But unlike Jett, he appeared to be winning.

  Must be this Vigil they were talking about.

  He wasn't faster than any of his assailants. He didn't appear stronger. But he was brutally efficient, unleashing salvos of blows while still defending against oncoming attacks. Streamlined gauntlets were secured to his hands and upper arms, lit in neon blue symmetric patterns, humming he struck an opponent. Blue sparks showered as the men fell like dead weight.

  It wasn't long before the alley was littered with unconscious bodies. Four of the gang remained, circling Vigil. Moving cautiously. Fearfully. Staying out of range of his energy-charged gauntlets.

  Vigil raised a casual hand. The gloves pulsed, a blast fired from a sphere in his palm. One of the men went sprawling, electric arcs sizzling across his body. Vigil leaped forward, knocking another clean off his feet with a powerful right hook. Only two remained—the heavily muscled man who had nearly strangled Jett with chains, and a small, cowardly man who thought better of his involvement and darted for the mouth of the alley. Vigil's arm whipped forward. A glimmering cable wrapped around the runner's legs, bringing him down.

  The big man growled, flexing thick arms encircled by glimmering dragon tattoos. "Think you got toys? I show you toy." He slid back his holoband. Thin cables whipped out, encircling his fist, creating an outline of some strange weapon. Translucent gel discharged, instantly hardening and completing the formation of a handgun unlike any Jett had seen before. It trembled erratically, pulsating with violet light before firing a blinding stream of energy. Vigil leaped to the side as the beam whipped by, striking the building behind him.

  The ramshackle construction groaned from the gaping wound that punctured its crumbling bowels. It tilted drunkenly, then came down in a rumbling collapse of ancient brick and mortar. Jett choked as dust and debris enveloped the alley. He was barely able to see the large man run past, stopping only to help his friend get up.