Bitstream

13.1

The status pop-up flashes at the centre of the M-Gate screen, and for a moment I'm so dizzy, so shaken, I forget I'm strapped into a chair. The memory might have run just under four hours, but inside it felt like more than a decade. According to the readout, the playback should have ended at the warehouse. Everything beyond that wasn't a file: it was something else: a dream, a rebooted memory. And I know, down to my bones, that every moment of it was real.

I sit upright, throat dry and aching for a sip of water, and slip the M-Gate visor off, letting it dangle from the armrest. The room feels strange, almost alien – maybe just my brain struggling to readjust to reality – but after half a minute or so, I make out the cramped braindance room, the awfully grey walls, and that lady's voice:

"Session complete. You have been charged: 1,984 Eurodollars. Please exit the simulation chamber."

The glass door slides open, revealing the dark corridor on the other side. I try to raise my right arm, only to realise it's no longer there, and then push myself up from the chair, feeling as if I've been hit by a truck. I reach under the side compartment and take out the ejected braindance shard, stuffing it deep in my trouser pocket.

I walk.

Unsteadily now, through the door. Neither Vander nor Fingers nor Dance are standing on the other side – not that I expect them to after a near four-hour session. I follow the hallway down to the foyer area, where that lady behind the reception desk keeps my pistol, and she hands it back to me with the kind of customer-service smile that belongs on a mannequin, not a human face. I tuck the pistol into my pocket and step out into the Paxson alleyway, where people stream past in endless waves, the light caught in that strange hour that's neither night nor day. Rain slashes down with a hiss, bouncing off sodium-vapour gutters and the slick cobbles underfoot. The air reeks of frying meat from a stall tucked under a handpainted sign. I pull my jacket hood up, still feeling uneasy.

"Look awful pale, mate," a voice says.

I glance left and spot Dance – bushy brows, that ratty, angular face – studying me up and down with lips pressed tight, one hand in his pocket, the other grasping the brickie as he leans back against the wall, waiting to see what I'll do first.

I don't say anything. Can't exactly find the words. Don't know where to even begin.

He stuffs the brickie in his pocket and approaches me. "Fuck me, mustn't have been good."

That gets it out of me. My lips quiver a little, and suddenly I find it difficult to breathe; I know I should be crying, but again, these artificial sockets aren't bred for tears.

"Ooooh, hold it now—" Dance lifts both hands, palms out, like he's trying to settle a spooked animal. His tone softens, but the edge of his drawl still cuts through. "Ain't the place for fallin' apart, mate. Breathe. Just breatheeee."

I shake my head, hood dripping, words jammed in my throat. I sit on the external windowsill of the building, taking a moment before asking, "Where are the others?"

Dance sits next to me. "Shouldn't be too long. Went off to rustle grub, spend some of that hard-earned cred. Figured you'd be a while." He flicks his wet fringe back, eyes narrowing on me. "But bloody hell, mate. You look like you've crawled outta your own grave."

"I feel worse." My voice cracks halfway through.

He lets that hang for a moment. Rain ticks against the guttering above us, the alley shimmering with oily reflections. Dance digs into his coat pocket, pulls out a crumpled pack, shakes it. "Smoke?"

I shake my head.

"Hm. Alright then." He flicks it away, tosses it onto the street entirely. "Picked it up off the ground anyway. I take it you're not in a spot to tell me what you saw in there. I'm normally not one for proddin' – no thank you. But given that I almost got eaten alive by a snake the size of an apocalypse, I'm curious."

"I just need a minute to process everything, alright?" I snap. "Is that too much to ask for?"

He doesn't flinch at the snap. Just tilts his head, lips twitching in that way that says he's got a dozen quips locked and loaded but, for once, he swallows them all. "Nah," he says finally. "A minute's fine. You can have two, even. World ain't gonna burn down in the time it takes you to breathe."

I bury my face in my hand. My skin's clammy, nails digging at my temples as though I can scrape the leftover static out of my skull. "Felt so real," I say, more to myself than him. "Every second of it."

"Yeah, that braindance technology makes you feel as if you're livin' it. I used to be an addict myself."

He has a point there, but still. I breathe once, twice. I'm trembling; it's like my nerves are playing catch-up with reality.

Dance side-eyes me. "Still got all your marbles? Or d'you reckon we'll be spoon-feeding ya mash by tomorrow?"

"Fuck you," I croak.

That makes him grin. "There she is."

I chuckle a little at that. God, he's an idiot, but he knows how to cheer me up. "I remembered a lot more than the playback showed. It was kind of like a dream, a long hallucination."

"Seems awfully convenient."

I turn my head, meet his eyes under the dripping hood. "Convenient? You think I asked for that?"

Dance shrugs, shoulders hunched against the rain. "Didn't say you asked for it. Just sayin' – dreams got a way of tellin' you what you already know. Wrap it in a bow, sell it back like divine revelation. That's why I don't put stock in 'em. Too bloody neat. But you do you, mate. Whoever's writin' your story's layin' it on a bit thick."

Another chuckle from me, this time from someplace deeper, someplace real.

That's when a voice cuts through the rain from farther down the alley:

"Monner!"

I snap my head up. Vander's bulk comes into view first, trench coat flapping around his knees, a greasy food carton in one hand. Fingers follows behind, juggling a bag stuffed with something that is probably dangerous, her short cyan hair breezing as she trots to keep up.

Dance leans back on the sill, smirk already loaded. "And here comes the cavalry."

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Vander raises the carton in a mock toast. "Brought dinner. Try nert to look so er thrilled."

Fingers wrinkles her nose as she takes me in. "Shit, Mono, you look like you fell through a meat grinder."

"I feel worse," I say, once again.

Dance pats my knee with mock sympathy. "Told ya. Crawled outta her own grave. Two times she's done that now."

Technically three: once after I got drunk and ended up in Cierus' camp, once from under the bridge, and – well – I guess you can count this as the third.

Just my luck.

Vander shoulders into the alcove and takes a seat next to me. He hands me a carton of Chinese food – some ramen, by the smell – and fishes a bottle of water out from his coat pocket. I place the carton between my thighs, take the water, pop it open, and down half of it in one go. Man, have I been craving this.

"Thank you," I say between breaths.

"Don't merntion it," says Vander, plucking a knot of noodles with a pair of chopsticks and shovelling them into his mouth.

Fingers crouches, sets her bag between her boots, and digs around until glass clinks. "Got something for your head." She pulls out a tiny vial, gives it a shake so the pink liquid catches the light. "Stimulant. Mild one. Won't fry your brain, just clear the fog."

I eye it. "What's the catch?"

"Only got two." She smirks, slipping one into her pocket. "So don't waste it."

Dance whistles, pulling his brickie out once again and flicking through that old terminal screen. "Generous. She likes ya, Mono."

Fingers rolls her eyes. "Don't push it, Dance."

"Just sayin', you were awful chatty about her when she was in there. Ooh-lala, mate. Ooh-fuckin'-laaaa."

I take the vial, uncap it with my teeth, and down it in one go. Bitter as battery acid, but the static in my head begins to thin. I wipe my mouth with the back of my sleeve. "Appreciate it."

"Don't mention it." Fingers picks the bag up again, wrapping the top tightly around her thumb. "So? You gonna tell us what you saw, or you just gonna sit there lookin' like the world kicked you twice?"

The words stick in my throat again. I glance at Dance. He shrugs, like: your call, mate.

Vander slurps more noodles, patient in that bulldog way of his. "If it's berd, best we kner. Berder it is, better we're ready."

"Haven't a fuckin' clue what that man just said," quips Dance.

"I assume he means 'bad'," I say.

"Then just say 'bad', like where did you get this speech impediment?"

Vander lowers his chopsticks and glares at Dance, noodles hanging like worms from his lip. "It's an accent, you daft cermudgeon."

Dance smirks, spreading his hands. "Accent, impediment: tomato, tomahto."

"Tomarrrrto," Vander corrects with his mouth full.

That cracks me: an ugly little laugh bursts out before I can stop it, and soon Fingers is snorting too. For half a second the rain, the static, all of it feels lighter. Then the laughter dies down, and the weight creeps back into my chest.

"So?" Fingers prompts.

I take a long breath, steadying myself before the words spill out. Then I walk them through it, start to finish. My father. The Syndicate rebels. Cierus Marlow. Every piece of it, all the way to Calyx Ward and what Halcyon revealed inside that mysterious realm, Virelia. I try to keep my voice even, but the cracks show. Talking about my father's death nearly guts me, and it takes everything I have not to break apart. By the end, what matters most is clear: Halcyon's warning, that Calyx is planning to seize Neo Arcadia outright, that she's building an army of mind-controlled soldiers. Whether through the AI or through Lumina, I can't say, but either way, it's enough to make my blood run cold.

When I'm done talking, no one says anything for a time. It's as though they too are trying to process it all.

Finally, Fingers breaks the silence: "That's… awful, Mono. I don't really know what to say. I'm really sorry to hear that."

"It's okay," I lie, keeping my voice steady. "It's over with, for now. But I need to look ahead. I can't let that bitch get away with what she did. With what she plans to do."

Vander finishes off the last of his noodles, tosses the chopsticks into the carton, and bins it to the side. He puts a hand on my back, massaging it gently. He doesn't say anything, and he doesn't need to; the hand is enough.

"Virelia," says Dance slowly. "A realm for AI – interestin'."

I nod. "Yeah, it's not the first time I've seen something like that. When I first woke up under the bridge, I saw a cyber realm, but it was red rather than blue. Not sure if that matters."

"Might do, might not do," says Dance, eyes glued to the brickie. He steps up. "Either way, we're talkin' Ward here. Calyx bloody Ward. That woman's got the city by the dooookie. Half the NACP in her pocket, the other half on a leash. You don't just decide to take her down over noodles, mate."

"I'm not talking about deciding," I say. "I'm talking about surviving. If Halcyon's right, she's not just another tyrant sitting in the mayor's chair; she's gearing up for a war. We either stop her before she launches it, or we get trampled under her boots."

Fingers stashes her hands deep in her jacket pockets, looking a trifle uneasy. "Even if we wanted to, how? Ward's fortified with a whole lot more than metal snakes, know? She's got eyes everywhere. Hell, she's probably listening to this conversation right now. You can't just stroll up to her office with a pistol and a bad attitude."

"Not yet," I admit. "But she's not untouchable. Nobody is. She's got weak points. We just have to find 'em. Right, Dance? Every mountain has its crack? That's what you always say."

Dance huffs. "Calyx isn't really a mountain mate. Mountains just sit there waitin' for some goosemonkey to climb it. She's more like a hurricane: spins faster the closer you get, tears the skin off anyone dumb enough to try, and spits you out the other end with all the other failed assassins."

My posture softens at that. I suppose he does have a point. I box the noodles away, still half-full, and finish off the last bit of my water. "I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm thinking. This is my fight, not yours."

"It's not that," says Fingers. "I told you before: you're one of us. Like it or not, you're stuck here, and we're stuck with you. Wouldn't have it any other way. But this plan is gonna take some thought. Some depth. We might need to call in an extra pair of hands, use these funds for good."

I blink, looking up at Fingers. "You're… willing to spend that much cred on this?"

"To be completely honest, Mono," Fingers says, shoulders rising and falling under her damp jacket, "I'd rather burn it on somethin' that might matter than piss it away on another week of stim and noodles."

Dance whistles low, shaking his head. "Well ain't that noble. Look at us: turnin' into philanthropists in the fuckin' rain." He flicks a hand towards me. "She's right, though. Cred don't mean squat if Ward ends up puppeteerin' half the city. Might as well stack what we've got and see how high it reaches."

Vander gives a grunt, digs into his coat, and produces a wad of crumpled bills and chipped cred cards. He drops them into Fingers' open palm. "There's a er stert. I'll wire mer later."

"Cool worms then," Dance says. "Didn't think you were the charitable type, big man."

Vander shrugs. "Better than dyin' er broke."

That gets a crooked grin out of me, despite myself.

Dance fishes in his pocket, pulls out a credshard, kisses it dramatically, and tosses it into Fingers' palm. "Alright then. All in. Not sayin' it's smart, but it's somethin'."

My throat tightens. "I don't know what to say. But I appreciate it. Truly. Now we just need to plan."

"As mentioned, it might take months," says Fingers. "Hell, maybe even longer than that. But I have some ideas."

"Such as?" I ask.

She twirls the pile of cred in her hand, eyes distant. "Ward's fortress is sealed tight. Too many guns, too many eyes. We'd die before we even touched the front gates. But Lumina? That's different. It's her pet project, her obsession, know? You want to reach Calyx Ward, that's the vein you cut into."

Dance leans back, chuckling. "Figures. Easiest way to a tyrant's heart is through the shiny toy she can't let go of. Monkey see, monkey dooooooo."

Vander grunts. "Then er Luminer is where we start."

"Also," begins Dance, "what's the whole dig with that Isolde Crane? Have to say, I'm already missin' Cormac—"

"Later," Fingers cuts him off, sharper than usual. "First things first: we focus on Ward. On Lumina." She pauses then, shoulders stiff, rain dripping off the ends of her cyan fringe. Her voice softens. "But don't think I've forgotten him. I haven't. I couldn't, even if I tried. He mattered. More than most people in this rotten city ever will." She looks away, blinking hard. "And yeah, I miss him. A lot. And I know it sounds corny as hell, but… he's still here. With us. In the choices we make. In the shit we're dumb enough to try. You might not feel it right now, but I promise you: he hasn't left."

We all go quiet. Perhaps out of respect, but whether for Cormac or Fingers, I'm not sure.

Either way, I agree with every word.

The rain finally starts to ease up a little, and the clouds peel back to reveal a churning afternoon sun. Fingers clenches her fist over the creds and stashes them in her front pocket. "We'll talk about this later. I'm gonna ask Arden for some help, some leads. She knows Paxson better than any of us, and I have a sinking feeling she knows all about Calyx Ward, especially if she had ties to… Christ, what was her name?"

"Cierus Marlow," I say.

"Yeah," Fingers replies. "Her. Don't worry about it. We'll head back. Relax for a bit. And try not to be alone, Mono. After that story, stuff can mess with your mind. I know all about it. When I lost my parents, I lost myself. It's a tough world out here. But we'll pull through. We always do." She reaches out a steady hand and I take it. She helps me to my feet – not that I needed the help.

"Then it's settled," I say, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. "Lumina's the way in. We just need to plan it out."

"Crikies," Dance says, dragging a hand down his face. "One bloody scheme after another. My spine's not built for this much productivity."

That earns a snort from Fingers, even a grunt of amusement from Vander. But nobody argues. Not Dance with his wisecracks, not Vander with his stone face, not even me.

For the first time in a long while, we're all pulling towards the same horizon.

Calyx Ward may have her army. She may have the city in her grip. But every tyrant leaves a crack somewhere – and hers glows bright.

Lumina.