Bitstream

15.2

Isolde Crane spent two weeks learning the rhythm of the Capital. It wasn't as strict as she'd imagined, but the message was clear enough: crime didn't happen here – at least not anywhere the public could see. Armed security units stood at every junction, guarding the district's gleaming infrastructure. Nearly every building was wrapped in metal panels, skyscrapers stretching into the skyline with blue outlines that pulsed like the heartbeat of a corporate titan. Even the sidewalks were steel. The people walking them looked uniformly polished too – not wealthy, exactly, but comfortably wedged between upper- and middle-class in their spotless jackets, pressed suits, and tailored slacks. Isolde had bought herself a brown winter coat and a pair of blue jeans just to blend in, though most of her days vanished into planning sessions inside a cramped motel room that drained five hundred eddies a night. It was the cheapest place in the district, and now that she was unemployed, she had to keep a tight grip on her savings – no matter how much she still had tucked away.

The biggest problem with planning was the significant lack of options. In a city as dedicated to protecting Calyx Ward as this, finding a chip in the armour was next to impossible, but thanks to Ourovane's internal schematics of what the district looked like, from the very bottom to the very top, she at least had some methods. The most notable of all, she would later learn, was a ball held at the Pavilion Complex in the town centre. It was supposed to be an event dedicated to upcoming advancements in Paxson's technology, as well as an award ceremony for anyone involved. That was the challenging part. Important people would show up, very important people. Which meant paying for a ticket or asking for an invitation simply wasn't an option. If she wanted to get close to Ward in the middle of the ceremony, she'd have to find another way in.

And, well, the only way into the ball was also underground, but rather than splashing through a sewer this time she'd have to swim through a mile of flooded abandoned substations, sneak past several layers of armed security, and dress up as if she were someone important. There were so many holes in that plan. How would she swim for so long without running out of air? If she made it inside, how was she supposed to smuggle in a fresh set of clothes for herself? And – most obvious of all – how would she take down that many armed guards? Even if she used Ourovane, her CPU would be cooked by the sheer amount of processing power required.

She needed help, plain and simple.

But who could she ask? Who in the Capital was willing to get Calyx Ward back for all the trouble she'd caused in Paxson, and not to mention, Neo Arcadia? She hadn't the slightest of an idea, and as it turned out, the great, perfect Ourovane wasn't too confident either.

It had suggested, loosely, finding a fixer, someone with connections to someone important enough to show up to Calyx Ward's ball, to plant clothes inside and to spin a tale if anyone asked too many questions about her. She would also need an upgrade to her cyberware (which was already quite risky given that her physicality didn't allow for much more) so that she could overclock her system and use more quick-hacks. And she'd need a diving suit, one with a pretty hefty air canister.

A lot of set-up. A lot of things that could go wrong.

But she had no choice.

And the only place she could find a fixer in this town was through, as the now-dead security put it, 'those underground rebels'.

Thankfully, Ourovane knew exactly where to find them.

She ventured into the Capital, disappearing among the sea of corporate beige as she followed Ourovane's guidance towards a quieter stretch known as Warren's Avenue. It was shabbier than the main district, though still spotless compared to anything beyond the wall. One storefront bore the name Divine Guidance, a fortune-telling parlour whose title Isolde found painfully ironic. She hadn't come seeking revelations – she didn't believe in that drivel. She was here because, according to Ourovane, the most efficient path into 'the underground' lay behind the woman at this very desk.

The fortune-teller herself was an elderly blonde with button-bright optics, a drooping red dress, and enough eyeshadow to smother a small planet. Before Isolde could even ask her a question, she grabbed a stack of cards from a drawer, started shuffling them, and said: "You're a long way from home. I hope you're not having too much trouble finding your way around town."

Isolde didn't know if that was meant to be a question or not, but she thought an answer would suffice in either case. "I'm managing."

The woman looked up at her and hummed. "Strange. I caught a different kind of energy from you. You carry a certain conflicted quality, as if you're caught between two worlds, and I can tell you're not here for a reading. You don't believe in that stuff. Am I right?"

Isolde raised an eyebrow. "Yeah – I'm not here for a reading. You're right."

The woman finished shuffling the cards and laid one out on the table. "The hierophant," she said slowly. "Tell me: if you are not here for a reading, what are you here for?"

Isolde put her hands in her front coat pockets. "I heard you're the person to talk to if I want to make it to the underground."

She laid out another card, this one bearing the black-and-white picture of a skeleton in priest's clothing. "Interesting," she said once again, this time even slower.

Isolde cleared her throat, then coughed into a fist. "What's, uh – what's that card mean?"

The woman hummed. "You carry great grief," she said. "This card… it says you have already died, and you're looking to be reborn."

"Is that a good or bad thing?" Isolde said.

The woman looked up at Isolde again, her eyes shimmering in the pink overheads. "What is your name, young lady?" She pressed her neural and her eyes turned blue.

"Isolde," she said.

Another hum, and the woman laid out another card, this one showing, quite clearly, the body of a great blue whale. "Isolde," she said. "Do you believe in God, Isolde?"

Isolde's eyes flashed wide. "This is…" She considered arguing that it was all a waste of time. Instead, she played along. "No. I don't believe in God."

A final hum. The lady picked up the three cards and shuffled them back into the deck. "'As the whale finds its freedom, so will you find yours.'"

"What's that mean?" she asked.

The woman smiled, and Isolde could tell it was sincere. "The whale is the card of love, compassion, and wisdom," she said. "Only when you are ready to face it, will it make itself known."

Isolde gave a hum of her own, though she hadn't a clue what the old numpty was talking about. As far as she was concerned, the night she lost her daughter was the night she had, in fact, 'faced the whale'. Still, this wasn't worth any further discussion. "I'll try to remember that."

The old lady pointed to a door in the back. "Through there," she said flatly. "Level 0."

Isolde took a moment to respond, decided she was better off just saying 'thanks', and walked on, wondering what on Earth any of that nonsense could have possibly meant.

When she walked through the door, there was a hallway leading to an elevator. She stepped into it and selected the floor labelled 'Level 0', listened to it grind, shake, and almost collapse on more than one occasion. When it reached the bottom, the doors peeled open, revealing a blue-lit tunnel that yawned into a darkly lit market. Most of the place looked like an old concourse that had been carved up into shabby little stalls: grimy, makeshift things that in some strange, roundabout way reminded her of Lower Elm Street back in Neo Arcadia. The neon signs were broken, and there was hardly anywhere to walk freely. People argued over the cost of weapons, jewelry, implants – the whole shebang. And along an enormous catwalk there were stalls housing trays of Lumina vials, all neatly stacked on shelves, and all with sickly folk lining up for a sample.

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That reminded her of Lower Elm Street too. Of Rhyce and his goons and that awful green Ghostfire that caused this entire mess.

The memory gave her shivers.

It, however, stayed silent.

"There are tech surgeons located in the area," Ourovane said, appearing like a ghost in a haunted house.

But Isolde wasn't scared. Not one bit. "Uh-huh. And how about someone that can help me get into the ball? Those down here too?"

"Yes," Ourovane said. "Statistical projections indicate a 0.0041% chance that any single individual here will possess the requisite access pathways. However, cross-referencing behavioral profiles and known affiliations yields one optimal candidate."

"That is?"

"His name is Jonas Redd," Ourovane said. "He is the underground's highest-ranking fixer. He has participated in three documented operations targeting the assassination of Calyx Ward. None have succeeded." A crisp image resolved across Isolde's neural display: a Black man in his forties, jaw sharp as a chisel, expression carved from stone. His hair was cropped into a strict military crewcut, the kind soldiers wore in old recruitment posters. A scar cut diagonally from temple to cheek: old, healed, and unbothered.

"Redd is considered statistically resilient," Ourovane continued. "Projected cooperation probability: 38%. Projected hostility probability: 41%. Remaining percentages fall under 'unpredictable variables.'"

"Can you cut the shit with the percentages?" Isolde said. "The last thing I need is you hallucinating figures, pretending you understand a single thing about the human brain."

"Very well," Ourovane said. "Do be aware, however, that you may not succeed in your efforts to persuade him. I recommend following my protocol."

"Which is what exactly?"

"Tell him what I say," Ourovane replied.

Isolde chuckled. "Yeah. 'Jonas Redd, I am a friendly human woman with a statistically optimised request. Please do help me.'" She flattened her tone. "Sure, that will definitely have him jumping in his seat."

"I detect 23% sarcasm," Ourovane said.

"Again with the percentages," Isolde said under her breath, walking deeper into the market with her head down.

A red line generated in front of her, pointing the way towards Jonas Redd. She followed it, listening to the sound of synthwave music grow louder, watching people fight over God-knows-what, and doing her best to ignore the righteous stink of bottom-barrel capitalism. Ten minutes of dodging elbows, shoulders, and one drunk who nearly kissed the pavement with her help later, the line ended at an open stall selling black-market augments and funky-looking tech. A tarp drooped above them, marked by a hard, angry swipe of paint. The gentleman behind the stall looked exactly like the man in the image: Black with thinly shaved hair, wearing a jacket that had definitely seen many decades and perhaps one bar fight too many. He was running a ballpoint tweezer through an android arm, and he looked up at her as if she'd just interrupted a very important conversation he was having with himself.

"Yeah?" he said. Not rude, not even impolite. The word was as simple as he was.

"Are you Jonas Redd?" She could've run a quick-scan to be sure, but that came with risks: people tended to get jumpy when her eyes lit up blue.

"Yeah?" he said in the exact same register as before. "Can I help you with somethin'?"

"I heard you're a fixer," she said.

He went back to working on the arm. "Go away, kid. Don't believe every story people tell you."

Isolde didn't move, focusing on the arm instead. He noticed – of course he noticed – and sighed through his nose like a man who'd been sighing through his nose his entire life.

"That an Aegis-Frame X7 Exosleeve?" she asked.

"This?" he said, pointing to the arm. "What's it to you?"

"I used to design those arms myself," she said. "Techstrum-issue, right?"

He kept a steady eye on her, smirked, then leaned back on his chair. He called for someone – spoke so fast she never quite caught the name – and a moment later a woman with spiky hair came from the back. He told her to watch the stall while he was gone, stood up, then looked at Isolde and said: "You comin', mystery girl?"

She blinked a couple times before awkwardly following him into the stall and down a couple paces. It was a stock area with a wooden workbench lying flat at the centre. He brushed some scrap off the seat in front of it and told her to sit. He wheeled up a swivel to the other side, spun it around backwards, and climbed into it with his arms draped over the back, knees jutting out, looking at her over the top of the chair like a cop about to ask where she was the night of the twenty-third.

To which she would probably reply: Nowhere important. Because important places warranted important people, and that was half of her predicament.

Instead, he pulled out a package of menthol cigarettes and offered her one.

Of course, she rejected.

"So, you know my name," Jonas said. "Haven't told me yours, though I take it you must be someone special if you've worked for Techstrum. Probably have your pockets well-lined too, I hope."

"Money isn't a problem," she said, though not quite with as much confidence as she once had. "My name's Isolde Crane."

"Crane," he said, blowing smoke in her face. "That supposed to mean somethin'?"

"Probably not," she said. "I'm not exactly on any posters."

"Good," he said. "Posters usually come with bounty hunters, and I really hate bounty hunters. Ever heard of Adam Smoke?"

She shook her head. "Can't say I have."

"Legend calls him the executioner," he said. "Used to be sent out to deal with major threats in the city – cyberpsychos, specifically. Though now he's doing well as Ward's head of security in the Roxwell Plaza. Funny how life turns out for some people." Some silence. "But… I digress. You need a fixer, so here I am. What can I do for you, Crane?" He spoke her name with a dry sort of familiarity, like he'd already decided she was trouble and was just waiting to see what flavour.

"I need access to the Pavilion Complex in two weeks' time, the night of the ceremony," Isolde said.

"Can't do," Jonas said before she could explain further. "That place is only open to celebrities, staff, or general somebodies. And given that I've never heard your name till now, I'm willing to bet you're none of those things."

"I don't need you to get me into the Pavilion specifically," she explained. "I already have a route – through the drowned substation underneath. I need two things: a diving suit and someone to plant a fresh pair of clothes in the building. The rest I can handle."

A laugh. "Let me guess, you're trying to assassinate Calyx Ward?"

Before she could respond, Ourovane told her: "Do not reveal your intentions, and do not reveal that I exist within your system."

"No," Isolde said. "I'm not trying to assassinate her, but I do need to get close to her."

"Same problem, different shitstain," Jonas said. "If you swim through the abandoned substation, you'll have half an army waiting for you underneath. And I don't mean to be rude, but you sure don't look like you know the next thing about merc-work. Worse yet, if you fail, you'll lead straight back to me, and I'll have to move – again."

Before Isolde could fire back, Ourovane's voice slid into her neural like a cold fingertip down her spine. "Jonas Redd has relocated eighteen times in the last seven years," it said. "Four of those relocations occurred within forty-eight hours of a failed contract. One involved fleeing barefoot after a client attempted to detonate his shop. His longest stay in any one location is eleven months, twenty-six days. He also habitually sleeps sitting up due to a lumbar injury sustained in 2089. He is also in chronic debt and avoids contact with black-market gangs in the hope that he might not have to pay them back. But he recently received a message from a local broker, threatening his life unless he paid a hundred thousand eurodollars within the month."

Isolde thought that last part in particular could prove quite useful. "I know about your debt."

Jonas raised an eyebrow. "My debt?"

"You want a hundred thousand?" Isolde said. "I can give it to you. Seventy-five up front, the final twenty-five once the job is done."

He looked at her with wide eyes. "Lady," he said, rubbing a hand over his face, "I don't know who the hell you are, but nobody – and I mean nobody – carries that kinda cash down here unless they're tryna buy a small war. You expect me to believe you've got a hundred grand tucked under your coat?"

"I can transfer it," she said. "Quick, clean, cold. The money isn't dirty."

"I guess Techstrum workers are filthy rich," he said.

"Not everyone," she said – only the people that actually made a difference. "What do you say? You want to take your chances hiding somewhere else in Paxson, or do you want to let me take all the risk and give you enough money to save your life?"

"You have serious balls," he said, chuckling. "I like that." He stubbed his cigarette in an ashtray, whistled, and yelled, "Lucy." That was the name – the one she had called earlier.

The woman with spiky hair walked back from behind the curtain, wiping grease off her hands with a rag that looked like it had lived through several small industrial accidents. Isolde had a better view of her now. She was young – mid-twenties, maybe – and built like someone who could bench-press Jonas if the mood struck her. Her eyes, augmented with circular copper irises, flicked between the two of them with an expression that read Who's causing trouble and why is it always me?

"What is it?" she said.

"Got a client," Jonas said. "A real special one."

Lucy gave Isolde a once-over. "Special how?"

"Crazy," Jonas said. "And rich. Which is a rare combination and also my favourite kind. Help her out, would you?"

"Sure thing," she said happily.

Isolde wasted no time transferring the money across to Jonas, all seventy-five thousand. "There is one more thing I forgot to mention."

"Oh yeah? What's that?" Jonas said.

She folded her arms, looked at him with a smile, and asked very simply: "What kind of cyberware do you have?"