Harold Angel was in his late thirties with chocolate-brown hair that was destined to maintain its color well onto middle age and deep blue-green eyes. Through the organization of a morning jogging ‘club’ and evening jaunts around the block he was able to keep relatively trim and the weight set he had gotten for Christmas several years ago kept him fit. Regular outdoor play with his children kept him evenly tanned and helped to fade a tattoo on his forearm from his days serving in the military. It was no more than a blue splotch now, but he amused many people with the stories of what it might have been, how he had gotten it and other humorous details tailored to his audience.

Harold Angel loved children. He had no qualms about playing Santa and even learned how to make balloon animals to be a hit at the birthday parties. The best sleepovers happened at the Angel house, where bedtimes were strict but anything beforehand was fair play and as long as they were quiet they could stay up all night and still have a deluxe pancake breakfast the next morning (or afternoon, depending on when they finally decided to get up. Late sleepers got fresh food just the same as the early risers, regardless of the span of time between them).

Harold Angel was (to say the least) beloved by all who knew him.

Which is why on a balmy December morning when police raided his residence and arrested him on suspicion of multiple murders, the suburban community was rocked to its collective core with shock and disbelief. He was taken from his home in handcuffs under the escort of two officers and a smattering of media hounds that had picked up the police traffic. His face was slightly ashen; eyes tinged with red from being awoke in such an uncomfortable manner but he looked calm, almost stoic as he was helped into the back of a squad car.

Once the story officially broke the news stations went into frenzy: Here was a successful doctor, family man and well-liked suburbanite accused of butchering five people and leaving them to rot. None of the victims had any common trait that would link them together so, at first, they were chalked up to random killings, but an astute detective noticed something and had the bodies reexamined and found enough non-victim material to make a DNA match. Combined with a witness testimony identifying Angel leaving the scene with blood on his hands and a positive match from a sample lifted from his office was enough for an arrest warrant and subsequent trial.

The prosecution declared it a classic slam-dunk case in an interview on the courthouse steps after jury selection had been completed. The media ate it and any other tidbits it was flung up like a kid scarfing down McDonalds French fries. The news outlets had started referring to him as the Suburbanite Strangler, never mind that each of the supposed victims had been eviscerated in a most gruesome manner.

Harold Angel appeared in court each day in a dark blue business suit with a red-and-blue-striped tie his children had given to him last Christmas. The tie tack he wore was a tiny golden cross with a faux-diamond set at the intersection. He listened to testimony with a neutral stare, as if he wasn’t completely coherent or nothing that was said held any interested to him. It was noted that every so often he would make a note on a yellow legal pad and show it to his defense attorney who would nod or shake his head and go back to watching the testimony.

After two weeks of testimony and evidence the prosecution rested. What happened next sent the media into a frenzy that made the previous look like mere convulsive spasms.

The defense had unearthed evidence that the hotshot detective on the case had planted the DNA samples used to place Angel at the scene. It came to light that the only son of the detective had died under the care of Angel despite his best efforts to save him. The detective, broken by the loss of his child had began to think that the doctor’s ‘best efforts’ weren’t exactly such and had slowly-but-surely devised a plan to make sure the lunatic (the detective’s own words) would never be able to harm anyone again. The detective (who’s name was a surprisingly generic Donald Smith) took steps to insure that Angel was linked to the five bodies when only one of them might have actually been his doing. All physical evidence that was cataloged by the detective (read: everything) was rendered inadmissible, though the testimony for the one body was found not to be coerced and was counted as still in play.

With the only evidence linking Angel to four of the five bodies barred from appearing in court, those charges were dropped. The fifth case, however, continued forward. More evidence was presented as it was unearthed and it looked as if Harold Angel was heading straight for the injection seat on Death Row.

On December 31st Harold Angel was called to the stand.

The testimony, now sealed, was described as ‘captivating’, ‘moving’ and other adjectives that meant he managed to mold the jury as easily as a sculptor molded putty. He was, as he testified, only trying to save the woman as she lay with her throat cut and gasping for air. The blood on his hands was due to an impromptu attempt to staunch the flow, only he was too late: She died seconds later and he went to call the police. He would have used his cell phone but it had been stolen two days before (the defense presented a police report stating such), so he tried to locate a payphone. There were no 911 calls because he managed to find a patrol car and lead them to the body.

Witnesses testifying to Angel’s character and moral standing lined up by the dozens. Each resident of the subdivision told moving stories attesting to the generosity, kindness and absolute disbelief that Harold Angel could do any of the crimes he was accused of. Only after the thirteenth such witness did the judge finally call it to a halt and stipulate that everyone that Dr Angel had come across in his life thought that he was a ‘stand up guy’ and that it was no longer necessary to continue with the parade. After a few more testimonies the defense rested and the jury went into deliberation. Character witnesses notwithstanding it still looked like Dr. Angel was going to get the needle.

It took ten days of deliberation until a surprise ‘not guilty’ verdict came down.

Not one hour later Harold Angel’s name was put on the List.

After the trial the press hounded Harold Angel until the pundits found someone else to latch on to and drain of anything remotely interesting. Once the media had retreated he attempted to resume a normal life and found it easier than most: Those that had once been his friends continued to be so and only a handful of patients transferred out of his care. He stepped down from the subdivision board and moved to assistant coach of the little league team and stopped hosting sleepovers, but otherwise picked up where he had left off.

Nathan sat in the first floor of a house in Harold Angel’s subdivision with a clear view of the man’s front door through a window opened to the cold night air. He had a chair pressed against the opposite wall and a small folding card table to rest his arms on.

The rifle in front of him was a run-of-the-mill, bolt-action .308. The stock was black synthetic, studded for grip and a cheek rest that you could fall asleep on. Mounted on top of the combat-blued barrel was a Leopold scope that cost more than the average person made in a month and came complete with all the bells and whistles necessary for shooting at night. Nathan checked again to make sure that a round was chambered, fiddled with something on the scope and sat back down to wait for Dr. Harold Angel to home from his jog.

He almost missed him.

Harold Angel came jogging up his driveway, a thin sheen of sweat visible on his forehead against the moonlight. He stopped next to his car, checked his pulse and did a few warm-down stretches before climbing up the stairs to his house. A hand went into his pocket as he dug for his house key.

Nathan’s thumb flicked the safety and brought the rifle to bear, centering the diamond on the head of The Lord’s Priority.

“May God have mercy on your soul.”

Harold Angel stopped, turned, looked straight down the scope and grinned. When his lips moved it felt as if he was standing right next to the priest and whispering in his ear:

Oh it’s a bit too late for that…

Nathan jerked his head around just as the scope cracked and exploded, a dull thud that sent shards of tempered glass stinging at his face and burying themselves into his clothing. If he hadn’t propped himself up against the rear wall he would have fallen over backwards. Instead he dropped off the chair sideways and he began to claw the glass from his cheek, leaving the gun to rest on the folding table.

Harold Angel chuckled and went in his house to take a shower.

Once he made sure that he wasn’t blind and none of the glass had struck anywhere serious Nathan leaned against the wall and rubbed his face. In all the years of doing God’s work something like that had never happened. Ever.

He was going to need more than a bullet.

Everything looked smaller, as if he could reach out through the glass and suddenly come away with a 1:16 scale replica of any of the cars or a pose-able doll of the same ratio. He watched the lights change at the intersection and traffic proceed in an orderly fashion. He saw people cross the streets in herds or as individuals that darted out into what they though was a wide enough gap in the near-constant stream of motor vehicles. Every so often an ambulance would shoot past the intersection, lights ablaze. It was interesting to watch, from the patient’s vantage point, the sea of cars part to make way for the service vehicle. It was even more grabbing when it was a fire truck or a string of police cars that parted the sea.

His attention was moved away from the window by the squeaking of the curtain on its track as it was pulled aside. Idly he wondered if that was something the manufacturers intentionally added to make it so that doctors couldn’t sneak up on their patients. The doctor wasn’t carrying his clipboard and seemed to be having trouble finding something to do with his hands.

While the doctor collected his thoughts the patient folded their arms on his lap, ignoring the medical tape that held his IV in place on his arm. Long ago he had phased out the sounds of the monitoring equipment and the chirping and the patient only noticed them when they did something unexpected. Taking a cue from his patient the doctor linked his hands in front of him and for a moment it looked as if he was shielding his crotch from some blow that was soon incoming.

“You have a visitor.”

“Do they know me?”

“Yes, but I’ll let her introduce herself.”

“Alright.”

The doctor left and, after what had to be a brief exchange between the medical professional the visitor the curtain parted again and a woman stepped demurely in.

“Hello.”

“You don’t recognize me, do you?”

A pause.

“No… but the doctors told me that I had been in a car accident and that memory loss was common with the head trauma I suffered. Apparently I was a mess when they brought me in.”

“You still have two black eyes.”

“I probably do. Who are you?”

“I’m your wife.”

Another pause.

“I’m a very lucky man. How long have we been married?”

“Eleven years.”

“That long? Was it a good marriage?”

“We had some ups and downs.”

“Was I… a good husband? Good man?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I don’t think you’d be here if I was some sort of bastard.”

“What do you remember?”

“You know… everyone has asked me that, usually about once an hour. I think they’re trying to figure out if more of my memory is coming back. Not that I mind, though. I snuck a glance at my progress notes and it looks like my memory is returning, albeit slowly.”

“So what do you remember?”

“They told me that someone saw me slip and fall in front of a car and most of my upper body connected with the front of it. Apparently I went spinning through the air and landed in a heap, unconscious, but I don’t remember any of it. What I do remember is waking up in an ambulance with someone shining a very bright light in my face and asking if I knew where I was or what day it was. I knew it was an ambulance because it was exactly what ambulances were supposed to look and feel like: cramped, lots of locked drawers and equipment that went beep or hiss or something else. I didn’t know what day it was but when I tried to say something I got such a jolt of pain that I passed out. Apparently my jaw had become dislocated and the act of opening my mouth had popped it back into place but it’s so painful that I went under again.”

The patient stopped talking for a moment to take a sip from a Styrofoam cup with tiny chips of ice floating in the cool water.

“Because I had a concussion they couldn’t risk knocking me out, so they pumped me full of drugs to dull the pain and went to work. It’s very strange watching surgeons work on a body that you’re fairly sure is yours but you can’t feel anything. After they stitched me up and bandaged my head they sent me up here, where I’ve been for three days, all of which I remember perfectly.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

The woman looked very uncomfortable for a moment and the patient frowned.

“Do we… do I have kids?”

“Two. One boy, three and one girl, five.”

“Are they here?”

“Not today.”

“Could I see them?”

She studied him for a very long time.

“Tomorrow. They’re at school today.”

“Tomorrow is the weekend? Saturday?”

“Yes.”

At this point the doctor re-entered the room and gave a polite cough. The patient turned and smiled pleasantly while the woman who said she was the patient’s wife looked away.

“I hate to cut this short but …”

“It’s alright,” said the wife, “I was just leaving.”

She left, trailing an awkward silence in her wake.

“This hurts her, doesn’t it?” asked the patient.

“I would assume so.”

“I hope my memory comes back.”

“For your sake, so do I.”

The military is responsible for some of the most ingenious (and deadly) inventions of modern times. If left alone long enough, those minds in the government-sponsored killing trade can come up with devices that will not only obliterate all life within x miles, but will render the region uninhabitable for the better part of a century. Fortunately the military used to listen to the general populace and such weapons were swiftly decommissioned. Anyone caught with a weapon of mass destruction after the Age of Disarmament was deemed mentally unstable and immediately usurped in a sponsored coup d’État. Naturally, this was the basis for several creative mistakes that resulted in the execution of several people that did not, in fact, possess total-solution weaponry but were on many “Better off…” (dead) lists.

Once total annihilation passed from the military vocabulary and mindset, they turned their focus on what was to be termed ‘monetary warfare’. The concept was simple: A dead solder doesn’t cost the enemy anything. Keeping a wounded solider alive in the hopes that they would be able to return to combat quickly became an expensive endeavor if a proper treatment could not be found. Therefore, the military minds charged their biological ‘services’ department to develop a means of disarming the enemy without actually blowing them to their constituent elements and saving the terrain for other possible applications. The key was ‘non-lethal but with stopping power’.

They developed a nano-molecular virus, coded: Spasm.

Spasm, which is highly illegal to privately own, functions similar to the neurotoxin tetanospasmin (it is also where the chemical got its “street name”) that produces the muscle-freezing condition known as tetanus (or lock jaw). When Spasm is introduced into the bloodstream it causes near-instanteanous muscle lock. The strongest muscle groups determinte what shape the tetany takes, although the virus does not contort the body in such a way as to cause any bone fractures. Due to the mechanical-virual nature of Spasm, there is no way to flush it out of the system before the cultures die in six months. Nanite technology has been known to allow limited movement, but the combatting virus and microscopic machines is said to cause great pain to the infected.

The military, upon discovering this wonderfully complicated way to induce a ‘credit funnel’ into the enemy treasurey, instantly labeled the creation Top Secret, prompted the scientests responsible, and then had them executed to prevent the technology from being leaked to other countries. There is one facility that currently manufacturs Spasm in dart form (other methods of delivery are null. Gas being too indescriminate and injection being too impractical), and it is one of the most heavily guarded facilities on earth.

The warehouse that stores the deadly darts, however, is not guarded nearly as well.

[ section I ]

If one is going to steal from the military, the best time to try is during a thunderstorm. In order to allow movement and flexability, most body armor came in several pieces that left space at the joints. Rain seemed to seek out these areas and bore in with their coldest drops, forcing the ground troops to stay under cover and make their patrols with quick steps. Rain also destroys footprints in the mud, masks most loud noises and offers prime concealement.

The rain bucketed down, soaking the normally muddy walkways into a thick sticking sludge with pools of water that could easily sink an unprepared man up to his knees and require several hours of effort to become free. One of the soldiers patrolling the warehouse had a muddy stain that came up to his boot line, a clear indicator that this ‘highly trained killing machine’ had fallen prey to a deep puddle. He stepped quickly around the building and it was possible to hear a soft squelching noise every time he stepped with his right foot. Apparently it had happened recently and there would be much prodding at the trooper’s expense when he completed his patrol.

Lighting flashed and thunder boomed, causing the trooper to swing around. The .144 Parker carbines he carried was the military’s finest achievement in death dealing by bulk. It carried a 30-round magazine was loaded with rocket propelled explosive ammunition, and a trooper could cut a medium sized tree in half with two waves of their weapon. The top of the weapon was littered with electronics including a mini-Doppler and a pinpoint laser sight. Due to the ‘point and click’ nature of the weapon, a scope was included and activated only when the carbine was shifted to single-shot mode. Needless to say it was a rare sight to see a line trooper shooting only one round at a time.

Another bolt of lighting illuminated the sky and causes his optics to dim until the world was a deep green. He watched the line trooper round the corner out of sight and began counting softly. When he reached the right number he stood from his crouch behind the foliage and sprinted toward the fence.

Thunder rumbled as he skated across the muddy ground and leapt over the fence with his leg-servos humming softly. He cleared the barbed wire by inches and landed with a skidding step before the stabilizers kicked him upright. He ran a few paces, gathered himself and leapt again. He landed on the roof and pressed himself against the slanted metal to avoid slipping back down into the mud. The seconds ticked by and he remained motionless. His internal chronometer beeped and he heard the quick footsteps of the guard pass under him. The guard did not notice the stirred ground, as he kept his eyes on his boots and rounded the corner in an almost-jog.

As the guard’ slushy footsteps faded into the rain he began to slowly slither up the slanting roof. Once he was at the apex he took a small cutting torch from a pocket and sliced a tiny hole in the roof.

The inside of the warehouse wasn’t lit, so he slid a small tube-cam into the hole and spun it. He found what he was looking for about five meters toward the back so he withdrew the camera, sealed the hole with a water resistant epoxy, and slid quietly across the roof. Twice he set his hand in a slick section that almost sent him tumbling down the side and to the ground (no doubt into the lab of one of the patrols), but each time he managed to snag the point of the roof and pull himself back.

The second time he cut the hole a bit larger and peered down to find himself above a dumpster that contained packaging material. He rummaged around in his pack and produced a small rectangular device that was coated in black rubber. It was a screamer specifically keyed to the most common military frequencies, but unless the unit was active there was no way to detect the unit unless you were standing right on top of it as it went off. He attached the screamer to a string and lowered it to the bin. He had to jiggle it a few times before he finally raised the unit and cut the string. The force of the fall caused it to be buried well enough that a casual search wouldn’t uncover it.

He sealed the hole and rolled on to his back. From inside the coverall he produced a small oblong box with a control on once of the large faces. He thumbed the control and suppressed a grin.

Instantly every alarm in the warehouse began to sound. The building rumbled as the giant doors were thrown wide and the shouts of the soldiers echoed off the cold metal walls. He could hear their footsteps as they pounded across the concrete and the sickening click of weapons being taken off safety.

It took fifteen minutes before they were satisfied that the building was secure.

He waited for one minute after the doors had been completely resealed before triggering the screamer again and was rewarded with another thumping of boots, shouting of orders and a quick sweep. The guarded (he learned later) carried biometric scanners that could detect any living thing larger than a rat that may be hiding in the emitting beam. The only problem with biometrics is the fact that they are unidirectional. Scanning back and forth operated the unit, but it was useless if the person was hiding above the scan range (on, say, the roof). Intervening metal was also known to fog the readings on the other side.

On the third activation he heard the guards:

“Just turn it off! It’s probably a short from the damned storm. It’s not like anyone’s gonna walk off with uniforms!”

When he tried the control a fourth time he was greeted with silence. He shoved the control in his pocket and unsealed the hole. When it was first cut, he had made sure it was large enough to squeeze through, but not large enough to be noticed if someone were to look at the rooftop.

He slithered through the hole and hung for a moment, allowing the optics to adjust to the darkness. When the world illuminated itself in a hazy green he began to swing back and forth. Once sufficient momentum had built up he launched himself across to a large grid-like plasteel rack that contained five rows from floor to ceiling of bar-coded boxes. The magnetics triggered as his hands and feet touched the metal cross-grid and he adhered to the rack with a soft clang. Carefully he inched his way down the formed plasteel and dropped quietly to the floor.

[ section II ]

There were IR reflectors on either side of the aisle, but they were dark. Normally if the beam was interrupted, the alarm would trigger and whoever was still inside would be hamburger. He disabled the magnetics in his gloves and adjusted the optics again, enhancing the readout and gazing at a small set-screen on his arm. He pressed a button and the building overlay flashed over his ‘third eye’. A static red dot indicated his position and a blinking dot indicated what he had broken in to this installation for.

He clicked the display off and jogged between the tall walls of discolored boxed and expanded plasteel. When he reached the end he found himself in a ‘main road’ that was twice the length of the aisles. It ran in an east/west direction (from his facing) and every two meters or so the corridor branched off into another aisle similar to the one he was standing in. He took another reading, moved over one row and continued on, his feet making quiet plash-ing noises as he jogged.

At the end of the aisle he came to a solid wall of boxes that represented the end of the building. The sounds of the storm came through the wall and his temp gauge told him that there was a hole in the surface of the wall that allowed cold air to penetrate the otherwise warm warehouse.

The readout beeped quietly and he checked the chronometer. He noted the time and started to walk to his left, watching the two dots draw closer together. When they were right on top of each other his wrist beeped softly and the lights died. He found himself in an alcove where the walls and ceiling were made of racks stuck full of boxes. Sitting in the center of the rooftop cubicle there was a small desk, atop which sat a laptop. The desk was made of presses plasteel and the draws (three to a side) were print-sealed and probably wired with a high-rez screamer.

He sat tailor-style in front of the drawers on the left side and dug in the sleeve that contained the wrist-comp. From inside the dark material he produced a small wire and slid it under the thumb scanner. His wrist comp beeped and a flood of numbers lit the screen.

Technology, like most human-made contraptions, has its limits. An automobile is only as maneuverable as it’s driver allows, a computer can only run programs that are written by it’s operator and a thumbprint scanner can be worked around without having to cut anyone’s finger off or going through the tedious process of print collection and duplication.

The numbers flowed over the screen for a few cycles and then abruptly stopped. The indicator light on the printpad shifted from green to red and beeped quietly. There was a startlingly loud sound as the locks disengaged and the draws popped open. The noise echoed twice before it died and he pressed himself against the wall of boxes, frozen and sonics tuned to the sound of the door at the far end sliding open. When no one came he began opening the drawers.

All three of the drawers contained files and useless datasheets. There was a pass coded pad that probably contained inventory information for the warehouse, so he tossed it back and went on to the set of drawers on the other side of the desk.

They yielded more of the same.

He sat back on the cool concrete floor and sighed. This was where his information said the replicable sample was stored but it wasn’t there. Suddenly his eyes lit and he had to stifle a grin.

The military, in its own way, can be decently intelligent when it wants to be. There was an example back in the 20th century regarding a supposed ‘top secret’ installation in the desert that was once the state of Nevada. The government made a big deal about this place, posting guards and signs, ferrying personnel in unmarked jetliners, and generally making a big deal out of the fact that no one was supposed to know what was going on. People tried to penetrate the borders, but they were all quickly detained and subsequently charged with trespassing on ‘federal lands’. There were also several carefully fabricated reports that were ‘leaked’ from time to time in order to keep the curious public pointed in that direction.

When the United States succeeded in collapsing under its own weight, the doors to the Nevada facility (coded: Area 51) were thrown open and everyone leapt through the fences to find: Nothing. No aliens, no secret spy craft, nothing. All of this time and money was spent keeping attention from a secret lab that was buried under what used to be known as New York that eventually self-destructed and was revealed to the world anyway.

He got up from his sitting position and ran a hand between the drawers. After a moment he found a small stud and pressed it, hearing a click and watching a panel behind the desk slide away to reveal an unlit corridor.

[ section III ]

He made his way down the slim hallway with his optics turned to max. The half-light from behind him made the whole place glow with a neon green. There were refractor panels that resembled the IR detection system in the warehouse, and they were also dark.

Leave it to the military to use one system for the whole building.

The hallway, which was more like a two-meter long hole, opened quickly into a room cramped with equipment. There was a comset in the corner that was chattering away on the guard channel. Since he couldn’t hear it from the other side of the wall, it was safe to assume that the room was both shielded and masked against all forms of detection. There was a set of filing cabinets that looked to be unlocked set against one side of the cubicle and another desk that resembled the one outside pressed into the other. The walls that turned into the hallway were blank, but he noticed a wicked set of silenced auto-guns nestled in the corner. His reflexes took over and he jumped back down the hallway. It took a split second to realize that the guns were probably linked to the security system, and until they decided to turn it back on he was in no danger of being shot.

He crossed to the desk and rolled his eyes: There was a print-lock mechanism, but it was only one of the drawers. With a quick motion he unhooked the cable and set it up to the wrist-comp. There was a flurry of numbers that took a little longer to disengage the lock than before, which meant the programming on this little thing was more complex. It beeped after a full minute had elapsed and the drawer popped open with a dull thud.

Inside there was a pressed ferrofoam box that read:

Tetanospasmin Concentrate (Spasm)
Do Not Inject – Ingest
! Handle with Care !

He grinned, stuffed the package in his coverall and pushed the drawer shut until the lock reactivated. He had just turned to leave when the guard-net chimed in.

[ Guard, report. ]

[ Still rainin', Com. Though I think the thunder's dyin' down a bit. O'er. ]

[ Do you think there's a risk of a short anymore? ]

[ No sir. ]

[ Reactivate the system. Ack and follow. ]

[ Acknowledged, Com. O'er'n'out. ]

Shit.

He sprinted out of the room, squeezed down the hallway and leapt over the desk. He had left it blocking the doorway to alert him if anyone had moved it, but it turned out to be more trouble than it was worth. He banged his knee on the desk as he jumped and almost crashed. The stabilizers whined as he spun and stabbed the button under the desk. There was a pause while he waited for the door to start closing and then he sprinted down the aisle.

The sonics picked up one of the guards opening the door and chattering to his friend. He didn’t pick up the words, but used the sounds to gauge how long he had until the system was reactivated. He knew the control box was twenty paces from the door and it took the system five seconds to run a diagnostic and then fire up.

He figured he had half a minute.

The servos clicked and hummed as he keyed them for extra speed as he shot down the aisle. He reached the intersection and almost jogged in the wrong direction. He corrected his mistake by leaping, which almost took him past the right corridor. With his optics turned at their intensity, he could see the light pouring from the cracks of his man-made vent like the rays of a brightnova. He crouched down and leapt, listing to his repellors kick in to give him enough boost to put him at the top line of boxes. He skidded to a halt and was grateful that they contained something hard. Not one box fell under his feet. The jumps always made him disoriented, so it took him a split second to relocated the hole. Gathering himself, he lunged and caught the edge of the manhole. The force of his movement popped the temp-stick material and allowed him to push the cover off.

The countdown inside his head ended just as he pulled himself through and back into the rain. He felt the building hum and could see the infrared lines of the screamer system course through the corridor directly below.

The rain-slick metal roof felt cold (and therefore, good) against his skin. He felt sweat run down his forehead and into his optics, and even though the rain swept it away quickly, he had to wipe his lens to keep it from fogging. With a quick head movement he disabled his optics and the world plunged from neon green to a dull, faded color version.

There was a guard passing under him. He waited until they had gone around the corner before dropping off and sprinting across the yard. He cleared the fence in a jump and landed softly on the other side. As he jogged he became aware of the box that was nestled in a padded pocket inside his coverall. He had the mix, but he didn’t know if it was possible to replicate. That meant he had to ration it out or not use it at all until he could find a chem-brain that was good enough to unravel what the militant scientists had done.

He’d done enough for tonight. Sleep on it and figure the rest of the shit out later.

[ end transmit ]

Out in the Ether, a call/connect was initiated. It passed through the normal protocols and then through several that the telecommunications company would love to disable or use for themselves. The black protocols stripped the id coding and bounced the relay through a dozen different switches before completing the circuit. It would result in a time lag of less than a half a second on either end, but the connection was much more private.

There were other safeguards as well:

For instance: the line was voice only. Video telephony had revolutionized the world when it came into widespread use, but for those who relied on being faceless it was a nuisance. Normally one would simply turn off the monitor if one wished to hide their face from prying eyes, but lately the powers that be seemed to be able to turn on the transmitters of certain (read: any set they damned well wanted) sets without the knowledge of the person sitting in front of the lens. This made for several embarrassingly simple convictions that bolstered the morality and chest-thumping ability of the local cools.

Hence, there was no video codec.

Second, the line was proofed against hijacking. Everyone nowadays seemed to have their telephone in their head, and the likelihood of someone ‘hacking your brain’ has increased exponentially since the inception of the com-link. It was embarrassing (to say the least) situation when someone made you, say, masturbate in public and spray the results on the local law enforcement officer because you forgot to protect your head.

Third, any incoming calls were automatically scrambled and distorted. This gave the caller a voice that sounded not unlike a robot that was gargling and it gave voice-recognition software a run for its money. If the program listened for long enough they might be able to decode the voice patters, but it rarely happened. Every two-and-a-half cycle the line was flossed and any programs piggybacking were automatically cut. Also, if either party happened to be recording the conversation, a toneless voice would indicate that it was so and instantly sever the connection.

Depending on the nature of the call the person doing the recording might expect to receive a headache from a very large caliber at a very long distance.

The connection completed.

[ I have a request. ]

The caller waited a cycle and, when the connection remained open, took the initiative and continued. They quickly explained what they wanted and what they were willing to pay. It was a rumor that one had to talk fast or interest would quickly die along with the connection and any hopes of repeat patronage. It wasn’t true, but no one had ever said anything to the contrary so they said what they had to say with as few syllables as they could use and still get their request across the ether. Storytellers had perfected the process of circular breathing, but the fast-talkers of the criminal element had honed it in to an art form.

There was a pause after they had finished. They were about to discom when a flat mechanical voice named a number that was slightly higher than the original offered. It was not an outrageous number and, to their credit, recognized that it was a non-negotiable number as well. They made their agreement known by transferring that number (in currency) into a banking protocol layered with so many tests and turns it resembled a snake that, once it had been suitably knotted, was tossed into a dryer-din and set to hyperspin.

The connection was severed after the transaction had, presumably, been verified.

[ section II ]

The target location was a house in one of the nicer parts of the city. Its owner possessed enough currency and influence to possess an actual yard that was maintained not by an army of maintenance dins but by (poorly paid) low-levels.

In this Age of Automation, robots did most menial labor and the majority of the basic needs (food, water, electrical power) were provided at little or no cost to the consumer. Maintenance dins patrolled the streets and took care of the majority of the trash (in the districts where the officials could be bribed, of course), food servers vended bland but nutritious supplements to the general populace and manufacturing centers turned out low-cost consumer goods all day every day with minimal intervention.

Human manual labor was neither cost-effective nor particularly efficient. The cost of keeping the help alive could quickly drain even the deepest pockets. The union giants of the 20th century had been dissolved violently by the strongmen of the corporate sector, so the term ‘safe working conditions’ didn’t exist. Most servants (read: slaves) were kept in conditions that were sub-par and polished just before they would interact with the outside world. They were poorly paid (if at all) and treated like luggage. Since everyone had access to firearms, it was a rare sight to see someone mistreating their slaves in a physical manor or in a way that might breed discontent and hatred, but it wasn’t a picnic by any stretch of the imagination.

The author Robert Heinlein said it best: “An armed society is a polite society.”

The house itself was a two-story expanded hardfoam monstrosity that was painted to resemble old clay bricks, complete with the climbing vines that adorned some of the more arcane structures in the Historical District. There were windows facing the street on both levels, as well as windows facing the rear and the alleyways on either side. They were constructed of shatterproof dencris that could be dialed from transparency to opacity at the thumbing of a switch. They even had stylized shutters shaded to match the reddish coloring of the brick overlays.

Despite appearances, the house did have a slew of modern amenities. Aside from the land care dins the ground had pressure sensors underneath the sod that triggered overlapping zap fields. Anything heavier than a few kilograms would tripper a mean set of overlapping zap-fields that would render anyone unconscious long enough for the cools to rear their piggish heads.
The criminal element was always careful not to involve the local law enforcement, regardless of their location. The ‘boys in blue’, as they had been called long ago, had a nasty tendency to shoot first and examine the remains to answer any questions.

Aside from the deadly landscaping there were a dozen cameras that ran swing-swing with overlapping fields of view. They were hardwired with screamers that automatically called for the cools if they were tampered with. Everything on the outside of the house was rigged to notify the authorities. Either this person put more faith in law enforcement than was healthy or they had bribed some very high officials in the right places.
For all intents and purposes, the house looked impenetrable. However, if one had been in the business long enough, one knew that with a little work you could get into anywhere. It was getting out alive that took skill.

It had taken less than a week and a surprisingly small amount of bribery to find out this information. The deactivation codes for the security network took just under an hour.

[ section III ]

Down in the basement of this fake-brick monstrosity there was a tiny grate that emptied directly into the storm drain, allowing any flood waters to drain of their own accord (floods were a rare occurrence, but they were still quite damaging when they did happen). The opening and the actual pipe were no more than twenty centimeters in diameter, so squeezing through into the house was out of the question. However, it was possible to slip a microdin into the water supply and have it climb out to scout the house.

Two houses away there was a car parked in the driveway of another house. No one paid any attention, because the car was the exact same model and color that the owner possessed and it also bore a registration tag that was forged well enough to fool anyone but a passing cool that was scan-happy and looking for something to ticket.
Fortunately a private security force that was dangerous once properly motivated, but very slow to take action, managed this sector.

He sat in the passenger seat of the overly expensive but functionally dead luxury car with his eyes closed and his hands resting on his legs. The decision to sit in the passenger side was one of necessity: If he had to leave the vehicle in a hurry, there was no steering column to block the way. A thin wire ran from a data port at the inside of his wrist to a transmitter mounted inconspicuously near the rear windshield. His hand twitched every so often in response to the live-feed of the din that was slowly making its way up the storm pipe. It wasn’t necessary to move in order to manipulate the din, but sometimes the occasional twitch slipped through the interface. Most operators were found to react reflexively when presented with any stimulus that might be considered startling.

The bug emerged from the storm drain and it’s micro-eyes focused briefly in attempt to compensate for the complete darkness of the basement. Its eyes transmitted a fisheye picture that took a few moments to adjust to. Size distortion was something that, no matter how many times it was experienced, sent the senses of the unprepared reeling. The bot was just the size of a thumbtack, most of which was used for the pressure hammer mounted on the underside that could replicate the force needed to, say, push a button on a touchpad.
A mental command sent the miniscule bug skittering across the floor and up the stairs with minimal effort. The grip pads on the feet were pseudo-magnetic and coated with a substance that had enough suction and let-go to let the din cling to any surface like a real insect. They made this particular model with wings, but the distorted imagery and the sense of airsickness made it a less popular choice for naturalists, technical pranksters and (of course) thieves.

Once it reached the top of the stairs it slid under the doorframe and bolted across the soft pseudo-wool carpet. The carpet was thick and anyone that knew the manufacture knew that it was always warm and easy on the feet. It was dyed a hideous shade of purple (patches of moonlight made their way through the window to reveal the god-awful color) with green spirals woven ‘tastefully’ throughout. The walls were off-white and decorated with wall hangings, the details of which were obscured by the lack of light. They probably were pictures of the family (if there was any to be had) as well as several examples of ‘interpretative’ art that was becoming popular in the richer and stuffy parts of society.

The mechanical limbs of the bug-bot clicked softy as it bolted across the carpet, through two rooms and to the front door. Without stopping it scaled the wall and came to a stop just below a dark pad. The bot stepped carefully into the pad and the vision went dark as the polarizer’s compensated for the sudden influx of electric blue light.

The pad contained the numbers one through nine and two symbols that represented ‘execute’ and ‘cancel’ respectively. They were arranged in a rectangle that was three across and four down. Once the pad was activated it would take more than the footsteps of the tiny bot to accidentally activate any of the numbers.

It climbed slowly across the pad and the tiny press-hammer came down on the appropriate numbers. It was time consuming, because the hammer had to be positioned directly over the number, and if there was any overlap, neither key would register and there was a distinct possibility that this system included the Three Strike Rule: You had to enter the correct code within three tries or the system would scream and bring every cool within the district to break down the door.
It took two tries to enter the correct code, but the tiny sound of the security grid powering down was well worth the frustration.

[ section IV ]

The system was still powering down as he reached the door, and he was forced to stand out in the street for an extra three seconds before the door latch disengaged and allowed him into the yard. He crossed the soft man-maintained yard in several quick strides as he triggered his shift-suit. Normally he would have kept the background-matching garment activated for the entire jaunt, but the street was well lit and it was possible that someone would notice a shadow sprinting across the street with no body to attach it to. Something like that would warrant a call to the cools for sure.

The shift-suit was a relatively new technology that was developed for spy-branch of the military. The suit contained a viral molecular computer that matched any background it was presented with in one-quarter of a second. It produced a semi-strobe image if the person moving quickly (the effect resembled one of the older flatvids of the 1990s), but if the person remained stationary it was nearly impossible to detect them without the aid of thermal imaging.

He didn’t expect anyone to have an infrared camera pointed at the house, so the thermal-reflective armor was left behind. It made the already warm suite almost unbearably hot and offered next to no protection if the target happened to be armed.

By the time the door was opened and the spookeyes were slipped into place the shift-suit had matched and rendered him almost invisible. He slipped in through the front door and carefully closed it behind him. There were many tales of thieves that failed to close the door behind them and were caught by a curious passer-by that had seen something they shouldn’t have.

As he passed down the hallway he paused to pluck the bug from the wall and stashed it into one of the pouches on the suit. He made his way as quietly as possible down to the hallway and to the room the building plans had identified as the study.

The room was dark, though a beam of square shaped light came through the filtered dencris window and provided just enough illumination to render the spookeyes a little less than useful. He slid the fiber-optic enhancers up over his head and started to run his hand behind a picture on the wall. The building plans had been rendered in 3-D and were incredibly detailed. Not only did he know that there was a safe hidden behind this picture, but also there was a screamer attached to the frame. If someone were to pull the picture away without disabling the screamer, they would be rendered deaf and possibly bleeding by a high-spec sonic emitter that was aimed in the general area around the picture frame.

Peeling the wire from the bottom of the frame and applying a let-go solvent to the unit to allow it to slide off without triggering the deadly sound waves and let the picture be removed. It was a picture of someone’s relative posing in a uniform from a military branch that had been decommissioned years ago. The picture was essentially worthless but even if it had some value, he was known not to steal what wasn’t requested. More than one potential pilferer had been caught with merchandise they chose to relive outside of the contract. The fewer items missing, the smaller the chance someone would notice the crime and the later it got reported to the cools.

He tugged the picture from the wall and set it carefully to one side before turning to look at the safe. There was a pause and then a soft chuckle. In an age of digital and computer-based locking technology, this person relied on an old tumbler-style combination lock. The fingear (a form of bionic ear, the microphone of which is mounted on a digit of either hand) turned on with a press of a stud located on his palm under the skin and a soft beep. He pressed the sensitive microphone to the metal and began to turn the wheel. The click-click-clack of the tumbles echoed painfully in his head before the regulators cut in and reduced the noise to a more manageable level. Left, then right, then left and there was a final heavy click as the lock disengaged.
It took him a total of six minutes to clear the house. One to get what he came for and reseal the safe, two to make his way to the door, one to program the security system to reactivate after the gate to the property closed, and two more to make it to the car, load up and drive slowly out of the section.

Too easy, but he was thankful for the smaller niceties.

[ section V ]

The exchange point was a run-down, single-level hotel on the outskirts of the city. It was a place that still utilized a non-holographic form of neon to indicate vacancy and keys to lock the doors. The rooms were smallish single bed setups with a table and chairs that were painted to resemble artificial wood. A single nightstand sat next to the bed and a pair of fake-gold-plated lamps (one on the table, one on the nightstand) provided the only illumination. There was an entrance to a fresher that contained a toilet and a standup shower that needed to be cleaned, and a large window with a thick shade looked out over the parking lot.

The contact came into the room and picked up the package that was neatly wrapped on the bed. A figure sat in a dingy chair with one leg crossed over the other and a flickstick smoldering in the ashtray. The smoke from the narcotic cigarette smelled of burnt cashews and did little to diffuse the smell of stale sex and illegal chemicals that had long ago permeated the yellowed walls. The man hefted the package and looked the man in the chair. The light was arranged in such a way as to leave his face covered in shadows, but that was part of the deal. The contact wore a skinmask as per the deal. It was common knowledge that a man couldn’t spill what he didn’t know, and it was never a bad investment to be too careful.

“Is this it?” the man asked.

The figure in the chair didn’t answer, so the man continued:

“You know,” he drawled, “your work is as good as your reputation. I’ve been monitoring the police ban and you’re little excursion hasn’t been reported to the cools. He probably hasn’t even looked in his safe. You’re good. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”

The man turned to leave, but stopped with his hand on the door. He turned around and revealed a gun to the figure in the chair. It was held steady and a single red dot appeared on the sitting man’s chest.

“Too bad you’ve been muscling in on my turf. Normally I don’t do this kind of thing myself, but since you’ve been such a pain in the ass I figured I’d handle it alone.”

The man in the chair remained motionless. The smoke from the flickstick continued to spiral upward and pool at the ceiling. A trunk rumbled by and caused the windows to shake slightly. The man didn’t turn toward the noise and kept the barrel of the gun pointed towards the sitting man.

“Didn’t you hear me?” the man said, sounding agitated, “You’re dead. If you had listened the first time it wouldn’t have come to this. Got any last words?”

Again, silence.

“Fine.” He said, shifting the gun and watching the laser dot move up to where the sitting man’s head would be, “You’re loss.”

There was a coughing sound as the gun discharged and the figure in the seat jumped. The gun shook several more times, the reports muffled by the built-in silencers and the figure shuddered convulsively. After nine shots the weapon ran dry and clicked once before the man lowered it to his side. He stuffed the tiny package into the pocket of his coverall and turned to leave.

There was a sound similar to a giant coughing and the man slapped his neck as if an insect had stung him. He took two steps, reached for the door and collapsed in a heap. His head scraped against the door with a sickening sound but left no blood.

He disengaged his shift-suit and shimmered into existence next to the curtain, bent over the unconscious body and retrieved the package from the man’s coat. Stuffing the small square box into his pocket he wandered over and plucked the flickstick from the tray and took a long pull. He exhaled a cloud of purplish smoke before grinding the burning tube into the ashtray and flicking it into the oubliette where it vanished into a puff of carbon at the disintegrator halfway down the chute. He reached over and turned on the light sitting on the table and illuminated the bullet-ridden mannequin in the grey coverall the man and regarded it for a second. The housekeeping dins were going to have a fit when they got to the mess.

He dug around in his shift-suit and produced a small finger-length pad with a blinking diode on one end. He thumbed the screamer and, while he didn’t hear anything, knew there was a signal seeking out the nearest cool transmitter and alerting them that there was something wrong. The best response time was a minute thirty, with the average being closer to two. He had plenty of time.
The door closed behind him, locking with a click.
He left the hotel, stripping off the shift-suit mask and shoving the weapon into a concealed pocket. His vehicle, a tiny sports bike that was rigged for speed if the right button was pushed, was waiting for him outside. He whistled and it rumbled to life, the instrument panel glowing a dull blue, which happened to be the same color of the security panel in the mark’s house.

Plucking the helmet from the back of the bike, he took one look final look at the hotel room where the man was. He was going to wake up in a jail cell with one hell of a headache.

The bike sped off into the night.

[ end transmit ]

The SIG Pro is a series of semi-automatic pistols designed and manufactured by Swiss Arms AG (formerly SIG Arms AG and Sauer & Sohn) and distributed in United States by the SIGARMS. It was the first polymer-framed handgun from either company. It is available in several variants (SP 2009, SP 2022 and SP 2340) and chambered in .40 S&W, 9 mm Parabellum and .357 SIG.

The SIG Pro series of pistols is a joint effort between two famous European arms makers; SIG Arms AG (now Swiss Arms AG) and J. P. Sauer & Sohn of Germany. As with other joint ventures between the two companies these pistols are sometimes referred to as SIG Sauer. It was originally developed as a .40 S&W caliber service pistol with a polymer frame and modular design and was first announced in 1998 as the SIG Pro SP 2340. About one year later, the 9mm version, designated the SP 2009, was introduced and entered production.

The SIG Pro is a short recoil operated, locked breech pistol. It uses a traditional Browning cam-operated locking system. The barrel locks into the slide via enlarged ejection port.

The frame is made from polymer, with detachable grip panels. Grip panels can be easily replaced and are available in several different sizes and shapes.

The overall design is slightly different from earlier SIG-Sauer pistols such as P220 or P226, as there is no separate disassembly lever on the frame and the slide release lever looks quite different.

The standard SIG Pro does not have a manual safety but it does incorporate a decocking lever (lowers the hammer without striking the firing pin), trigger-bar disconnect (disconnects the trigger when the slide is out of battery), automatic firing pin lock (does not free the firing pin until the trigger is depressed) and a hammer safety intercept notch (prevents the hammer from striking the rear of the firing pin until the trigger is depressed).

— Part I —

From the outside it was just another two-story brick building in a part of town that you didn’t want to walk around in unless you were known as ‘someone who knows somebody’, armed and good with a weapon or (most often) both. The mortar had been dyed dark from chemical emissions of the surprisingly frequent street traffic, cracked from innumerable climbing plants attempting to reclaim it for nature and covered in graffiti from street gangs or the occasional urban artist looking to make a mark before their died of one disease or another. The windows of the upper story were false and there were no windows on the first. The only entrance facing the street was a metal door, painted green over years of spray paint and bloodstains and scratched by… well it wasn’t clear where the scratches came from but the door had certainly seen better days.

The most startling feature of the building was the two men standing on either side the door. They were massive by any scale and wore suits specifically designed to prove how difficult it is to stuff someone of their girth into a suit. Each wore (on opposite ears) a tiny bud that was connected to a wire that ran in an up-and-over their ear, curled tightly and disappeared into their crisply pressed shirt collars. They looked as if they belonged there and nothing short of a very powerful bulldozer was going to get them to move.

A car pulled to a stop across the street from the two men and the lights clicked off with a barely perceptible click. Unbeknownst to the goons the reason they heard no other car-like noises was due to certain engineering and body adjustments that almost completely muted the engine, resulting in an unpleasant surprise should anyone give chase.

The windows were bullet proof and the chassis was designed to take several rounds before anything vital was injured, but that may come into play later.

A man stepped out of the car, tucking a key-and-key-chain into the pocket of a reasonable copy of a very expensive suit and turned towards the goons. They looked at each other, then the tiny (five-foot-eleven compared to their six-plus-feet) man and smirked. One of them made to pat him down when he held up a gloved hand and grinned.

“You don’t need to do that.”

The bouncer (because this was a club, though not readily apparent) seemed to consider this for a moment. Watching his thought process was akin to watching an oil taker do a three-point turn in the English Channel, but after a short interlude the thug seemed to agree and opened the door. A brief burst of sound and light flooded the empty street, cut off by the door closing heavily behind the man with slicked black hair and expensive tailoring.

“Why’d’joo let him in without searchin’ ‘im?” asked the first man to his co-worker.

A pause.

“Seemed like a good idea.”

— Part II —

Bass pounded against his chest and against a tiny device in his ear. Calling it music would be a compliment, as it was nothing more than a steady thumping drive that caused the crowd to jump and writhe in some strange sort of synchronization. Strobe lights and lasers painted the audience in a rainbow of colors and caused them to appear in the midst of a collective epileptic fit. He stopped once, found the door on the other side of the dance floor by sight and stepped off the cast iron stairs.

He made his way around the crush, his nose suddenly filled with the smells of cigarette smoke, alcohol, lust and tension and his eyes aching from the constant bombardment. Collisions were frequent (including a woman with pink and blonde hair) but no one seemed to notice as he melted quickly into the edges of the throng.

The device crackled in his ear:

Status

The man spoke, but it got not further than his throat; the constant bombardment of sound cut off his voice from anyone close enough for him to hear.

“First floor. Package still there?”

They haven’t moved

“Good.”

He reached the door without a single drink being spilled on his suit (a feat that any club-goer will tell you is almost impossible, especially one packed this tight with bodies) and paused. His hand, encased in expensive black leather, closed around the knob and gave it a twist.

Locked. Damn.

A quick look to his left and right indicated that no one was paying him any interest (though he got the feeling that the bright eyed candy kid behind him was checking out his ass), so he closed his eyes and pressed his hand next to the knob. Binary flew past his vision, concealed from observers by his eyelids, and the door popped open with a barely perceptible snick and metallic creak.

“In.”

All the way to the end, left.

He stepped through the door, taking one more look at the massive throng of people before closing it behind him. He twisted the little switch on the door handle to keep it from locking again should the need for a hasty exit come up.

There were stairs, similar to the set at the entrance to the club, except there were walls on either side. At the base the hallway widened slightly and took on the appearance of an upscale hotel; the lights were stylized half-cones situated at eye level and sent beams of pale light up the walls that had been painted a subtle shade of red. The carpet, also a shade of red, was soft underfoot and made quiet shushing noises as he walked passed closed doors to the last on the left. Each time he passed he could just barely make out moans of ecstasy or pain (it was difficult to tell in some cases).

The requisite sprinkler heads that dotted the ceiling, presumably spaced the legal distance apart, glittered brightly in the subdued lighting.

A handgun appeared from inside his jacket; a modified Sig Pro with an extra 38 millimeters attached to the muzzle. He very carefully ejected the clip, inspected the bullets that glowed faintly and slid it back in to place. A smooth jerk (an oxymoron if there ever was one) chambered the first round, the metallic action of the slide muted by his glove. Three steps later, pistol held flush against his lap, he was in front of the door.

This time it was unlocked.

The door swung open and two of the three occupants looked up. The first two, fangs bared and chin bloodied, hissed at him. The third just continued to twitch in the throws of apparent mind-shattering ecstasy while she bled from wounds on her neck and wrist. They started to rise, dumping the girl unceremoniously onto the floor when his arm whipped up.

Two coughs, two bright flashes and they fell, their bodies shriveling into ash, obliterating the clean smoking holes in their heads.

He moved quickly, applying adhesive bandages blasted with styptic powder to the woman’s wounds, snapping her out of her orgasmic state. A stern look and gesture to the door sent her running down the hall. Michael touched a finger to his ear.

“Two up, two down. One ‘cent, sent packing.”

Damnit. Exit strategy?

“Waterworks.”

Oh no.

“Oh yes,” he said, already out in the hallway and raising a lighter to one of the bright silver sprinklers. Two seconds later the system kicked on, complete with flashing lights, warning bells and the screams of disgruntled club goers.

— Final —

The doors lining the hallway shot open and people poured out. They all made their way to the stairs, not even looking back at the man standing at the edge of the hallway holding an umbrella, a smug (some would say shit-eating) grin plastered on his face. The pistol had disappeared and his arms were crossed over his chest. He waited until they had vanished before squishing his way across the waterlogged carpet and up the stairs himself.

He joined the throng of soaked partygoers outside just as the fire trucks arrived and began to deploy. Men in banana-yellow rubber suits connected hose and then storm into the building much to the dismay and surprise of the door goons. He worked his way to the outside of the crowd, crossed the street and stalked quickly toward his car, producing a small black rectangle and aiming it at the vehicle. His expression quickly fell to one of confusion as his thumb continued to press the red button that should… do…. something…

Bringing the keys into the light he could see that the casing was cracked; water had probably seeped in and fried it.

Damnit.

After unlocking the car in the non-electronic way he tossed his jacket into the back seat with a damp smack against a freshly installed plastic seat cover (he had to close and conceal his umbrella before he got out of the club) and started the car. A soft, trance-like reworking of the Goldberg Variations began to play as he carefully eased his car out into the street, not really hitting the gas until he was well away from the crowd.

“Got the security feed?”

Erased.

“Good.”

He turned the volume up a notch, took off his tie (it joined the jacket in the back seat) and sped off into the night.

Some people ask me what I feel, if anything, when I shoot one of them… all up close and personal.

I tell them: Recoil.

From these came the virtual communities; game-like, computer generated worlds where the user created-avatars interacted with each other in what could only be described as a parody of ‘real’ human life. Users could command their ‘residents’ (as the personas were nicknamed) to engage in standard day-to-day behavior such as shopping for virtual goods, exercising and even (with the right plug-ins) sex. As the programming became more sophisticated it was possible for the personas to take on more and more complex actions (some ‘games’ touted complete facial customization up to expression) until the virtual world became so completely realistic that it was spoken of as one speaks of a country that one frequents during the off seasons.

The next step was total-immersion; users donned special equipment that fit over the eyes and fingertips and were instantly transported into a truly three-dimensional space of appearance limited only by the imaginations of the designers. Whole city blocks, dedicated to a certain type of data or idea, coalesced into existence seemingly overnight. Corporations designed ‘spaces’ to represent their businesses and the market for specialized world crafters (as they came to be known) skyrocketed literally within hours. Designs ranged from realms that were so elaborate that they were indistinguishable from their real world counterparts to scenes right out of fiction or some demented artist’s nightmare.

Ready-made virtual boardrooms replaced the teleconferencing as the prime choice for intercontinental meetings as they afforded greater security (the programs being molded into the ‘room’ and virtually undetectable) and access to information. The criminal element (or those that simply wanted to do something illegal) took to them immediately and cartels for the computerized world ran parallel with (or sometimes perpendicular too) their real world counterparts with surprisingly efficiency.

Right alongside the boardrooms was ultra-private meeting places and data havens that no security force could even hope to begin to penetrate. They were formed into loose ‘hotels’, ‘hostels’, and ‘clubs’ where people could meet to discuss anything without fear of being spied upon. The Intrusion Countermeasures Electronics (ICE) was spun by the elite of both corporate and hacker cultures and was, therefore, nearly impenetrable. One could, in theory, focus considerable computational expertise to eventually crack the site and expose it’s innards to the blinding public light, but there were quite a few people in lofty positions that didn’t want their dirty laundry aired out where everyone could see. Thus they became a known-but-tolerated blemish on the otherwise pristine surface of the ‘net.

One of the most sophisticated data havens was a place called Strobe Light Lies. The ‘main room’ was designed after the industrial-style clubs that randomly seem to spring up in the warehouse districts of large cities. Strategically placed flashing lights (some strobe and others of a yellow siren-variety) illuminated the carefully simulated grime, graffiti and gunshot scores that took the place of a conventional paint job. Since dimension and distance had no meaning in the virtual world it was near impossible to gauge the size of the main room, but it was known that it automatically adjusted to appear large enough to contain the total number of users that were currently ‘logged’. A deep, intense throb rattled through the air as if the busiest nightclub in the world with speakers the size of radio towers was banging away just past the single sealed steel portal that always seemed to be directly to the user’s immediate left.

The door itself did not open; instead the user positioned the avatar next to it, input their ‘room code’ (usually a pre-agreed on sequence with a minimum of eight characters and no maximum length) and was instantly transported to the specified location within the virtual space.

They sat across from each other because standing was considered as impolite as using all capital letters in correspondence was in generations past (and still is in places that hadn’t yet caught up to the proverbial Cutting Edge). The room in which they sat was perfectly square and done up in dark wood paneling. Walls were decorated with non-descript paintings framed in a slightly lighter wood-shade than the paneling and each of the windows were set with horizontal wooden slats which caused the ‘sunlight’ (which was set to afternoon-evening) to appear as yellow-orange bars wherever it fell. The carpet was dark green, short and looked like a lot of effort had gone into making it appear unblemished and very easy on the feet though it was impossible to feel such things without massive hardware / software combinations.

The shape that spanned the distance between them was an oval of non-reflective dark walnut that seemed to ripple when touched but was otherwise unremarkable. It served as a kind of whiteboard for conversations, giving users the ability to call up data and transfer / display it to all present. The laws of physics had been, apparently, told to take a flying leap because the flat, ovoid table did not seem to be supported by anything, but instead ‘floated’ at a height that either avatar could comfortably rest their elbows on.

The man sitting closest to the ‘door’ looked nervous, which meant he either presented his avatar that way or possessed the new peripheral that scanned facial features and allowed for a more ‘realistic’ avatar. Tiny pixels on the man’s face kept blinking and twitching which meant that the human operator was sweating and the connecting from flesh to machine was being disrupted. The man, who appeared Japanese and stuffed into the black-suit-white-shirt-and-tie stereotypical to the corporate workforce, mopped his digital forehead and spoke:

[ Anata ha tottemo -- ]

The other person present, who was a mass of shifting shapes and colors not unlike some Cubists’-drawing-come-to-life, held up a hand and did something with the table that caused a flat black line to extrude from the rippling walnut surface. The front of it puffed and slowly came to a stop in front of the Japanese man’s face while a second one did the same for the fractal. The translator program made the table ripple once more and then the fractal waved for the other to continue.

[ You came highly recommended ]

His words came through a fraction of a second after the avatar had finished speaking, a result of the translator functioning. It wasn’t perfect and it gave the speaker a flat tone, but it served to bridge the language barrier that had been an impediment to international business for many decades before.

The human-shaped mass of fractals and patterns did not reply and the unease in the Japanese avatar grew more pronounced. A cascade of pixels went grey and then snapped back into color: more moisture disrupting the contact surfaces. The silence stretched on for a very long time before the suit spoke again and his voice betrayed even more of his unease.

[ I see. You are not one for flattery or pleasantries so I will ‘come down to brass tacks’ as the American expression is, yes? ]

The persona across the table remained motionless but its body continued to shift. Bits and pieces of human, clothing, and non-descript geometry coming rapidly in and out of focus. The walnut surface of the table rippled as a paper-like icon with a clipart padlock slipped its way from the suit, across the table and disappeared into the flickering avatar. File transfers didn’t have to be represented in the virtual world, but it was a way to reassure the visually oriented that it had, in fact, been delivered. The pixilated lock on the document meant that the recipient either had to have the correct key or find a way to crack the encryption without causing a total erasure.

[ That is the task. I have specified a timeframe. Can you do it? ]

[ Yes ]

The voice that came from the shifting body was distorted in the same way that news channels ‘sources that did not want to be identified’ had been in the century beforehand. It sounded low, as if it had been slowed but came across at normal speed. The basso and nasal qualities totally destroyed any gender identification and, with the addition of a counter-balanced tenor that created a kind of whispering duality made any attempt to sort out which voice was ‘real’ (and, therefore could be undistorted) near impossible. Of course if there were any listening devices or programs attached to the room they would have been forcibly ejected and / or destroyed by a series of kill-specific ‘monitors’ that swept the virtual room several times a second.

[ I had not given you the key to the document ]

[ Don’t need it ]

The Japanese man sat upright as if he had been fed a dose of high voltage current and blinked rapidly.

[ I should have surmised as much. What of the price? ]

The fractal avatar reached out and ‘pushed’ something that resembled a business card toward the suit, which ‘picked it up’ and examined it.

[ This is much larger than … ]

The Japanese man fell silent and his avatar turned his head, speaking to someone in the (physical) room with him. When he turned back to the shifting thing across the table he wore a smile.

[ The fee is acceptable. I trust you will begin immediately and our business is finished? ]

In response the body-form split into dozens of twirling polygons, each still shifting pattern and color, leaving the suit alone for several seconds before he disconnected with an abrupt jolt. The room remained for several cycles before it too dissolved into a mass of pixels that disappeared into bright white light.

One week later a high-speed underground transport was re-routed onto a rail that was currently being serviced. The train, traveling at goodly speed, quickly ran out of rail and collided with a load-bearing support from the building above. The resulting explosion killed all aboard and four of the twenty workers on the ground instantly. The rest were killed when the support gave way and the five-story office building (owned by the Fujita / Nero zaibatsu) came crashing down. Peripheral injuries were many but minor and no additional deaths were reported.

The incident was being handled quietly until it became known that the third Binder of Binder, Binder, Shin, Parque and Binder was causality, causing the law firm’s formidable legal machine to swing into overdrive.

Independent investigation (on behalf of BBSPB) eventually revealed that the building sub-structure was unsound and was constructed with sub-standard materials and a second-rate construction company that had been known for shoddy business practices.

Public outcry was swift, loud and decisive; overnight Fujita / Nero stock prices plummeted and several top executives voluntarily resigned or were forced out in shame. Further investigation (prompted by an anonymous tip and again sponsored by the law firm that had so recently suffered a death in their legal-minded family) revealed that several high-rankers had rather seedy pastimes ranging from socially unacceptable taboos to insider trading to snuff-like scenes involving prostitutes with a cutout switch installed. Each new revelation was picked up by the media and touted so loudly that it was speculated that Fujita / Nero might never recover from what was deemed the worst PR fuck ever.

Most of the executives were arrested but a few decided to take the ignoble way out and commit some form of suicide. One such executive, Hideo Masaka, was so distraught that it came to light his affection for younger girls that he threw himself from his penthouse apartment window and created quite a stir (as well as splatter) upon impact.

Fujita / Nero, now deprived of most of it’s upper management, continued to crumble as infighting and jockeying for position turned hostile. When the zaibatsu was finally dissolved a sum of money was transferred anonymously to a numbered account in accordance with an agreement that never existed between a rival of Fujita / Nero’s and a man that never existed.

The train crash was eventually attributed to random computer malfunction.

The seats on either side of him, always the last to be filled, were vacant but the motion of the bus did nothing to sway his body. He sat, rocklike and almost motionless, staring at the floor because to make eye contact with anyone might be considered hostile and there was no telling how many people on the bus disapproved of his very existence and wouldn’t mind any reason to rough him up a bit.

He rested his elbows on his knees and his hands were clenched in front of him. Despite the hour of scrubbing with sponge and grit-cleaner he could still feel the blood on his hands and the bits of skin that had been lodged under his fingernails. It had been weeks since his last episode and he had thought he was finally rid of the problem and gone out to celebrate. That had been his mistake:

The bar was packed with a mass of humanity but he moved easily through it like a bass trawler through algae that sat on top of the water. He was alone (he liked it that way) and tried to make his way as carefully as possible to a place near the back. Stools collapsed under his bulk (being seven feet tall and several hundred pounds of mostly muscle had it’s disadvantages) so he ignored any sort of seat and instead leaned against the wall with a beer that had been given to him by a wide-eyed blonde that was probably wondering if the myth about tall guys (with blue skin) was true.

He attracted stares; that much he was used to, but he felt that tingling in the back of his head that told him there was hostility coming from somewhere. When he reached his space on the wall, which was dutifully cleared by the crowd that saw him coming, he took a second to locate the source and wasn’t surprised to find it coming from a trio of men that looked like the spitting image of the redneck stereotype; dirty jackets, scruffy faces and tobacco stains almost everywhere. They were drinking beer and judging by the number of bottles on the table had been doing so for quite a while. Their eyes tracked unsteadily across the room until one finally settled on him again. He slapped his buddy, whispered something while pointing and they all had a raucous laugh.

They followed him as he left and cornered him as he turned a corner to try and get away.

He had tried to reason with them, keeping his hands in plain view and explaining that he was just out for a drink and didn’t want any trouble. They, of course, weren’t in the mood to listen and kept prodding him, forcing him to walk backward down the street.

One of them pulled a knife and lunged, opening a gash on his palm that oozed bright red blood over blue skin. He felt and saw his hand close into a fist and the world fade to black-

He was snapped out of his flashback by a tiny, slightly cold finger delicately running from his wrist to the first knuckle of his index finger. It caused him to snap his head up and come face-to-face with bright brown eyes, pigtails and a curious frown.

“Did that hurt?” ask the little girl innocently.

“Did what hurt?” he replied after a moment, his basso rumble causing several passengers to stare oddly at the giant man talking to a child.

“Your skin. Did it hurt when they painted it blue?”

He turned his hands over, staring at the calluses and wear-lines that had developed due to a life of manual labor.

“I dunno,” he said quietly, as if sharing a secret, “Did it hurt when they painted you pink?”

The girl giggled and gave a wide grin, “They didn’t paint me! I was born this way!”

“Well I was born this way,” he said matter-of-factly, returning her smile with one of his own.

“I like it! It’s pretty!”

At that point the girls mother had snatched her away, dragging her to a different corner of the bus and admonishing her about talking to strangers, especially ‘those kind of strangers’. The look on the mother’s face was plain enough; he was some sort of unspeakable monster because he looked different from everyone else. Different was dangerous. Different was wrong. She probably had a grandmother that didn’t like ‘colored folk’ either.

He rubbed his head, sighed and resumed staring at his feet. The bus continued to jolt it’s passengers in a strange sort of unison and he managed to catch the little girl telling her mother that ‘He’s not bad! He’s blue!’ before deciding to get off at the next stop, nevermind that it would make him late for work.

Damned if that kid didn’t scare him more than anything he’d ever come across and for the life of him he wasn’t sure why.