The corpse went out with the morning fog. It took us the whole day to deal with things because, frankly, Sprocket and I didn't know what we were doing with the body at first.
Three hours of cleanup. Two barrels of industrial solvent. One favor from a junked-out scav who owed Sprocket for saving his life back in the day. We dumped what was not scavenged by the scav of Nick in a dry septic silo on the edge of Watson, just far enough out that no one would look twice. What wouldn't burn, we melted. What wouldn't melt, we broke into tiny little pieces. When we were done, even our noses stank of charred plastic and acid vapor.
Getting rid of his expensive ride was easier because of our line of work, but we had to completely get rid of it, stripping it of everything identifiable and turning it into scrap. Nobody will look twice in a landfill. Real leather seats tore my heart when I burned them.
We also got rid of the jerry-rigged cabinet while we were at it. Too much evidence to keep.
Sprocket didn't say a damn word the whole ride back, telling me to drive her prized Quadra. She stared out the window like the buildings were trying to tell her a secret.
The only thing she muttered the entire time was, "Should've fed him to the pigs."
Fair. But we didn't find the pigs. And we tried. She was weirdly persistent about this.
Back at the shop, I didn't go inside right away. I stood in the garage's side lot with the engine block Sprocket swore she would finish someday, watching a pair of rats chew on a dead servo-motor near the drainage grate. The city was always recycling its guts. I felt dirty. Killing wasn't something I was prepared to do today, even if it wasn't me who dealt the final shot.
When I finally went in, Sprocket was already in the backroom doing God knows what.
Sprocket practically gave me free rein over loot from the bastard, as she felt sick even touching it. Chips from his head, implants that looked useful, and the case were all mine for the taking.
I could take the implants to Vik and the chips to some netrunners that would clean them up for a fee, but this case was different.
Nick was banking everything on the case, making me believe it is as valuable as gold or even more. There is no guarantee I walk out alive if what is inside is too valuable.
The case sat where I left it. Placed it in a dusty corner of the shop. Under a green tarp that I found in a dumpster nearby. Not locked by a fancy scanner. The only security was two simple clamps. Just sitting there. And it still ate my fucking brain thinking about whether to open it or just throw it away for safety.
I looked at it for a long time. Didn't touch it.
I did other things first. Cleaned up. Changed clothes. I scrubbed the grease and blood from under my nails. Ate a vending-machine sandwich that was made from nutrient-rich bugs. Then, and only then, did I kneel in front of the case, roll up my sleeves, and begin.
The clamps clicked open without a fight. No hissing gas. No beep. No trap. Just a low mechanical thunk as the seal broke. I lifted the lid slowly.
Inside, black foam. Dense, custom-cut.
It held one item.
Heavy rectangular slab, thicker than a shard case. Surface matte black, slight wear on the corners. On the upper edge, a small metal label was riveted in.
PROPERTY OF MILITECH // INTERNAL USE ONLY
CLASS-3 EQUIPMENT // UNAUTHORIZED HANDLING PROHIBITED
SERIAL: DR11-PROTOTYPE // RED STATUS // DO NOT DEPLOY
My stomach dropped. That wasn't a warning. Oh shit I wanted it to be gold bars.
I didn't touch it right away. Just stared. Militech didn't mark anything RED unless it was high-risk. Not high-value. Dangerous. Dangerous to them.
Pulled out my pocket light and checked the corners. Nothing strange. No visible ports, but a small panel on one end looked like a biometric lock. Military-issue. Thermal plate, pulse reader. Nothing I could spoof without some serious gear.
There was a false bottom in the case. I dug into the foam. Found two things:
A sealed shard and a folded-up document, printed on thick synthetic paper. Both were old-school for this world. Paper meant they didn't want this stored digitally.
The doc was a field memo. No header, no recipient, no signature. Just short and brutal:
OPERATIONAL CONTAINMENT NOTICE - INTERNAL ONLY
DR11 ASSET REMAINS UNACCOUNTED FOR FOLLOWING BREACH AT SITE C-3.
ASSUME THEFT. ASSUME HOSTILE POSSESSION.
DO NOT RECOVER IN THE FIELD UNLESS CLEARANCE LEVEL RED+ IS CONFIRMED.
FIELD PERSONNEL ARE TO TREAT THE ASSET AS A CLASS-3 SYSTEMIC LIABILITY.
THIS DEVICE IS NOT TO BE INTERFACED.
ALL PREVIOUS INTEGRATION TESTS RESULTED IN TERMINATION OR SYSTEM FAILURE.
CONTAIN AND REPORT.
DO NOT ACTIVATE.
No signature. No contact.
The shard looked clean, unmarked. I didn't trust it. I pulled out my isolated virtual machine within a virtual machine, no net, no active ports, and booted it cold. Slotted the shard through a hardware bypass I bought just for this kind of thing.
Simple file structure. Mostly empty.
One folder stood out: //PERSONAL_WORKSPACE//KRAUSS_EM//DR11_LOGS
Okay. Krauss. I won't even be doing an equivalent of googling you since I'm pretty sure they monitor these, and I can just assume he is Militech.
I opened a text log. Read slowly. Every word sank lower in my gut.
FIELD ENTRY — 2073.09.21 — E. M. KRAUSS
"DR11 integration routines are unstable across the board. Neural sync rate reaches 96%—way above projected operable spec. V-team trial four ended in cascade seizure and full cognitive dissociation within 90 seconds of activation in a simple combat operation. The unit burned out. Operators suffered identical system echo and collapsed. One fatality of a high-level operative with an 83% cybernization rate. Command ordered temporary containment. I requested a complete halt of testing. Denied."
"No standard firewall proved useful against it; it overrides internal system limiters of cybernetics. DR11 does not segment input. It learns too fast. It preempts. Last trial, the system issued over 2582 autonomous host system overrides within a 5-second burst. That is not an assistive tool. That's an independent actor. It's interpreting data in ways we can't verify. Making assumptions about nonexistent data."
"It's not a full AI. It's not sapient. But it's fast enough to look like it is. And that's worse. The system doesn't think; it calculates like it's programmed to. And it even calculates its hosts as potential threats."
I stopped there.
This wasn't gear. It was a weapon system with predictive priority targeting and direct cognitive link potential—built to enhance battlefield command flow and response, basically cheats installed. But they lost control during testing. And now it's here, sitting in my shop, three feet away.
Sitting in Sprocket's shop.
She had no idea.
I sealed the document. Pulled the shard. Disconnected everything. Wiped the computer's cache with a burn cycle, physically ejected the drive module, and smashed it flat with a clamp.
Didn't even feel paranoid doing it. It's a bare minimum.
I stared at the device for another five minutes. Then closed the case and re-locked it. My pulse was way too high. I felt my asshole clench even looking at the case.
This wasn't just "high value."
This was not supposed to exist outside Militech hands.
Which meant two things:
Nick either stole it or got it secondhand from someone who did.
Someone out there knows it's missing and probably knows he had it.
Which makes me next on the list.
I sat on the floor. Tried to steady my hands.
This thing wasn't meant for sale on the street. It wasn't even meant to leave a black site. And now I had it. Fuck.
I ran through my options.
I could sell it—sure. But that would involve talking to someone with the pull to handle Militech black projects, which meant opening myself up to being killed just for knowing about it. I could try to sell it to V in Arasaka. But that could kill both me and him.
I could try to use it. But if the logs were true, and this thing hijacked brain signals and overrode neural flow, then slotting it raw would mean either a seizure, death, or brain-deep entanglement with a non-sentient targeting system designed to think in terms of kill patterns. Basically, if you connect to that shit, you go insane. Could be useful as a security system of sorts against particularly interested webrunners if deployed correctly.
Or I could bury it. Somewhere no one would ever find it. Walk away and pretend it never showed up.
That was the smart move. That was the only move, really.
But the same thought kept circling like a fly in my head.
Why did Nick risk everything for this? Why not just sell it immediately if it was too hot? Why stay here? Does he not have a buyer ready?
I checked the time. Almost four in the morning. My eyes burned.
I didn't sleep, but today for the first time I felt tired.
I hid the case in the reinforced toolbox beneath the spare engine block. Covered it with the tarp. Sat on the cot in the backroom. Rechecked the door and the lock.
I needed a plan.
First thing tomorrow, I'd talk to Vik. Not about the case, but about shielding. If I wanted to interact with this thing without plugging it into my skull, I'd need an external processing rig with limited capabilities. Some kind of filtered readout. Something disconnected from my brain and from the Net. I need to see what exactly it does. I will grab scavenged implants from Nick for quick cash.
Second, new burner phones, a new cash stack, and a fallback location. I was done living in a single room next to someone else's camera feeds. Also, maybe we should visit that round building with netrunners to decipher cred chips from Nick's skull.
And third…
If anyone showed up asking about Nick?
I'd kill them before they had the chance to speak. I need to upgrade.
…
The security shutter groaned open when I buzzed. No delay this time. I stepped through, boots echoing on the steel grate stairs as I descended into the underbelly of Viktor's clinic. The place still smelled like solder, sterilizer, and machine oil.
He was already working. Some kid, maybe nineteen or twenty, with long arms and patchy chrome, was half in the chair, dazed. It looked like an adrenal booster had just gone in. Vik was suturing a jacket port along the kid's collarbone when I walked in.
"Wait your turn," he muttered without looking up.
I stayed by the door. Didn't move.
Ten minutes passed. I didn't speak. Didn't breathe wrong. Just waited.
Vik sealed the port, cleaned his gloves, and then waved the kid off. "Come back in two days. Careful on the stairs. No drinking!"
The kid didn't say anything. He just nodded hard and stumbled toward the stairs like his legs were made of rubber.
Only once the door shut did Vik finally turn to me.
"Caelen."
He said it flatly. Not like he was happy, not like he was surprised. Just confirming what he already knew.
"I ran your panel after you left. That bloodwork was a mess," he said. "But underneath the metabolic garbage, you're not a write-off. I thought I was going to have to tell you no implants ever. Turns out, you've got compatibility."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning if you don't overdo it and you stay on stims, low-end chrome won't fry your brain. Couldn't guarantee that before. I can now."
I nodded. "Then I need a basic deck. The interface kit and chip slot array all need to be wired. No need for fancy shit."
I stepped forward, unzipping my pack.
"Got parts. Not junk. Fully stripped, clean, somewhat. Can we do a trade?"
Vik gave me a long look. "How did you get these?"
I didn't answer.
"Fine," he said. "Let me see."
I unwrapped the cloth and set them on the table. A pristine single-eye optical unit, dermal jack interface with paired sync nodes, and a smartlink wrist mount. All intact. Polished. Not bleached, but heat-cleaned with things I got in the shop.
Vik didn't touch them at first. Just scanned with his datapad.
"This is high-grade."
"Yeah."
"Whose was it?"
"Very bad person."
He paused. Then he picked up the optic and rolled it in his hand.
"Bone-mount, nano-insulated, full-focus array, cyberdeck. And clean," he muttered. "You strip it yourself?"
"Every screw."
He nodded slowly. "These pieces… you could've flipped them to a junk doc and gotten hosed with some cash. So why come here?"
"Because I want a proper install," I said. "And I want to walk out alive."
Vik finally looked me in the eye. "That's a start. V really pumped me up for you, huh?"
He turned to his cabinet. Metal drawers slid open. Rummaged through pre-assembled kits and boxed modules. Pulled a sealed grey case, set it next to the tray.
"You're not getting top-shelf chrome if not going wireless. But this? Good neural starter suite. One mainline. Dual chip slots. Datajack. All self-contained, firmware-flexible. Expandable later if you've got the nerves and the money. I got all of it in stock."
"Perfect."
"I'll install the optic you got too if I were you. Those are some good Kiroshis. We can do mesh over the eye, but those are unreliable and tend to slip out," he added, motioning to the one I brought.
"Left. Replace my left eye, and I'll sell the other to you."
He gave a short nod. "Really wonder how you'll feel chipping in at such an old age. What are you, 23? You want to do this right now? I've got time."
"Go ahead."
Before moving, he pulled a pack of injectors from a side fridge.
"Stabilizer. Helps with shock. Keeps your blood pressure from tanking halfway through."
He held it out. I took the dose and slotted it against my thigh. The hiss was faint, followed by the creeping cold of meds in my veins. I suppose I need to get used to these.
Vik walked past me and pointed to the surgical chair.
"Top off. Sit down. Lie down on your belly."
The chair was stiff. Synthetic leather cracked at the edges. I pulled off my shirt and lay down as the table hummed to life.
He injected me with a healthy dose of anesthetic.
He started at the base of my spine, the mainline went in first. That's the basis of all cyberware. Sharp pinch. Pressure.
"Not in pain?"
"No, just unpleasant."
"Oh, you have to be ready then. Turn over on your side."
Then came the jack. Left ear. No conversation. Just a metal probe, a cold antiseptic swab, and the sound of bone being drilled.
"Preparing for chip slots," Vik muttered. "You'll feel a buzz. That's normal."
The buzz was worse than he said. Like electricity humming in the inside of your skull. Like being at the dentist but infinitely worse.
Then the optic. That one took longer. Precision work. Scary as shit, to be honest, removing your eye.
"I'm really wondering why only replace one eye?" he asked, mid-process.
"Yeah. Want depth perception to stay human. For now."
He said nothing more.
When it was done, he sealed the incisions with synth-patch and dropped the used blades into a sterile tray. I sure hope it's sterile.
My eye flashed with numbers and data in blue as it was booting up. Felt weird having HUD so close.
"You'll have a headache for two days or so," he said. "Your visual cortex will adjust after. And your hearing might spike due to nerve cross-talk from the neural line. If you smell ozone, don't panic. It's not a stroke. It's the jack burning in. Probably won't, but just an FYI."
I sat up slowly. The room tilted slightly, then steadied.
My left eye fed a sharper image than my right. Colors popped harder. Contrast too high. Everything felt like it had edges.
He handed me a pack of pills.
"Painkillers, suppressants, neural stabilizers. Take the blue one if your hands shake. The why if your heart rate spikes for no reason. The last one is every 2 hours. Don't mix them."
I took the pack. "Side effects?"
"Nothing lethal. Nausea. Maybe paranoia. Don't overclock. Let it sync."
He sat back down at his bench. Picked up his tools again.
"Are we square?" I asked.
"You're covered. To be honest, I'll probably have to pay you for the chrome you brought."
He paused, looking at me once more.
"How much?"
"Raven Microcyber Mk.2 alone is more than 10k if new."
Oh, shit.
"Not new?"
"Honestly, I can pay you 12 thousand for the whole package. Let's get you baby's first transfer."
In the corner of my eye, I saw 12,000 euro dollars transferred to me. Most likely a good deal for shit I obviously got from a dead guy. He had some awesome shit, as it turned out.
"Thank you, Vik."
"Yeah, yeah, just take your pills."
I left through the rear stairwell, legs aching, spine still buzzing like someone strung a wire into my nervous system.
The world outside felt louder.
The interface hummed beneath my skin, quiet yet functional. It felt oddly familiar. My contact list already included Vik, the maps were operational, and I could even browse the web while walking.
I was finally equipped.