about then, mate? Never met a bloke what warranted A-Gent level heat before.”
“They think I’m a drug-runner,” Red answered.
“Yeh, I gathered that, thanks. What I’d like to know is: What drug’d you sprint off with that merits breaching the ‘Wells? That means a stack of bills, a serious headache and a knife in the back, more times than not. Penthouse ponces don’t deal direct down here: Usually just freeze your accounts, drop a few work-credits to some hard up junkies, and sit back and wait until you turn up starved or gutshot.”
James spat unhappily in the corner of the cramped alley. To get there, they had crawled on their bellies through a living space that rose no more than two feet at its highest point, all while the residents obliviously tended to their lives. A young boy played a slow, prone game of tag with a simple aero-bot; a pretty little girl with a golden plate straddling her cheek and jaw hummed a chipper tune as she chopped tofu in a recessed kitchenette; an old man slumbered on his side, tucked away into an unlit corner and partially surrounded by a net of shimmering beads. The jacket-shop owner had extracted a small toll from them before unlatching the grate in his floor and allowing them through, out into the tiny gap between territories. The alleyway was just wide enough to fit five or six people abreast, and just tall enough so they could all stand at a slight crouch. As soon as they’d set foot in the miniscule demilitarized zone, the shopkeep slid a clanking metal curtain down behind them, effectively sealing the space. Their four credits had only bought them a one-way ticket.
“So what is it, mate? I’m dying over here – curiosity and the cat and all that.”
“Isn’t information the best currency down here?” Red answered, giving James his best evil eye. The creeping sobriety inching outward from his gut had given him an anxiety headache, however, so it ended up as more of a desperate, epileptic wink.
“Ha! Guess you’re not as stupid as you look,” James smiled and slapped Red on the shoulder. It sent aftershocks of migraine pain up his neck, and into his ears.
“But you look really bloody stupid, so maybe that’s not saying much,” he added. “Barter then? You explain this utter quagmire of a situation you’ve thrown us headlong into, and I’ll give you something in return.”
“Like what?”
“What d’you want to know?”
“What’s Zippy going to ask for in payment?” Red said, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Shite!” James laughed earnestly this time, “but aren’t you a clever one? And here’s me, thinking you was just another tourist. You know the game, boy, I’ll give you that. So fine, let’s deal then: Who’d you bugger to end up here, how hard, and why didn’t you kiss ‘em nice after?”
“I do beta-testing for the fight labs, sometimes. They trust me with the high end stuff, because I keep mostly clean -- or at least I keep my addictions varied enough that they never get too tight a hold. And the only nano-strains I’ve got in my system are my BioOS, a rooted drug induction rig, and the visual recorders in my optic nerve to record trips.”
“Bollocks,” James glanced down at Red’s bare forearm in disbelief. “You’re practically a virgin! No older strains? Something a flush might’ve missed?”
Red shook his head.
“No nightvision? No toys leftover from childhood? Light bots? Nerve stims?” James’ whole face was contorted with incredulity, “you’re telling me you never, not once -- not even as a stupid bloody teenager -- hype up on oxygenators before sex? So what, you just didn’t need the stamina boost? You were a bloody natural love machine from the get-go?”
“Strains mess with the drugs.”
“Yeh, but it’s usually nothing. You wouldn’t even notice it.”
“It wasn’t worth muddling the effects, you know? The more ‘strains you introduce, the more you’re gonna wonder, even with the most basic
“They think I’m a drug-runner,” Red answered.
“Yeh, I gathered that, thanks. What I’d like to know is: What drug’d you sprint off with that merits breaching the ‘Wells? That means a stack of bills, a serious headache and a knife in the back, more times than not. Penthouse ponces don’t deal direct down here: Usually just freeze your accounts, drop a few work-credits to some hard up junkies, and sit back and wait until you turn up starved or gutshot.”
James spat unhappily in the corner of the cramped alley. To get there, they had crawled on their bellies through a living space that rose no more than two feet at its highest point, all while the residents obliviously tended to their lives. A young boy played a slow, prone game of tag with a simple aero-bot; a pretty little girl with a golden plate straddling her cheek and jaw hummed a chipper tune as she chopped tofu in a recessed kitchenette; an old man slumbered on his side, tucked away into an unlit corner and partially surrounded by a net of shimmering beads. The jacket-shop owner had extracted a small toll from them before unlatching the grate in his floor and allowing them through, out into the tiny gap between territories. The alleyway was just wide enough to fit five or six people abreast, and just tall enough so they could all stand at a slight crouch. As soon as they’d set foot in the miniscule demilitarized zone, the shopkeep slid a clanking metal curtain down behind them, effectively sealing the space. Their four credits had only bought them a one-way ticket.
“So what is it, mate? I’m dying over here – curiosity and the cat and all that.”
“Isn’t information the best currency down here?” Red answered, giving James his best evil eye. The creeping sobriety inching outward from his gut had given him an anxiety headache, however, so it ended up as more of a desperate, epileptic wink.
“Ha! Guess you’re not as stupid as you look,” James smiled and slapped Red on the shoulder. It sent aftershocks of migraine pain up his neck, and into his ears.
“But you look really bloody stupid, so maybe that’s not saying much,” he added. “Barter then? You explain this utter quagmire of a situation you’ve thrown us headlong into, and I’ll give you something in return.”
“Like what?”
“What d’you want to know?”
“What’s Zippy going to ask for in payment?” Red said, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Shite!” James laughed earnestly this time, “but aren’t you a clever one? And here’s me, thinking you was just another tourist. You know the game, boy, I’ll give you that. So fine, let’s deal then: Who’d you bugger to end up here, how hard, and why didn’t you kiss ‘em nice after?”
“I do beta-testing for the fight labs, sometimes. They trust me with the high end stuff, because I keep mostly clean -- or at least I keep my addictions varied enough that they never get too tight a hold. And the only nano-strains I’ve got in my system are my BioOS, a rooted drug induction rig, and the visual recorders in my optic nerve to record trips.”
“Bollocks,” James glanced down at Red’s bare forearm in disbelief. “You’re practically a virgin! No older strains? Something a flush might’ve missed?”
Red shook his head.
“No nightvision? No toys leftover from childhood? Light bots? Nerve stims?” James’ whole face was contorted with incredulity, “you’re telling me you never, not once -- not even as a stupid bloody teenager -- hype up on oxygenators before sex? So what, you just didn’t need the stamina boost? You were a bloody natural love machine from the get-go?”
“Strains mess with the drugs.”
“Yeh, but it’s usually nothing. You wouldn’t even notice it.”
“It wasn’t worth muddling the effects, you know? The more ‘strains you introduce, the more you’re gonna wonder, even with the most basic
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