5.3

  Isolde pulled up to the Flux entrance and parked next to a new-looking redesign of a sports coupe, thinking it was only fitting that on a night like this, all the expensive cars would be lining the lot with their glossy, mirror-polished bodies, drowning in the neon bleed of what the locals aptly called electric dusk. At ten minutes to midnight, she thought that, between the hustle and the bustle and the steady, monotonous hollering that had been bouncing off the streets since early afternoon, the whole city felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for something big to break loose—and if anyone knew what was coming, it sure as hell wasn’t them.

  She hadn’t planned to show up to the staff party, not initially, but Mbale Gond was an avid drinker, a man with a tongue for liquor, as the whispers in the breakroom often said, and it was an opportunity she couldn’t pass up. She caught the line to the front, where Tatum and his creepy-looking twin nodded her through. She wore a brown winter coat over a white button-up, formal enough to blend in, but forgettable enough to be overlooked. Hidden inside the coat’s inner pocket and pressed against her chest was a red Oni mask, a sharp grin concealed beneath layers of fabric. In her front coat pocket, her fingers brushed against the edges of a small MX case.

  Two things, and those were all she needed

  The music was louder than expected, a pounding synthwave pulse that rattled through her bones, and the bottom floor was packed to the brim with night-dwellers and punkishly dressed southsiders. Some were jacked into towering braindance rigs, M-Gate visors strapped tight over glassy eyes, lost in loops of digital ecstasy. She could see it on their faces. They sipped lazily at cans of Iron Fang Lager, the bottom swill of choice: cheap, bitter, but strong enough to dull reality’s edge. In the ruddy half-light, phantom hands traced their bodies, algorithmically perfect virtual dancers grinding against them in private simulations. Behind the bar counter, androids dressed in suits tended to the south’s every demand, each of their faces smushed with food, alcohol, and various claw-nailed scratches. It was far easier for the southsiders to abuse the machines than for the androids to abuse them. Easier still for the south to exploit the androids than to march upstairs and spark a riot with the north, especially with armed security stationed at the stairway, scanning every face to ensure only the well-heeled and well-connected could make it up. Only Techstrum. Only those people. Which was why she had no problem getting through. She headed upstairs to the second floor, looking out for Mbale, scanning, sweeping the red-haze optic flush across the strobes, distilling everything down to numbers, to code. And there: Mbale Gond, sitting at the central bar that swept around the red carpet in a long rectangle, downing shot after shot with some of his higher-up colleagues, faces she’d not been promoted enough to recognise. To respect.

  None of that mattered now. For fifteen years, she had kept to herself, avoided conflict, played the game to build a spotless reputation and claw her way up the corporate ladder. But tonight, oh tonight, she was done waiting.

  A few colleagues greeted her as she passed, and she offered quick, polite responses, just long enough to avoid suspicion, but brief enough to escape the pull of pointless conversation. Then she headed over towards the alcoves, the VIP section, where Rico waited for her behind that mountain of a bouncer. Thankfully, he wasn’t talking to anyone else, wasn’t cutting any deals. He had set time aside just for her. He ordered Jog aside and Isolde stepped into the alcove, taking the seat across from him.

  “Thanks for seeing me, Rico,” Isolde said.

  He poured a glass of his favourite blue drink, Azure Veil, and slid it across the table to her. “I couldn’t pass up a meet with one of my top clients, now could I?”

  Isolde took a sip. It was strong but juicy, a blend between an apple and a lemon. “I need to ask you a favour.”

  Rico grinned, taking off his shades and tucking them away in the right chest pocket of his silver jacket. “You has my attention, Crane.”

  She looked back and saw Jog still guarding the alcove, blocking the view of the bar. She asked Rico to make him step aside, and he did. “Out there,” she said, pointing subtly, only for a second. “The black man with the cotton shirt.”

  Rico said, “Mbale.”

  She turned to face him. “You know Mbale?”

  “Seen him ’round,” he said flatly. Then, he leaned forward, a curious glint in his eye. “Where? And how long?” He had a strange knack for reading minds. He’d been in the business for the better part of twenty-five years, so she supposed it made sense.

  “In the back, somewhere alone, just for... thirty minutes,” Isolde said, not sure how long she would need exactly, but thirty minutes for sure sounded reasonable. She tipped at her glass nervously. “I just—I need to talk to him. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “Thirty minutes, in the security office downstairs, basement level,” Rico said. “That sounds good to you, Crane?”

  It did sound good. And for a moment, they just stared at each other, the kind of look shared by people who’d grown used to seeing eye-to-eye when money was on the table. “How much?” she asked, a question she used to dread, back when every eddy counted, and nowadays slipped from her lips with the ease of someone who no longer had to count at all.

  “Bag a minute,” said Rico.

  “Done,” she said. “But I need to know: how do you plan to get him in there? I would prefer if you didn’t hurt or force him.”

  How noble of you, It said. Do you really think the northsiders would have done the same for you? No, no. I recall a long, steel arm shoving you onto your backside while you desperately pled, ‘Ohhhhh muh-muh-muh dawwwww-terrrrrr.’ Pathetic, weak.

  Isolde took another sip of the Azure Veil, watching Rico think; she knew that face, where his eyebrows flexed and his lips curled to one side.

  He snapped his fingers. “Jog.”

  The mountain of a bodyguard didn’t turn fully, only nudged his head to the side, listening. Isolde didn’t think she’d ever heard that man speak, if he even could.

  Rico reached into his pants pocket, pulled out a wallet, and retrieved a hefty amount of fifty eurodollar bills. He handed them to Jog. “Head across the skybridge to Opaline and ask for Kaiza. You knows the one. And see that black man with short hair and the blue cotton?”

  Jog did.

  Rico reached into his left chest pocket and pulled out a small key-card. “Tells her to get him drunk and bring her down to the security office for a fun time. No sex, no kisses needed. Oh, and tells her to bring those pink little cuffs. She’ll know the ones I’m talkin’ about.”

  Jog nodded, once again not a word spoken out of those thick, rubbery lips, and just like that he was on his way.

  “Not a bad idea, actually,” Isolde said, and she brought up her wiring account on her neural display, transferring the funds across to Rico, thirty big ones.

  Rico chuckled, drumming his fingers on the glass table. “He’s gots a soft spot for Kaiza,” he said with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And hey, always a pleasure doin’ biz. Hope you don’t minds me askin’ for full payment up front. My turfs, my terms. Risky for me otherwise.”

  She rested her hands on the edge of the table, fingers tightening slightly. “No, I understand.” She swallowed hard. “It’s just I—I don’t think I’ll have any other opportunity.”

  They sat in awkward silence for a couple minutes, waiting.

  Then Rico leaned back as though he had all the time in the world. “Never did tell me why you wanted that shard. Somethin’ that powerful, wired into an OS that’d cook your brain soon as you tried runnin’ any heavy-duty quick-hacks. You handin’ it off to someone else?”

  He’d asked her before, and she had brushed him off. Now wasn’t going to be any different. “It’s personal,” she said.

  “Not many things are personal in N.A.,” said Rico. “How do you think I know what Mbale likes?”

  “A thin, petite woman?” Isolde let out a slight laugh. “Come on, that’s pretty much all men. Can’t go wrong with that.”

  “That so?” Another sip of his drink.

  Footsteps came from behind, those heavy, ground-eating stomps. Jog, of course. She looked back, and behind him stood a woman. She was pretty, no doubt about that, but to Isolde's surprise, perhaps even shock, she was also built like a statue carved by a sculptor with a mean streak. Muscle on top of muscle, lean and hard, like she’d been poured into her skin and left to set. Her dark complexion gleamed under the dancing ceiling lights. She wore something tight, black, and barely there, the kind of thing that didn’t so much cover as it did highlight. Thick braids swung over her shoulder and tipped just below her chest. She wasn’t huge by any means, but she sure as hell wasn’t tiny either.

  Isolde found it a little funny, though there was some concern. This was the woman Mbale liked? She supposed the old saying had some truth to it—different strokes for different folks—but this? This was a whole other category of different.

  “There’s your petite woman,” Rico said dryly, lifting his glass for another sip.

  “Hey, Rico,” Kaiza purred, her voice smooth. In her left hand was the pair of pink cuffs Rico was talking about.

  “Same guy as before,” Rico replied, casual but sharp. “’Member the one catcallin’ you last month? Swore he’d take you out to dinner in the plaza?”

  Kaiza turned, exhaling a short, humourless laugh. “Yeah. I remember.”

  “No kissin’, no sex,” he said. “Just get him drunk.”

  Jog handed her the key-card.

  “Take him down to the office, scan in,” Rico continued. “Cuff him to the side. He won’t put up no fight. Then this lady will come down to meet you.” He gestured to Isolde.

  Kaiza rolled her shoulder, lips curling in distaste. “Ugh. Fine. But it’s gonna take a while.”

  “Countin’ on it.”

  With that, Kaiza spun on her heel and strode towards the central bar. Her thick braids swayed behind her, and every muscle in her broad back rippled. Lights flashed across her oiled skin as she moved, a shimmer of sequins and shadow. Sure enough, Mbale’s face lit up the moment he saw her, that easy grin spreading wide, eyes sparkling like a kid on Christmas morning. He raised his glass in a half-toast, clearly pleased, clearly smitten. But Kaiza didn’t rush. She let him wait, let him drink her in. When she finally closed the distance, she slid onto the barstool beside him.

  Perfect. Now all she had to do was wait.

  “I’ll let you know when it’s time,” Rico said. “Speak to you on the holo. Later, Crane.”

  Isolde got up from the leather sofa and made her way wearily across the floor to a smaller, less crowded bar tucked beneath an enormous plasma-screen TV looping reruns of The Ember Code, a show she’d seen in passing but only remembered in fragments. It was about some underground resistance, hackers, something or other. Luke Styman played the villain, and she found him to be a very handsome man indeed. She was one of those women who had a thing for men who didn’t pride themselves on their display of masculinity but rather their ability to wear charm like a well-tailored suit, the kind who tucked a hand in their pocket and leaned against the doorway, the kind who didn’t need to raise their voice or flash expensive watches or ride first class because, truly, that sort of stuff was meaningless to its very core.

  But shows like The Ember Code were exactly that: shows, stories, fiction. In the real world, those things were hard to come by.

  The world needed changing.

  The night went on and on, and with each minute that passed she felt herself growing more nervous, thinking about all the things that could go wrong if she didn’t manage to pull this off successfully. After all, she’d never done anything like this.

  She’d been keeping a keen eye on him and Kaiza all throughout the night, leading into the first hour of the early morning, when the club was at its busiest. Her co-workers were dancing beneath the disco lights to the steady drum of high-beat tunes, the kind that didn’t require vocalists, only melodies and bump-bump-bump. She’d grown used to the bite of alcohol, but the rotten smell of cigars and cigarettes were harder to ignore, leaving a scratch in her throat that no amount of soda or water could soothe. It slithered down and left hot embers along her esophagus, but she didn’t puke, not yet. The voice wasn’t loud enough.

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  At twenty past one in the morning, she got the call from Rico, telling her that Kaiza had finally pulled Mbale off the seat. When she looked back, sure enough, they were over by the stairway and making their way down. Now was the time.

  Don’t mess this up. The thought slipped through her mind so easily that she couldn’t tell whether it was her own or It’s. Didn’t matter. She stood up, took a breath, and then made her way to the women’s bathroom on the opposite side of the floor. She stepped into an empty stall, unzipped her coat, and pulled out the red Oni-mask and MX case. She slowly positioned the mask over her face, locking it on tight; it was hot, difficult to breathe, but she didn’t care. She slid the MX case into her jean pocket and removed her coat completely. Squaring her shoulders, she stepped out of the stall, keeping the coat tucked under her arm. She saw the mask in the mirror and froze. The crimson Oni stared back at her, its sharp horns and denticulate grin stirring something colder than fear, a worming alien that crawled, licked, and gnawed at the surface of her flesh. And like one of those old horror novels where a boy stumbled into a dusty seaside shop run by an unsettling elderly man, she couldn’t tell if she was wearing the mask, or if it was wearing her.

  She made for the exit, stepped back into the floor, and briefly stopped by Rico’s alcove, asking him to hold on to her coat while she was down in the office, which he had no problem with. She hurried downstairs, one hand stuffed in her pocket, keeping the MX case from slipping out, looking a trifle bizarre to the south folk. An Oni-faced mask with a nifty white button-up and flat blue jeans wasn’t a particularly common combo, especially not for a northsider, but it would do.

  When she headed over to the door leading back to the security office, just right of the bar, Kaiza was waiting there, her muscular forearms curled into one another like steel cables, the key-card and band hanging safely from her thumb and forefinger.

  She handed the key-card to Isolde. “Have fun,” she said, once again in her velvety smooth voice, and then headed on her way.

  Okay, take a breath.

  She stepped into the dim hallway leading to the security office, the bright white light bleeding from its doorway and cutting through the shadows. She pressed the key-card to the scannerlock behind her and shut the door. Mbale was calling for Kaiza in a heavy drawl when Isolde finally stepped into the security office, finding him cuffed to a thick steel railing along the wall, his head lolling to one side, eyes glassy and unfocused. His shirt was half-untucked, and he swayed, barely able to sit upright in the chair. The pink cuffs clinked softly as he tugged, too drunk to care, a lazy grin spreading across his face when he thought Kaiza had finally come for him.

  “Kyyyyyy-zaaaaaa,” he drawled, then hiccupped. “Is that...?” Another hiccup. “Who are...? Where’s Kah-oooza. That muscle bitch.”

  Isolde pressed the key-card to the door, watching it slide shut. Then, after a moment, she marched over to Mbale and ripped the chair from under his feet. He slid forward and fell on his bottom, knocking his head against the wall.

  “What the fuck?” he said, voice a little clearer now.

  Isolde fished the MX case out of her pocket, unlocked it, and pulled out the syringe containing red liquid, virothene. She yanked his arm, finding that he was too weak and unsteady to fight back, and bunged the needle into his forearm, thumbing the plunger quickly, then jerking it back out. His eyes lit up, as if hit with smelling salts, and slowly he began to adjust to his surroundings.

  Isolde sat on the swivel directly in front of him, and after a minute or so, Mbale looked up at her and said, “Who the fuck are you?” Clear voice, steady. The serum worked.

  “You have information,” Isolde said, keeping her voice slightly low, putting on a fake accent, something like Russian, something like Ukrainian. She wasn’t quite sure. “And one way or another, you’re going to give it to me.”

  “Like hell I am,” said Mbale. “Do you have any idea who I fucking am? You filthy southside rat. You’re messing with some serious people. People who’ll tear you apart and leave what’s left for the vultures. So go on, play your little tough act. You’ll be begging me to put you down quick once I turn this entire city up on its head to have you killed. Do you fucking understand me, you southside cunt?”

  He’s afraid, said It. I can see it in his eyes. A grown man groveling, seething, a face that knows he’s at your mercy. And now it’s time for you to really let that sink in, Isolde. Don’t be a coward.

  Isolde opened her neural scanner, displaying the quick-hack list. Many of the quick-hacks had warnings next to them, indicating that high processing power was required, but she wasn’t planning to use anything, not yet. Oh, this was just a test. Her eyes would turn blue, and through the little holes in the Oni mask, Mbale would see that.

  Indeed, he did.

  “What are you doing?” he said, a hint of fear in his voice.

  “I have a Mark 4.7 GhostKey, built by the best black-market netrunners in the state,” Isolde said, her voice steady, almost casual, though inside, her heart was pounding. “I could wipe your brain stem in an instant—gone, just like that. Or”—she wheeled forward on the swivel—“I could do it the slow way. Let it crawl through your synapses, unraveling you piece by piece. You’d feel everything. The static in your head would turn to fire, your thoughts melting into white noise. You’d beg for it to end, but by then, you wouldn’t even remember what you were begging for.

  “You’re probably used to winning people over with money, with the idea that if they don’t let you live they’ll get nothing. But me? I couldn’t care less if you live or die. I’m not looking for money. I want answers. And you might not think it right now, but I’m gonna get them, whether you like it or not.”

  Mbale’s face twisted, the anger wilting like a flower left too long in the sun. The tough-guy bravado drained from his eyes, replaced by something darker, something small. His lips trembled, just a smidge, barely there, but enough. His eyes flicked to the door, then back to her, the way a cornered rat eyes the trap, knowing it’s already sprung. He swallowed hard, but the sound of it was loud in a room that played nothing but a continuous fluorescent thrum, like a nail tapping on glass.

  He’s nothing, It said. An insignificant worm.

  “You’re listening now, hey?” said Isolde.

  “What do you want?” Mbale asked, his voice soft, and she could tell he was doing his best to hide the quaver. It could tell, too.

  “Ourovane,” she said simply, leaning back on the swivel, flicking the empty syringe about in her hand. “Where are they?”

  “Ourovane?” Mbale said. “What the hell kind of nonsense could you possibly have with them?”

  Isolde tossed the syringe away and leaned forward, her mind hovering over the quick-hack, ‘Oroboros’, the only one that wouldn’t fry her in an instant, according to the data reading.

  “Wait!” he said in a panicked voice. “I don’t know where they are—that’s the truth.”

  Liar, It said.

  “My patience is wearing thin, Mbale,” said Isolde. “Either you start spitting what you know about Ourovane, or so help me God, I will make sure you spend the rest of your miserable life trapped in your own mind, screaming where no one can hear you.” Isolde’s voice was calm, too calm. She leaned in closer, eyes cold and glinting blue, like twin shards of broken glass.

  Mbale swallowed hard, his pulse thudding loud enough that Isolde almost thought she could hear it. “I—I swear,” he stammered, but the panic in his voice cracked it right down the middle. “I don’t know where they are, but—”

  “But what?” she whispered.

  Mbale’s breath hitched. “I know someone who does.”

  Isolde tilted her head slightly. “Now we’re getting somewhere,” she said softly. “Name, Mbale. Now.”

  “Vera Kain,” he blurted, the name tumbling out like a dam breaking. “She’s... she’s the broker. Handles their contracts. She’ll know where they are.”

  Liar, It hissed again, curling around her thoughts. She knew Mbale wasn’t giving her the full truth. The name is fake. He’s protecting someone.

  Isolde chuckled softly, a sound low and dry. She let out a long, tired sigh, the kind that seemed to drain the air from the room. For a moment, everything was still. Then, like a sprung trap, she exploded. The swivel chair shot back with a sharp screech, spinning aimlessly as she lunged forward. Her hand clamped around Mbale’s throat with a vice-like grip, pulling him close. His breath hitched, eyes wide with sudden terror as her face hovered inches from his. His groveling whimpers filled the room, but Isolde didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. She just held him there, steady, unshaken, like she had all the time in the world.

  “This is your last chance,” Isolde said coolly. “Tell me the fucking name.”

  But he wouldn’t answer; he just shook, whimpered. He was cracking, alright, but a lot more than she’d anticipated.

  No use, It said. Time for you to take it by force.

  Isolde was a little nervous about using Oroboros, but she had no choice; this weasel of a man was nearly pissing himself in her presence. She activated ‘Oroboros’ on her quick-hack list. As soon as it hit 100%, the world around her fractured like cracked glass, shattering into shimmering shards of code. Her vision tunneled, drawn towards Mbale’s wide, terrified eye—until suddenly, she was falling forward, plunging into the black abyss.

  She landed in cyberspace, the air buzzing, thrumming, shaking. Endless streams of red ones and zeroes cascaded around her, forming melted structures that pulsed like living memories, weaving in and out of focus. The ground beneath her boots hummed, translucent, unstable, shifting between solid and liquid with every step.

  She looked down at her arms, finding that they, too, were constructed of numbers, of code. This space.... It was... strange.

  Then she felt something—not alone.

  From the flowing data streams, a shape began to form. At first, just glitches in the code. But then it solidified. A figure stepped out from the torrent of ones and zeroes, every line of its form pulsing like a heartbeat. Bump, bump, bump. Steady now, adding more and more, fleshing out.

  It was her.

  Isolde stared at the figure standing across from her, identical in every way—same face, same eyes—but this version shimmered with a cold, digital brilliance. A smirk tugged at its lips, and the eyes burned with something primal, something... evil. It was here, lurking even in this world, a constant shadow she couldn’t escape.

  “Gonna fail again, aren’t you?” It whispered, voice crackling like corrupted audio files as it paced around her in slow, methodical steps. “Always so close, then you choke. That’s what you do best.”

  Isolde clenched her fists, trying to block out the voice gnawing at her focus, but It was part of her, woven into her code, her mind, her past. “We have a job to do,” she said.

  “Wrong,” said It, getting close to her face. “You have a job. I am merely giving you directions, methods, solutions. But you never listen. The only way you can take anything in this world is by force. You don’t get to be a weak, little worm if you want to make progress. Do you understand me?”

  “Get out of my fucking face,” Isolde said, shoving It aside. “I’m doing what you asked. I need to focus.” She turned away, pushing forward through the red sea of data towards the memory unit she needed. But she could feel It behind her, every step, every breath.

  “Do you even know what you’re looking for?” It said.

  She did, and she could see them. Just there, in the distance. Memory units. They hung in the crimson void like battered filing cabinets left to rot in a basement no one visited anymore. Each one was a distorted block of code, edges twitching and jittering like something barely holding itself together. They weren’t pristine data streams or digital constructs. No, they were ugly things: fractured, rusted in a way that didn’t make sense for a cyber world, dripping long, oily lines of corrupted digits that slithered down their sides and pooled at their bases like blood. Some pulsed, weak, somewhat dim, as if trying to forget themselves, while others glowed too bright, too hot, their surfaces vibrating with the pressure of secrets they weren’t meant to hold, on the cusp of bursting. Along she went, feeling heavy; it was like trying to navigate through wet mud. The units buzzed in and out of existence, half-formed images flashing across their surfaces: half-remembered faces stretched into grotesque grins, distant screams caught in an endless loop, places that never quite solidified before shuddering into static.

  Oh, how terrifying it all was. But Isolde pushed on, farther now. Farther. Farther.

  Each unit was a trap in its own right. Touch the wrong one, and you’d feel it, like sticking your hand into a nest of live wires and bad dreams. The data inside them wasn’t just stored. It was technically alive, twitching, writhing, begging to be left alone while daring you to dig deeper. And the worst part? Some of them watched. No eyes, no cameras, just a sense: frigid and crawling up your spine, as if the memories themselves knew you were there, and they didn’t like it.

  Her eyes scanned the twisted landscape of Mbale’s mind, looking for the right unit, the one that would give her what she needed. That one, she thought, stepping forward, but the unit hissed at her approach, sparks of red code spitting from its corners.

  It was strange-looking; the face was very much... serpent-like, and directly at the bottom of the unit there was a symbol of a snake eating its own tail. Ouroboros. It had to be this one, just had to be. But it would hurt to access. Would hurt a lot.

  She sucked in a deep breath, preparing for the pain. And then, slowly, she reached out her hand and the snake bit.

  She screamed, and her voice echoed through the void, muffled, beating. Her breath hitched as fragments of Mbale’s memories slammed into her like a crashing wave.

  A dimly lit room. The clink of glasses. Mbale, leaning back in a cracked leather chair, laughing with someone she couldn’t quite see. A voice: raspy, middle-aged, feminine.

  “Ourovane’s not the type you just stumble across, Mbale. You want access, you come through me.”

  The memory glitched violently, threatening to collapse, but Isolde pushed deeper, forcing her mind through the distorted mush of code. She could feel It watching, whispering, waiting for her to slip. But she didn’t. The scene sharpened. A face. Pale, sharp features, eyes too empty to be anything but dangerous. Platinum hair slicked back, a single black datajack gleaming at their temple. A name echoed through the memory, clear. So very clear.

  Cieris Marlow.

  A table. She was sitting at a table. And there was someone across from her.

  Isolde felt the memory strain against her intrusion, but she held on, desperate for more. Mbale said, “And if I need to find you, Cieris?”

  A smirk. “Paxson, outside Neo Arcadia. The Bone District. Third level. Look for the white neon snake. If you ever decide to branch out overseas. Might be worth considering. The NACP are looking for some innovative tech companies.”

  “The Bone District,” It said. “Paxson. But you know the place well, don’t you, little Isolde Crane?”

  Oh, she did. All too well. It was the place she had clawed her way out of, the place where she was born.

  “I do appreciate you handing over these schematics, dear friend,” said Cieris, tapping the documents on the table. “But I have to make you aware, this is strictly business. If anyone finds out about this, and if you send anyone after us, you will be terminated. I know you might think you’re safe in that corporate powerhouse everyone likes to deem as unbreakable, but we can just as easily wipe out your entire workforce. Do you understand me, Mbale?”

  “I do,” his voice echoed, and he offered her a handshake. “I wouldn’t tell anyone. It’s my job on the line, my life on the line. I have no reason to.”

  “So, you’re a man of your word?” said Cierus, cocking an eyebrow, accepting his handshake.

  “Absolutely,” he said. “You don’t get far in business by cheating your partners.”

  Funny, said It. All that man ever does is lie and cheat. They always do.

  Isolde couldn’t believe it: finally, a significant lead. This was a huge step. Paxson, her home-town, the place she’d departed, the place she’d met... Rhyce.

  The memory unit convulsed, the cabinet splitting open as red code sprayed out like arterial blood. Isolde staggered back, jerked her hand away just in time as the entire unit shattered into digital shards that disintegrated before they hit the ground.

  But that was okay. She had what she came for.

  It was close now, too close. She could feel the breath on her neck, hear the distorted laughter crackling in the static-filled void. “Finding her won’t be an issue,” It said. “But negotiating with an old ghost... now that’s something you’re gonna have to figure out. You better hope she’s not dead, not buried in some dumpster under a bridge.”

  The crimson code began to fracture around her, Mbale’s mind rejecting her presence. She felt the pull, the violent snap of reality dragging her back. Then, like being hurled through a pane of glass, she was out. The security office swam back into focus. Mbale groaned beneath her grip. Sweat slid down from her brow and dripped under her mask.

  She wanted to puke, but she couldn’t remove her mask for any reason, so she just barely tipped it open, sucking in fresh air.

  Cierus Marlow. Bone District. She had a name, a place. But her gut continued to twist, to churn.

  Because It was right.

  Finding her wouldn’t be the hard part.

  Negotiating with her would be.