That the Brown has its own personal ’Net, the Web, is an open secret among those who want to know. Actually getting into the Web is much harder. Part of it is the standard grayhat fetish for crypto, but it also serves the gummies’ interests to quarantine us away from those who live in the dryburbs, present us as a danger to keep the others in line. They tolerate the anarchic little corner we occupy as long as we keep our firewalls hot, but it’s not true privacy. That went away a long time ago, despite the illusory freedom of the Brown.
Besides, it’s not like they can’t drone the megaspire whenever they feel like it, I think sourly. The shattered shell of the ninety-third floor is proof of that—some arrogant blackhat dumped a few too many secrets about a few too many influential people, and then one night the drones showed up. Only, instead of suppression loadouts, this time they were packing wargear. No one’s bothered to rebuild it since.
I glance through what passes for a news network on the Web while I walk to the first address. It’s the usual mishmash of conspiracy theories, technical updates, malware ads, and job requests, everything in shades of gray, but nothing looks out of the ordinary. Just another day trying to scrape out a living in a world with no place for dreams.
A gently blinking icon appears—private message—and I smile. I already recognize the sender’s encryption key. There are only a few people who I talk to on the Web these days, and almost all are for business.
This is the only one for pleasure.
<<Wanna get together?>>
I tap out a response, hands still hidden in my hoodie’s pockets, heart thumping at the innocuous words.
<<Yeah, gimme a few. Gotta run a couple errands first.>>
<<K. Be waiting.>>
<<K.>>
I skip up a flight of stairs, and with a start, I realize I’m grinning like a fool. The expression feels strange on my face, but I relish the sensation for a minute or two, then regretfully let it fade. Walking around in the Brown like that wouldn’t be the best of ideas; it’s not as bad as some of the other megaspires, but people who feel the future is leaving them behind tend to do dangerous things. I’d prefer not to be a statistic. Stairs pass under my feet, my muscles protesting slightly, but they’re already recovering from this morning and it feels good to stretch them out.
After another fifteen flights, my glasses alert me that I’m on the right floor, and I duck through a bead curtain draped across the stairwell exit. It gives off a soft rattle, like dusty snake scales brushing on gravel. Another warning—warnings everywhere, people claiming the illusion of control.
A hallway stretches before me, metal doors on either side. One glows green, outlined in my vision. I check to make sure no one’s waiting to score an easy mark, then knock on the door, two quick raps. It opens with a rattle of chains, and I slide the carton into the gap. A whiff of chilled air is my only response—the unmistakable signature of a server farm. As soon as the carton passes the door, it slams shut. Whoever’s inside must be working on a particularly difficult coding problem. Makes me glad Johnny insists on payment before delivery, though—don’t feel like shaking some techhead down to collect.
I head back to the stairs, my next stop another three floors up. As I slip back through the bead curtain, my glasses blink again—a message from an old working partner, a friend I still talk to occasionally. The last time we spoke, her name was Ryeen. It could be anything now. I tap it open.
<<Sup.>>
<<What do you want?>>
<<Couple clients asking for the best. Rich ones. Your other name still carries a lot of weight, figured I’d see if you were interested. We always worked well together.>>
<<No. You know I’m done.>>
<<It’s easy money. Twenty minutes, tops. Unless you want to make some serious creds, and do it in the real. Those rich fucks pay out the nose for that. Send an orbital hopper and everything.>>
<<I told you, I’m out. For real.>>
<<Fine. Your loss. Well, mine too, but I’m just jealous. How’s your moms?>>
<<Same as always. Busted, not enough money to fix her.>>
<<That’s why I pinged. You sure?>>
<<Absolutely. Stay safe.>>
<<You too.>>
I close out the message and rub my face, trying to keep the memories from rushing back. It doesn’t work. Ryeen means well, but I never liked ghosting with strangers. When things got bad, after Mom was in the hospital and Dad left, it was the only way to raise the money she needed, but I hated it. Hated the way it made me feel, meeting a john in hapspace, his phantasmal touch on my body, the feel of his flesh beneath my fingers, even knowing he wasn’t really there. Hated having to surrender myself to someone I didn’t know, a stranger’s groping hands running along my skin, feeling him inside my suit. I was good at it, good enough to pay Mom’s hospital bills, good enough to keep me and Kiro fed, but I never enjoyed it, not like Ryeen and the others. I could fake it well enough, lose myself in Ryeen and ignore everything else when it got too intense, but now that I have the Game, I’m never going back. Not unless I’m the one in control.
I trudge up the next two flights of stairs, my earlier energy fading. Several figures dash past me, heading down, a pack of courier boys racing to deliver datasticks, their refurbished tacboots clanging on the metal stairs. The Brown has its own ’Net, sure, but there are some things the grayhats don’t want anyone snooping on, and the only way to keep them secure is physical transfers to airgapped servers. I wave at the last one, but he’s too busy keeping his balance around the turns to acknowledge me. I continue upward.
Another rattling chain, another carton delivered. Busy, busy coders, toiling away in their cells, reliant on drones to keep them alive, hoping drones don’t make them dead. My next delivery is on the same floor, on the other side of the megaspire. A waypoint appears in my vision, like a ghostly green will-o’-the-wisp. I chase it down dark corridors, relishing the chance to run free, unencumbered by the Game, my mood rising once more. Climate-controlled air streams past my face, dropping my hood across my shoulders, my bangs whipping from side to side. A smile slowly creeps back onto my lips. Courier boys got nothing on me.
I round a corner and slam into a broad-shouldered figure, knocking the dark black AR glasses off his face. The two of us spring apart, the duffel bag slamming against my back and then the wall behind me, metal clasps clinking dully against the bare steel. I stammer out an apology. “Sorry, sorry, my fault. You okay?”
“Watch where you’re going, you stupid bitch. I’m looking for someone.”
My eyes narrow at the hostile tone.
“Excuse me?”
I take a closer look, and silently swear. The chiseled features, the tight-fitting clothes, the twisting sneer. Of all the people to run into. I notice his expression harden, and my stomach drops. He recognizes me too, without the hood to shadow my face. I hate this fucking place.
“Well, well, well, and it looks like I found her. If it isn’t Ashura, all alone in the Brown. What floor you on these days, girl?” He picks his glasses up, idly polishing them. “I’ve been up and down this damn tower for a week trying to find you. Me and the boys have been trying to pay you a visit. A shame you moved out of your old place. Greentower was so much nicer than this dump.”