The bodies keep piling up. The tech gets older. The answers get worse.
Chapter 5 – Hypnagogia in Assembly
We didn’t find shit.
After casing the area for six hours, shaking down witnesses Mort identified from my retinal recordings, and getting soaked in the rain—we called it off.
I woke up in my apartment to the sound of the radio tuned to WJAZ playing Mood by Miles Davis. Peeking out the window I saw the rain hadn’t stopped. Clouds blocked out the sky and the hologram ads were barely visible. I managed to get up and get coffee started, fumbling in the fridge for a beer and a pill of pink charge. I downed it with a bottle of Kirin in the shower. I turned the knobs, the pipes rattled, and the timer started. 45 seconds, with the first 20 being cold as ice. Maybe I could pay off the maintenance man to rig up my credits again, but I’d need a bonus first. I looked down at my ankles and saw the angry red abrasions. I lifted a leg to look closer when suddenly my vision spiked.
Everything went red as white assembly language scrolled in countless directions, finally giving way to four letters: Oedo. A grating metallic voice repeating it over and over.
Repeated a million times.
I reached and pushed my temple port.
“Mort.”
“Yeah, what? I’m at home trying to fucking relax.”
“I got something.”
“Sigh, you still know the place right?”
“Ya.”
I shuddered, fucking hate the netrunner quarters.
Chapter 6 – Digital Benzos and Television
The rain had picked up more and the temperature was falling fast. I knew once underground at least I’d be out of the chill. I rolled on the street and found the alley, the only one barricaded off for cruisers, several of the boys in blue opened the gate, shotguns on their hips, faces hardened from the ever increasing acidic rain.
“Well, well, well the man himself.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
I flipped my badge and the blue took a scan from his palm sensor.
“Formality, you know how it is.”
I cracked a half smile. “Formality, of course.”
I eased in and parked. As I made my way down into the netrunner enclave I noticed the halls of stainless steel were spotless. Not even a trash can or cigarette butt. I flicked down my half smoked one, and as it hit the floor it was hit by a scan that evaporated it in an instant.
Fucking freaks.
Mort was outside his door, dressed in black robe decorated with red handwoven dragon outlines.
“You shouldn’t litter.”
“You shouldn’t sew.”
We entered his apartment and to my surprise it was red shag carpet, filthy, and had nothing but takeout boxes, one table, and a TV on the ground so old it still had antenna ears.
He sat down and hit a button.
A single terminal that resembled an Apple II descended down from the ceiling over the table.
“Alright, what is it.”
“Somethings got me fucked up, virus I think.”
He sighed, and detached a cable from the back of the terminal motioning for me to attach to my spinal port.
I jacked in and immediately felt like I had just downed a bottle of benzos.
“Good shit right?”
“Fuck, this what you do off work?”
“Mostly.”
He flipped on the TV and Bugs Bunny was tormenting Elmer Fudd.
“Alright let’s see here… ooooo, yeah. You got something.”
“Okay doctor strange, what is it?”
“Eh, looks like some residue from your wire escapade, simple shit, some old preliminary data, ahhh… wait. It’s a txt. Bonestack_01 protocol, some old shit I guarantee from your run in with that body. Hmm… coordinates, and… huh, points to the Old Tokyo police station. Fucking weird. Nothing underground has been online in years, save for a few security protocols.”
“There something wrong with me?”
“Nah, clean now. But you and McSweeney might go under and take a look in Oedo.”
“Yeah right, maybe with a squad.”
“Good luck getting that budget, there ain’t shit down there but I dunno. Something uploaded wanted you to know.”
I felt a slight dread and popped another peach football as Mort jacked out so I could squash the feeling.
“Keep this between us Mort, I don’t wanna have to file the paperwork.”
“Shit, works for me. You want a beer?”
“Yeah.”
We sat and drank Kirin Ichiban and watched Looney Tunes.
Chapter 7 – The Law Breaks the Law
Tuesday morning.
I checked in and sat down at my desk, lighting another Camel and taking long sips of coffee.
McSweeney and I were talking about underground Odeo.
“Yeah Mort saw some shit, few things online, maybe we should go check it out.”
“No way we can get a cruiser down there.”
“Yeah, but there’s a rail system—”
Then the whole place went into red alert. Everyone’s terminal auto-switched to a call and files began popping up.
Someone said, “The fuck?” Might have been me.
Geared up squads started running down the halls. The window barricades slammed down with thunks all around the building.
I checked the screen.
There was a panic button call from Chief Watson’s house.
I grabbed my keys and McSweeney by his collar from the coffee machine. Out in the lot cruisers were taking off, SWAT vans, a mobile HQ, and full bomb squad. We jumped in my Thunderbird III and spooled up the J75s, hitting the afterburner before the internal temps had a chance to even regulate. I flipped on the overhead red and blues. McSweeney was sweating then started doing the thing with his Glock. Racking it and ejecting a round. Loading it. Racking it.
“Calm the fuck down, asshole probably spotted some punks on his lawn. Put your harness on.”
He didn’t say anything.
I gave him a peach football and flicked on the radio. Midair Decision by Simon Phillips cracked out of the speakers as we weaved through skyway traffic at mach 2.54, outpacing the department thanks to my illegal hot-rodding. I pulled a barrel roll between big rigs and the digital CB immediately lit up with:
FUCK YOU PIG
METRO EAT SHIT
DIE IN A FIRE
This gave me an idea.
“Pull up a terminal, see what you can get at the house.”
“The netrunners are already on it.”
“Just run a scan or call up fucking Mort goddamnit.”
McSweeney began to fuck with the onboard computer:
As expected, we were first on scene. The house seemed fine, a large McMansion with gaudy stucco and adorned in stainless steel trim.
I turned to McSweeney, “Alright, let’s go in.”
“No, let’s wait for backup and let SWAT do it.”
“Fuck no, I might not like Watson but he’s the boss, get your shit.”
Mort chimed in, “Dunno Rich maybe you should wait.”
“Shut up desk jockey.”
We jumped out, my S&W Model 29 in hand.
McSweeney racked his Glock 17 yet again.
I eased it open, brought my magnum down to eye level and slowly we worked our way into the atrium, checking corners.
“YO, CHIEF?!”
Nothing.
All was quiet.
We made our way to the stairs, hearing squad trucks pull up outside and our comms link. Hakimura, the SWAT leader pinged us. “The fuck are you guys doing in there? We’re headed in.”
“About time motherfucker!”
At the top of the stairs we found a pool of blood and wire fragments. Smeared red footprints lead to a slightly ajar door, the room beyond was dark, minus the ghostly cast of a television screen flashing.
I eased it open, and to our shock—Watson was strung from the corners of the ceiling, wires woven through his torso, moving slowly like snakes in winter. Worse, he was alive, shaking, muffled as wires crept down his throat.
“Jesus Christ.”
McSweeney got sick.
“Mort you seeing this?”
He was watching my retinal implants from HQ.
“Unfortunately.”
“Think we got a chance for med-evac?”
“Yeah, wait for them.”
Watson’s eyes locked onto mine and then began to fade. At that moment the chief’s lower half separated from the top with a sickening splash as wires pulled tight. Blood, bile, and chrome flowed out with his internal organs, all with wires woven throughout.
Mort spoke up again over comms, “Um, maybe not.”
Squads started pouring in, clearing rooms, yelling, Hakimura walked in with med-evac in tow. I saw several men pop pills behind grimacing faces.
The wires kept moving and in blood on the wall they wrote out slowly:
