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Omicron Theta - 817 A.S.

The view from the cabin was magnificent. Green nebulae stretched in every direction, illuminated by Omicron Thetas pale sun; wispy fingers of gas stretched forth into the otherwise empty vacuum of space. In the distance, Freeport 9 could be seen, a glimmering speck of metal silhouetted against the hazy curtain of green, the lone watchman over this desolate beauty. In three hours, the Hermes would be safely harbored within the Freeports walls, and its crew would be back in civilization, or as close to civilization as could be found here, on the frontiers of explored space.

The crew of the Freelance Shipper Hermes consisted of just two people, Jake Armitage and Scott Sandison. They had been working together in one capacity or another for close to a decade now, with the last five years dedicated to helming this vessel. Nonetheless, it would be difficult to say that either man knew the other particularly well; a chance meeting and subsequent series of unplanned events had forced the two to work together, and whatever friendship they had cultivated was borne out of necessity.

Armitage glanced over at the copilots chair, in which Sandison was firmly dozing. It was a well-deserved rest: Scott was coming off a 36-hour shift at the helm and Jake would finish the last few hours of the trip. As if its not lonely enough out here, Jake thought. Between the two of us, ones always asleep. Though, Armitage couldnt say he hated the solitude. It gave him time to reflect how he a man who spent the first twenty years of his life worming his way into the Liberty underground ended up making his living among the farthest reaches of the cosmos.

******

Planet Los Angeles, California System - 808 A.S.

Planet Los Angeles a byzantine patchwork of ghettos, sprawling shopping malls and high rises, a place where the only difference between its bums and its high rollers was a a few fleeting moments of success. L.A. didnt forgive mistakes; one wrong step would send you right back to the end of the line, someone else all too eager to take your place. There were, of course, the lucky few who sold their souls to the devil in exchange for success plastic, shrink-wrapped success, manufactured in the planets darkest recesses and sold off wholesale. And yet - people still flocked here, like moths to a lamp. Did they really think they could be somebody here? In this sea of humanity that was ready to swallow you up and pull you under at any moment? They must have been misinformed. Only fools came to Los Angeles willingly.

Jake Armitages parents fell squarely into that category of those who came to LA to strike it big. Jakes father had found his calling, a management position in Synth Foods which guaranteed an exit from his meager working-class existence as a day laborer. With wife and child in tow, he left Planet Manhattan and eagerly set to creating a new life on L.A. The wife, meanwhile, promised herself she would get around to completing her degree and starting a career as soon as little Jake was all grown up.

For the first few years things went well the father developed a knack for peddling food-in-a-tube to trendy bars and restaurants planetside (artificial food for artificial people was his motto) while the wife did her best stay-at-home mom routine. But their marriage was slowly dying. The husband had picked up some acquaintances at work that he would go out to drink with every night, while the wife sat home and fumed silently.

The facade came crumbling down spectacularly one fine night, when the husband came home at an ungodly hour, completely drunk and smelling of cheap hookers perfume. The City and its allures had taken their toll.

Fast forward seven years. Jake is eighteen, his parents long since divorced, and he is shuttled between households on a weekly basis. He has few people he would call friends and lives an almost invisible existence, save for one thing: hes got this one, well, friend is too strong a word acquaintance who has introduced him to Hacking. It was small-time stuff, of course identity fraud, releasing malware into retinal scan software, phishing and the like but it made Armitage a somebody. By his eighteenth year, he was carrying out special requests for a broad clientele of minor crooks and wanna-bes. The acquaintance that brought Jake into this seedy world worked behind the curtains, arranging jobs for the boy in exchange for a cut of the profits. He also assured Jake that there was no crime being committed here nobody was getting hurt, and the money being taken was chump change. Hell, Jake was doing a public service by pointing out security weaknesses. Jake convinced himself of this just enough to suppress the pangs of guilt that occasionally still surfaced within him.

It was only a matter of time before Armitages activities would draw the attention of interested parties, and in this case the process was expedited by a stroke of good luck. Scott Sandison was two years Armitages senior and was a classmate of his in grade school, but more importantly, Sandison had an older brother working for the Junkers. They were nothing major out here in LA, an offshoot of the Junkers Liberty braintrust working out of New York. But nonetheless, Junkers meant connections and that was what mattered. Having connections in Los Angeles meant the money was sure to follow Sandison saw his brother living the life of a minor New Hollywood celebrity and wanted to follow in his footsteps. He could hardly be blamed for his ambition.

The only problem was that Scott had nothing to offer to the Junkers. He was riding on his brothers coattails and everybody knew it, Scott especially, and it was only time before his brother would leave him behind to a life of petty theft and small-time racketeering. He was on a desperate lookout for the opportunity to prove his worth, but what that might be, he did not yet know.

That all changed with a visit to the Alhambra.

******

From the street, a nondescript and burned-out neon sign gave the only indication that the building next to it was occupied. Down a short flight of stairs you would come to a thick door adorned with leather and sealed with multiple steel locks; a security guard would eye you through the peephole and if you looked familiar or willing to bribe your way in - the locks came undone and youd make your way into a world totally apart from the slums outside.

The Alhambra was a club and a bar and also served as a place of business for societys seedier elements. Though it was situated on the outskirts of the Commerce District a squalid industrial dump home to some of LAs most destitute it was frequented by people of influence, who preferred to conduct their dealings away from the omniscient surveillance systems that constantly monitored most of the planets habitable areas. The Commerce District was deemed too inconsequential, and too dangerous, for the authorities to intrude upon.

Scott Sandison stood at the door and gave it a rap. The peephole slid open, a suspicious eye scanned him up and down the door was unlocked. Even if Scott had not been a regular here, his brothers reputation would have ensured that Scott was always welcome at the Alhambra. Scott stepped inside.

Immediately Scott was engulfed in the familiar stifling haze of cigarette smoke that never left the premises. Aside from turning breathing into a chore, it served as a useful cover for those who wished to not be seen. The silhouettes of patrons, tinted blue by strobes, floated in the smoky mist like apparitions. Grinding electronic music blared. No matter how many times he frequented this place, Scott always felt like he was stumbling through a bad dream here. Nonetheless, if you were looking for a quick buck and werent too picky about the employer, there wasnt a better spot to be, and Scott was in just such a situation. This had been his third visit in a week, and he had been informed that an opportunity would present itself on this night.

Scott made a note of his surroundings: to his right, a group of rowdy men that were unmistakably Liberty Rogues, arguing amongst themselves over a game of cards; up ahead, a small dance floor and behind that, the counter at which the bartender kept busy; off to the left, in the back corner, sat a man alone at a table, puffing a cigarette and toying with his lighter. They called this man by Black Adam, and he was a fixer. Scott was here to see him.

Mind if I sit? he asked as he approached the table.

Black Adam nodded without looking up from his cigarette. Skipping all introductions, he began: Tonights your lucky night, kid.

Well, third times a charm, right?

If you say so. Listen, Adam leaned over the table, this assignment Ive got, its pretty sensitive. I cant afford to let anyone muck this one up. Youve been reliable up till now, just like your brother, but up to this point youve been nothin but a delivery boy. Black Adam reclined back into his chair and paused to let the statement sink in. Then he continued, You understand my reluctance to give you this job?

I came here for employment, Adam. If you dont have any for me Ill look elsewhere. It was an empty threat, but the last thing Scott needed to hear was how wet behind the ears he was.

Black Adam forced a smile. Of course. Wouldnt want to waste your time, kid. Again leaning over the table, he continued. You ever heard of a guy named Frank Gibson?

I havent.

Neither did we, until about a month ago. He showed up out of nowhere, started out selling club drugs to the ravers; we didnt think anything of him at first, just another street dealer probably too strung out on his own product to be turning a profit. Well, turns out this guys got bigger aspirations.

Last week he was spotted dealing to the junkies over in Beggars Bay. Our junkies. Black Adams face turned very sour as he spoke. Somehow, this guy is offering high-grade cardamine at lower costs than what we buy the stuff off Rochester for. Theres two likely possibilities: hes with a new outfit as of yet unknown to us, or hes a snitch. Either way, we dont know whos supplying him.

You dont think it could be the Bishops? Scott asked. The Bishops were a tight-knit criminal family and a branch of the California Junkers whose presence on Los Angeles extended back almost a hundred years.

No, we talked to the Bishops, they said they never heard of the guy. And I doubt theyd be lying we settled our score with them years ago, and now theyre practically business partners with us. Besides, Old Man Bishop is getting soft, hes all about going out with a clean conscience. Hes too old for a stunt like this.

All right. So where do I come in, then?

I want to know where Gibsons supply is coming from. Itll be useful information to obtain before he isdispatched. Adam flashed a wicked grin. Of course, I wouldnt trust you to do this all on your own. Youll be working with a partner.

Adam directed his gaze toward the counter. An ill-at-ease young man, whom Scott hadnt noticed earlier, was glancing back in the direction of the table out of the corner of his eye. He could scarcely have been older than eighteen. Black Adam gestured for him to come over.

Scott, Id like you to meet a certain protege of mine, said Adam. This is Jake Armitage, and hes gonna be hacking Ageira mainframes some day soon.

Jake Armitage? Scott held out his hand. Im Scott Sandison. Pleased to meet you.

After brief introductions were exchanged, Jake seated himself at the table and Black Adam resumed with the discussion at hand. Frank Gibson has been seen coming and going from a flat in Beggars Bay. You two will stake out the place tomorrow night. If Gibson isnt there, see if you can find a way into his apartment. Most likely if hes as smart as he seems hes got all the valuable info stored away in cranial implants, and I doubt that hes careless to leave anything important lying around. So, I dont expect you two to find out anything I dont already know, but Id like to have all my bases covered.

This job is only as risky as you two make it. Dont do anything stupid and youll be okay. Are we clear?

Scott and Jake dutifully confirmed that they were clear on this.

Good, said Adam, getting up from his stool. My job's done here; you two work out the details between yourselves. Ill be expecting you back here tomorrow night with a full report. Until then, take it easy.

A minute later, Black Adam was out the door and Scott and Jake were staring awkwardly at their feet, neither one wanting to initiate conversation. Finally, Jake broke the silence.

You know Adam too?

Yeah. I do, said Scott. How the hell do you know him?

Its a funny story, I guess. He caught me on one of my first hacks, tapping into the New Hollywood holovid lines you know, just to see if I could do it. Well, it turned out I could but I didn't do so hot covering my tracks. Adam picked up my trace easy enough. I guess he was impressed enough with my skills that he asked me to work for him-

Jake couldnt repress an air of self-satisfaction. Techno brat, Scott thought, hoping it wasn't out loud.

Tapping into vid lines? Youre freaking nuts, and damn lucky it wasnt LSF that got to you first.

Chill out, bro! It all worked out nicely, in case you didnt notice, Jake replied. And anyway, yourewho, exactly? Adam didnt tell me anything about you.

Scott looked at his watch. We can get to all that tomorrow night. Now, lets go over exactly how were doing this. You have a car?

Yeah, said Jake.

Then dont bring it with you unless you want it broken into and jacked. And it will get broken into, where were going. Take the metro to this address Scott handed Jake a holo-card that illuminated some digits and letters, and Ill meet you there at eight oclock, sharp. Questions?

Jake signaled no.

Shortly thereafter, Jake and Scott were taking their leave of the Alhambra. As he made his way home, Scott Sandison played the same thought over and over again in his mind, and the thought was you gotta be kidding me, Adam. You got me babysitting now? You gotta be ****ing kidding me.

******

[Image: Gang_city_by_radoxistCROPPED.jpg]

[color=#CCCCCC]
The railcar stopped. As the doors slid open, the smell of sewage and industrial pollutants wafted in, and Jake was certain that this was his stop. He had never been to Beggars Bay, but the filth of that place was legendary; even the neighboring Commerce District, itself the desiccated remnant of reckless industrial expansion, was a world apart from the noxious wasteland that was the Bay. Jake stepped out onto the platform the air was musty and the ground was wet after a ferocious rainstorm that was just beginning to subside. Wet litter clung to Jakes shoes as he made his way down to the streets.

Jakes earpiece began to chirp. He touched his finger to it to connect to the incoming call yeah? Its Scott. Where are you?

I just got off at the station.

All rightand watch your step, while you're at it. Those gutters are flowing with industrial runoff theyll eat your shoes right off. Click. Signal dropped.

The rendezvous point was in front of a dilapidated apartment building illuminated from the street by flaming garbage bins. This was the address that Black Adam had given them this was Gibsonsresidence? It was certainly the perfect place to disappear.

Jake! Over here!

A familiar voice came from behind a heap of discarded mattresses. Jake obliged its call and snuck around behind the heap, where he found Scott Sandison frozen in a crouch and looking as alert as humanly possible. Jake figured that joining him in that position would be a wise move and followed suit. You see that window on the fifth floor, two from the corner- Scott pointed in that direction, thats the place. The lights are on and I saw someone inside, so I figure well wait it out here.

For the next hour, Scott and Jake waited for the residence to be vacated. Finally, the lights went out, and after a minute the sound of footsteps became audible, then grew louder as they travelled down the stairwell. Scott and Jake quickly burrowed themselves in between mattresses just in time to see a black man, sporting a trenchcoat and incongruously, considering the time of day a pair of shades, exiting the tenement. The man took a casual glance about his surroundings, lit a smoke and walked away opposite the direction of the duos hiding spot. When he was out of sight, the boys cautiously made their way into the building.

There were no working lights on the ground floor and it was practically pitch black, but after some stumbling about they found the stairwell and ascended to the fifth floor. If the building was inhabited, they couldnt tell from navigating its corridors. It was ghostly silent and dark, very dark. Neither boy had thought to bring a flashlight, so they had to make do with Scotts lighter for illumination. 512, 513 Jake read off the door numbers as they snuck past each one. Finally, 522, the one they were looking for.

You think we should knock? Jake made a nervous attempt at humor.

Really funny. Why dont you help me figure out how to get this door open?

The first lock on the door was a typical access slot for keycards. Jake took his deck out of his jacket and performed a quick scan on the lock; he then got out a blank keycard, transferred the hacked access code from his deck to the blank, and inserted it into the door slot. The phony card worked, but there was another lock to undo, an old-fashioned metal bolt. Scott took his turn fiddling with the lock, which gave way under the twisting and prodding of his lockpick.

Scott nudged the door open while standing clear of the entryway, wary of a booby trap. Nothing happened. He tiptoed into the room with Jake close behind.

And he came to a dead stop when he saw the body propped up against the wall.

[color=#CCCCCC]What the-

Scott couldnt turn around fast enough to implore Jake to keep quiet, but it turned out not to matter; the kids vocal cords tried to make a thousand exclamations at once, and tangled themselves in a knot so that ultimately no sound came out. Telling Jake to pull his nerves together and patrol the doorway, Scott began his investigation of the corpse. It belonged to a male, and it was still fresh, the rigor mortis just beginning to creep in. There was no sign of a bullet wound or blunt trauma. One sleeve was rolled up, revealing scarred-up needle marks, a dead giveaway that this man was a junkie. Did he OD? Turning on the faint light on his wristwatch, Scott ran the light along the neck and discovered a tiny red spot that appeared to be from an injection. But unlike the other marks it had no bruising and, judging by its awkward position on the neck, was likely administered by someone else.

He was poisoned, and the trenchcoat was responsible that Scott was sure of. Was this their guy, Frank Gibson? There was a wallet in the shirt pocket, stuffed with cash and nothing else; a search of the body revealed no identification of any kind. The only other place left to look was a cluttered desk in the corner, one of the few objects in the room besides some chairs and a refrigerator. Scott rummaged through the papers on the desktop, which turned out to be unopened bills and junk adverts, then turned his attention to the drawers. The desk had two of them: in the top one, Scott found a transparent baggy full of cardamine powder, which he stowed away in his jacket; the bottom drawer was electronically sealed. There were deep scratches crisscrossing the handle, suggesting that someone had already tried to pry the thing open to no avail.

Hey Jake! Come check this out, Scott called to Jake, who was keeping his eyes on the corridor. Can you try a hand at this lock?

Jake studied the locking mechanism carefully. This is a heavy duty magnetic seal. Only way to get around it is to cut off its power supply. Let me see here.

Jake pulled out his deck and plugged into a wall port. He booted a hack hed acquired to siphon electricity from power lines the energy companies were notorious for their apathetic employees, who would routinely distribute grid access codes to street techs in exchange for a quick buck and drugs and the layout of the buildings electrical wiring materialized on his decks LED. Jake proceeded to reroute power from their unit, and the fluorescent ceiling lights, which neither Scott nor Jake had noticed earlier on account of their failure to illuminate anything, dimmed out completely. The buzz of current in the lock died down and Scott pulled the drawer open.

It was empty.

While Scott muttered curses Jake glanced around alertly. Did you hear that?

[color=#CCCCCC]Hear what?

Jake was already up and moving towards the corner of the room. He crouched down, holding his ear close to the floor. Flip the power on and off, he said to Scott.

Scott tapped a key on the deck twice. The lights flickered to life for an instant before fading out again.

Jake grinned. Jackpot! Help me get this floorboard loose theres a safe under here!

Scott looked at his partner in astonishment he himself still hadnt heard a thing but decided he could follow Jakes lead this one time. Better not make it a habit of getting shown up like that. He moved over to where Jake was sitting over the floor, trying to pry the board loose with his nails.

Here, let me try, Scott said as he pulled out his pocketknife and wedged it into a crack in the wood. With a turn of the knife the floorboard lifted smoothly out of its place, revealing a metal box with a disabled magnetic lock just like the one on the drawer. Scott looked at Jake with disbelief.

Youre gonna ask me how I heard the lock buzzing under the floor? Jake was still grinning, mostly with self-satisfaction.

That would be a start, replied Scott, simultaneously impressed with the kiddos sleuthing skills yet also tempted to give his cocky ass a good kicking.

Jake pointed to one ear. Aural implants. I can hook you up for cheap, if youre interested.

Arent you just full of surprises, Scott muttered as he opened the safe-box and pulled out a small notebook from within. Leafing through it, he saw that it was filled out with names and dates it must have been a ledger, presumably for recording drug transactions. Just the kind of breakthrough that Black Adam told them not to expect to find.

Scott examined the entries in the notebook; each one had a name along with a number next to it that appeared to be a credit sum, no doubt paid for the purchase of dope. Apparently there were some long-term customers, whose names cropped up frequently as Scott flipped through the pages Rodrigo, Easy Eddie, Manny the Meat, Donnie...

Donnie.

This would have to bear investigating, thought Scott. A call to his brother was in order yeah, better to call him first before Black Adam sees this. Because if this was his Donnie, his brother, then Black Adam cannot know sh*t.

******

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