HIGH TECH, LOW LIFE

While chasing a criminal through an unruly sector of Omega City 6, freelance Enforcer Zed Takeda stumbles on the first of many victims by an unknown serial killer that has somehow escaped all forms of the city’s intensive surveillance. His investigation into the murders will uncover some hard truths he had not intended to find.

On the other side of the city Ash Starbrooke lives as a Dreamcaster, or someone whose dreams are turned into highly profitable virtual reality entertainment. She is unaware that the symbols showing up in her nightmares will have her caught up in Zed’s murder investigation. 

Their intertwining stories will have them traveling through multiple layers of the neon-drenched, futuristic city filled with street gangs, radical political groups, and social elites. 

FIRST CHAPTER

TWENTY-FIVE

“Just my luck,” Zed sighed as he watched the final score of the ultra ball game roll across his retinal heads-up display. The loss was going to put him back more credits than he had available. He finished off his vodka rocks to wash the painful loss away while his internal system gave him a strong audio-visual reminder that he was now broke.

“You go bust again?” A rough voice asked from his side. It was Rodriquez, a thick-necked enforcer who liked to think he had more authority than he actually did. “You have to stop with those stupid bets, Takeda. The Burners will never beat the Bandits. City Five is just too damned good.”

Zed brought up the bar’s drink menu on his HUD and punched in another order of vodka. “I just like to root for the home team.”

“The home team?” Rodriquez laughed. “City 6 has a dozen ultra ball teams, and eleven of them are better than the Burners. You just like throwing your credits away.”

“You know what they say about gambling? High risks equal high rewards.”

“I think you mean big losses.” A synthetically intelligent robot was about to set Zed’s drink down when Rodriquez swiped a few credits at the automated bartender. “Here. Let me buy you a drink.”

“I won’t turn it down if it’s free,” Zed said, sliding the glass his way and punching the menu one more time, “but I will double down.”

“There he is. Big bad Zed Takeda. Always the tough guy. War hero, star enforcer, gambling addict, and a lousy alcoholic.”

“I think you forgot part-time asshole,” Zed mused, and slid the second shot over to the big man. He raised his glass and said, “I wouldn’t want to fly alone.”

“You son of a bitch,” Rodriquez laughed, picking the glass up and taking a long sip. “You’re alright sometimes.”

The highlight reels were still playing on his retinal display, but they were too painful to watch. Ultra ball was an advanced version of American football, but with all the players jacked into synthetic bodies. They used the Level 3 virtual protocol, which meant the player’s avatars were based on their physical attributes. Since they wouldn’t be seriously hurt when their avatars were slamming into each other, ultra ball became known as a type of no-holds-barred kind of sport. As he watched one of the Burner’s arms get snapped back in half, he swiped his fingers through the air to turn off the feed.

The Daily Double wasn’t the type of place Zed usually hung out at. It was small, cold, and uninviting. He wasn’t particularly fond of the synthetic bartenders or the digital pop music they kept pumping out from the sound system 24/7. But he didn’t have to tip the bot, and it was the first bar outside of Hope City. Because most of the patrons were enforcers waiting for gigs, the owner allowed a duty board to be placed above the bar, so people didn’t have to sit and stare at their displays while they waited. That was a big plus. Today Zed wished the board wasn’t even there, because every time he looked up there weren’t any new gigs and the bar was filling up fast.

“A lot of people from the force here lately,” Zed said, as he scratched a bit of grime off from the bar top.

“This dry spell has been hard. I’m not asking for more crime in No Hope, but if work doesn’t pick up soon, I know quite a few people who are going to have to move down a zone.”

“Yeah, there are only so many patrols you can go on before the credits just aren’t worth the time. I’m sure things will even out,” Zed ignored thoughts of the rent that was due in a few days and the credits he didn’t have to pay for it, “and when it does, I’m sure we will be knee-deep in scum bags and autodoc visits.”

“I hear that, brother,” Rodriquez said, taking another long sip. “You’re doing alright then? Still living large off that big-time bust?” He made a motion to the duty board, where Zed’s name was shown next to one of the top three collars in recent history.

“Come on, that was ages ago,” Zed sighed, shifting in his seat uncom-fortably. “The credits are long gone. I wish someone would knock my name off that board already. I got lucky. Right place, right time. Plain and simple.”

“Well, at least you’re lucky at something,” Rodriquez slapped Zed on the back while he chuckled.

An advertisement for the upcoming Ishi concert started blasting through the bar’s sound system. A large holoscreen projected a 3D image of the young pop star into the room as she danced around. Her concert was the kickoff for this year’s presentation of The War, one of the most anticipated events for any Omega City citizen. A two-week-long event that placed average citizens in a level 4 hardcore virtual battle simulation. If you survived the conflict, you could come out rich. But if you didn’t survive, then you were dead and it wouldn’t matter.

“Could we turn this crap off?” Rodriquez complained, “It’s giving me a headache.”

The synthetic bartender looked over blankly with its vacant, unblinking eyes. With a digitally modified voice that was permanently monotone, it said, “You know I can’t do that. It’s house policy. This feed stays on all the time. I don’t like it any more than you do.”

“Right. You have musical preferences. That’s just great. Would you at least turn it down?” Rodriquez griped. He turned to Zed while pointing at the dancing hologram and said, “You know she’s not even real—or like him, one of them SI’s. It’s like watching a damned cartoon.”

The bartender didn’t break from pouring out a continuous stream of drink orders while it looked at Rodriquez and said in a different voice, that sounded prerecorded, “Adjusting the volume or changing the feed goes against the rules of the Daily Double.”

“Oh, shut up, you freaking robot,” Rodriquez cursed, taking a chip of ice and tossing it at the bartender, who ignored the minor assault.

“Give it a rest,” Zed said, rubbing his right shoulder as a pain suddenly shot through it.

“You doing alright? You’ve been rubbing at that shoulder all day.”

“No. I’m fine. I just think it’s time for my meds.”

“You’re still getting augment aches, aren’t you? When are you going that thing replaced? I know you’re partial to that piece of junk, but you can’t even tell the new ones are there anymore. And they look like the real thing.”

Zed moved his metallic fingers back and forth in a ball-like motion and said, “I don’t want a new one. I didn’t want this one in the first place. Besides, it’s too many credits.”

“Too many credits he says. That’s rich.” Rodriquez threw his hands in the air and shrugged his shoulders while chuckling to himself. “You must love the constant pain. But okay, go ahead and do your business. I’ll watch the board and let you know if anything pops up.”

Zed stood up and walked away without responding to Rodriquez’s jabs. It would be a waste of his time to get into a back-and-forth argument with someone so stubborn. Making his way through a group of enforcers who were crowding around the opposite end of the bar looking for a round of drinks, he heard his name called out a few times in celebration. He only put his hand up and waved them off. Like he said, he just got lucky. He never asked to be a hero.

He slammed through the door of the unisex bathroom and was happy to find it empty. The light above the sink was blinking in and out as if it had a short in its connection. In a cracked mirror he saw an aging face looking back at him through the strobing light. His salt-and-peppered hair was slicked back and noticeably long past due for a trim. A five-day-old beard covered his square jawline that matched his broad shoulders. His scowling brow cast a shadow over his deep-set eyes and shrouded them in the darkness of his contours. An ancient scar ran across his right cheek, causing parts of his beard to not grow and bits of his skin to be off color. Even though he was what most people would call ruggedly handsome, he wasn’t big on looking at himself in the mirror more than necessary. It was just another constant reminder that time was running out. There were countless augmentations, operations, and DNA modifications that he could have done to extend his life, maybe even live forever. But living forever seemed worse than death.

Pulling an EZ-Injector out of his black leather jacket, he held it up to the blinking light to make sure it was the correct drug at the correct dose. When he was confident it was the right one, he set the needle down and took off his jacket. Underneath he wore only a dark-grey tank top and a thin gold chain over a muscular littered with small tattoos that were reminders of moments in time rather than attempts at vanity. He moved his body so his right arm was facing the mirror, revealing the extent of his metallic augmentation.

Electric-blue lights ran vertically along the synthetic arm inside notches on the black-on-grey graphene, with the soft glow humming in and out like it was breathing. The surgical arm replacement ran from his fingers to his shoulder, stopping just short of his deltoid. There was a small circle above his metallic bicep, with a hole for injections. He inserted the EZ-Injector and fed half of the fluid in. That was easy. The hard part was next. Taking the needle out and resting it on his deltoid, he took a deep breath. Then as quickly as he could, injected he himself with the drug.

Holding back a painful scream, he hit his left fist on the aluminum sink and grunted. It felt like fire running through the right side of his chest and down his phantom limb. It was this inconvenient pain two times a month for the rest of his life. Failing to take the injections would be terminal. The drugs helped his body accept the augmentations. This was extremely important, because if they were rejected, then his body would grow painful calluses around the connections and the augment itself. Like a tumor, the calluses could grow too large and cut off proper blood flow in his body.

As he walked back to the bar, he searched his other pockets for a different dose. The pain in his chest was excruciating, and it would take hours for it to recede. Thankfully, there was a drug for that. There was a drug for everything in Omega City 6.

“I miss anything?” Zed asked, standing next to his seat at the bar.

“Board is still blank,” Rodriquez replied. “Can you believe they are doing the War of 2084 this year? And I thought we had it bad.”

“Brutal. I need to visit a script box. Watch my seat?”

“Sure thing.”

The air chilled his neck the second he walked outside, causing him to turn up his collar. Under the dome, the seasons were only an atmospheric simulation. The OS attempted to mimic what normal seasons would have been like in the time before, but it was running off data that was centuries old. The old saying, ‘you can’t predict the weather,’ didn’t really apply anymore. If the OS said it was going to rain on Tuesday at five, then it would rain on Tuesday at five.

The prescription dispenser—or script box—was only a half-block away, so Zed didn’t worry too much about the cold. The streets of Zone Zero were quiet as usual. Autocars quietly raced back and forth in their endless duty of transporting passengers and/or goods. Hundreds of delivery drones zig-zagged through the air in a dance of synchronicity, like a swarm of insects over a hive. Countless lights flashed from advertisements and street signs, reflecting on the damp pavement in zigzagging madness. With all the electronic life filling the cold night, the streets were nearly empty of human beings. The ones that were out wore dark colors and blank expressions, walking around like phantoms in the misty street light.

The Daily Double was between an autodoc and memory clinic on Synth Row—a two-block stretch of synthetically intelligent operated businesses. It wasn’t a place that people congregated, as they went there to get whatever a human couldn’t do done, and then get back to Hope City. The lack of the general public hanging out in the vicinity was the main reason enforcers hung out at the only bar on the row. Zed kicked a pile of trash out of the way and approached the script box. A few inputs later and the painkiller that he wanted popped up on the screen. He swiped the credits over and a small plastic bottle dropped out of the dispenser. Easy as that. He chewed on the chalky tablets while looking across the street at the massive tower that occupied almost all of Zone Zero.

Hope City, or more commonly referred to as No Hope City by people from the numbers, was a sixty-story superstructure at its highest point and had a footprint of over two hundred blocks. It was once a collection of identical, block-sized buildings for low-income families or those in need if assisted living. The OS originally designed it as a place of rehabilitation, for those who had messed up and zeroed out, or those who had just come from the outer lands beyond the dome. The idea was for people to have a safe place until they earned their way back on the Living Supplemental Income, and back on the Grid. But that plan didn’t pan out. There were just too many people in the Omega City System, and not all of them could qualify for the LSI. The Minimal Supplemental Income didn’t give them more than a pot to piss in. So, eventually, it became a place for people stuck under the dome who didn’t want to live under the constant surveillance of the OS without the benefits of the LSI.

Hope City started as a place of peaceful rehabilitation but ended up a lawless claimed territory by thugs and gangsters. The more people that moved there, the more stories were added, until it became a massive amoebalike structure. The startling statistic was that more than a third of the entire population of Omega City 6 lived in roughly the same amount of space that was used for a public park in Zone Six.

Zed tossed the empty drug container in a recycler and started walking back to The Daily Double when an alert flashed on his HUD. A message popped up by an unlisted identification number, which he thought odd because his own number was unlisted. He had paid a lot of credits for that too because it was a pain in the ass getting ads sent to you all day. He swiped his thumb over the control pad on his index finger and brought up his messages. It was the only one there, so he hit the link and it opened on his display. It read:

Enforcer Takeda, I am in need of your services. My daughter is currently missing. I am willing to pay hand-somely for returning her to me. Please use an OS counsel booth to contact me as soon as possible. I’d prefer to talk face to face while we go over the details. My number is in the attachment. I cannot stress the urgency of the situation enough.

Signed, Priscilla Banks

Zed sighed. It was a fetch job. And he knew a job was a job, and credits were credits, but fetch jobs were for rookies. As if he didn’t already know, his system gave him another reminder of his lack of funds. He cursed a few times under his breath before he pulled up the local area map on his display. It had been a long time since he needed to use a counsel booth for a gig, so long that he had forgotten where the closest one was. Seeing that his tab was closed and his drink was empty, he didn’t feel the need to go back into the bar. The booth was only a few blocks away, so he took a deep breath of the cold air and made his way down the gloomy streets.

“Welcome, Enforcer Zed Takeda,” the synthetic voice of the OS sub-routine, often referred to as SuR, came through the booth as he sat down. The booths had many purposes for Omega citizens, from simply talking about your problems to someone—or something—that would listen, to voicing your concerns about civic-related things to the Council of Seven, or transferring data over a secure server. The screens inside started flashing red before the voice spoke again. “Warning. Warning. Mixing alcohol and narcotics is not safe.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Zed said, reaching into his pocket for his virtual reality connectors and punching away at the touchscreen.

“Is there anything troubling you today? I see you have upped your dosage of pain medication again. Would you like to talk about that?”

“No. I’m just here for a data transfer.”

“Acknowledged. The OS is always with you,” the voice said as the lights in the booth dimmed to a soft-violet color for his virtual link.

“Don’t remind me.”

The booth was a small, rectangular glass box with a single chair and a touchscreen. When the booth was unoccupied, the glass was clear, but when someone locked the door and engaged the system, the shatterproof glass was blacked out to prying eyes. Once engaged, the inside glass turned into a seamless holoscreen that could project any image the user desired. Some people were prone to panic attacks when leaving their living quarters after long periods of VR and not in an avatar. The booths were a safe place to regroup, and a lot of people actually did turn to the OS for soothing words of consultation. There were thousands of them scattered around the city in all kinds of locations, with some being bigger or nicer. This particular one smelled like a portable bathroom.

“ID number 9671-29 to connect with one Priscilla Banks at—”

“Connecting,” a different synthetic voice cut in before he could give her identification number. He also found that odd, but it was turning out to be an odd day. “Connected. Please engage the virtual simulation now.”

He applied the two virtual pads on each of his temples, pressing them down firmly so they wouldn’t fall off because they were old and due for replacement. Leaning back in the chair, he closed his eyes, causing flashes of light to shoot through his consciousness. He could see the booth around him dissolve into thousands of little dots, each representing a chip that was connected to the net. With trillions of chipped data points in the city, it looked as if he was shooting through a star field at warp speed. He began to shake from the intensity, causing the nanobots in his bloodstream to activate. They held his body motionless as the lights unified into one giant blast that instantly brought him through to the virtual world. He was now inside his digital avatar body in an empty black void. Just a simple exchange room, Zed thought, as he calmly looked into the darkness.

“Enforcer Takeda, I presume,” a firm female voice asked from behind him.

“Call me Zed,” he said, turning to see a gorgeous middle-aged woman in an elegant gown lavished with dazzling jewelry. This was more than your average street skin. This was a top-of-the-line, premium-grade, deluxe-package digital avatar. Probably a replica of one of her favorite avatar models she wore in real life, maybe a Satoshi 5000, or an Ulbricht 6X. His eye twitched a little, thinking about the price tag one of the beauties held. “Pricilla Banks?”

“Yes,” her voice projected from the synthetic head, with the lips moving only a fraction of a second behind her voice. “Forgive me for messaging you directly, but I needed someone I could trust with this job and not some random enforcer who saw the posting. You came highly recommended by some friends of mine.”

“So that’s how you got my number.”

“I can assure you they were reluctant to share it with me, citing your private nature. I respect that. Nothing digital is safe anymore. Anything can be acquired for the right price. That’s why I insisted on using the protected counsel booth. I’m well aware that I could have sent the information over a text-based message, but I can’t trust there isn’t a data thief in your vicinity. Wherever you may be.” She paused and looked him up and down as if she were admiring a wild animal. “I’ll get right down to it. My daughter Juna is suffering a momentary lapse of reason and has traveled into Zone Zero.”

“I see,” Zed tried to put some sort of empathy in his voice, “that can be troubling. Do you know when she left, exactly?”

“She left earlier to have a spa day with her girlfriends. But instead of checking into our building’s spa, she got on the maglev to Dakota Park. I messaged you once she transferred over at the Z train terminal.”

“You have a tracker on her, then?”

“Of course,” she huffed, “but I don’t need it or an enforcer to tell me what her intentions are with the way she is leaving a trail of transactions. The OS watches over us all, I know that, but not in Hope City. That’s why I need you to check in on her. Watch over her personally and make sure she doesn’t do something too foolish.”

“I think you might be confused. I’m not a babysitter.”

“I don’t mean to insult you, or to question your integrity.” Priscilla’s lips made a slight snarl when she said the word integrity. Zed didn’t react out-wardly. His face remained expressionless and as hard as stone. He was used to the wealthy expressing their distaste for people less fortunate than them on a regular basis. He simply made a mental note as to the type of person he was dealing with. “My Daughter Juna means the world to me, and I am looking for a paid bodyguard to ensure her safety. I was told you were the best. Think of it as hired security, if that works for you.”

“Right,” Zed said, while searching for the timestamp from the job posting on his HUD as they talked. “She is already in Hope City. Let’s say thirty minutes and counting. Time is essential in these cases. I’ll need to move fast.”

“A man of action, as I was promised,” Priscilla smiled with firm lips and a deep sense of satisfaction in her eyes. Zed made another mental note. “I read your credentials, Enforcer Takeda. You’re not one for the second life, you don’t own a synthetic avatar, and your VR bed hasn’t been registered in years. You’re the type of man who prefers the hands-on approach,” she said while eyeing up his physique. A notification of a completed file transfer popped up on his display while she continued to talk in an almost sultry manner. “I appreciate that. It’s hard to judge a person’s character from an avatar alone. You never know who really is behind that silicone facade. I insist on per-sonally meeting anyone who comes in contact with my Juna, but in this case, I’ll have to make an exception.”

“Hope City isn’t a safe place.”

“You have some synthetic augmentations, don’t you?” she asked cur-iously, changing the subject. Her eyes looked directly at his right arm, causing Zed to put it casually behind his back. That information wasn’t on his basic profile. She had done a deep dig on him, something that would require not only a skilled net diver but also a lot of time and a lot of credits.

“A half-hour is plenty of time for a whole lot of wrong.”

“Oh please,” she hissed, “We’ve all had our days slipping out to Dakota Park or Hope City for a little adventure. Kids need a little real-life excitement to shake up all that time they spend in virtual. I was somewhat of a fixture at the Gato Loco back in the day myself.”

“Whatever you think of as an adventure in your days—slumming with the lower classes or fraternizing with the help—is far from the reality of the present.”

“What are you implying?”

“I’m telling you that in the century since you probably last left the Six in person, Hope City changed from the romantically scandalous place that you remember into a place for zeroed out pimps, sex traffickers, thieves, and murderers. It’s full of drugs, gangs, and prostitution. The moment your daughter goes through the front gates, her tracker can be digitally wiped, and the OS surveillance will end. Where she will end up, and what will happen to her then will be anyone’s guess.”

“Don’t be silly,” she laughed nervously. “This is an Omega City, there isn’t any of that. The OS protects us all. None of what you say is true.”

“Look, lady, I wouldn’t have a job if it wasn’t true.” Zed looked into those empty, synthetic eyes. He knew right then why she chose this over-the-top glamorous avatar for a business meeting. Because it was like the model she went out in when she was young, and everyone wanted to feel young again. “Like I said, thirty minutes is plenty of time for any one of those people to get to your daughter.”

“Well, what are you waiting for, then?” she asked, raising her hands in the air.

“Half up front,” Zed replied, while taking a step closer.

“My terms of service were payment upon the return of my daughter.”

“And my terms are half upfront.”

“There are plenty of other enforcers looking for work tonight.”

“Yeah, well…” Zed sighed, knowing that it was the truth. “Twenty percent. I’ve got expenses.” He gritted his teeth. “I’ll need to take an autocar there and back, and if I run into any trouble—”

“I’m sure you’re capable of handling anything Hope City can dish out. Five thousand credits. That should be more than enough for travel expenses and any inconveniences you should have along the way.”

“Five will suffice.”

“Good. You have her information on the file I’ve sent you, and you have your expenses covered. Anything else?” She stood there adjusting her syn-thetic hair and smiling like she knew something devious. At the same time, his system chimed to notify him of a deposit made to his account. Five thousand flat.

“That should about do it. Good evening, Mrs. Banks.”

“I’ll see you soon, Enforcer Takeda.”

The VR link suddenly cut, and he was shot back to reality. He immediately punched the wall of the counsel booth with his right fist, causing the glass to crack a little. The OS instantly fined him for the damage, credits were pulled from his account, and his morality rating dropped a single point.

Fuck!

He hated dealing with people from Zone Six. Pompous, first born, DNA-enhanced meat sacks with 3D printed organs, dozens of avatar bodies, and millions of hours in virtual. They had more credits than they knew what to do with, but their moral ratings were so far in the gutter they would never ascend. They take their LSI like every other citizen, but they might as well flush it down the toilet because it meant that little to them. Five thousand credits? That didn’t even cover his loss on ultra ball. He knew full well he wouldn’t be taking any goddamned autocar in any direction. When he found this Juna Banks, the little brat could take a train home like everyone else.