Keep moving your pupil up into your right-hand socket, I tell myself. And for some reason, my brain adopts the booze-addled Brooklyn tones of Janine McVey as I reacquaint myself with the ocular's main nav bar.
It's like picking up an old friendship from school. The more I access my memory, the more familiar the interface becomes. Expertise, dormant since I got here, flickers back to life like code in my muscle memory.
But I still need to introduce myself to the city's network. Before running any searches, I open a code generator to construct a mask for my unique ID. The beauty of navigating with an ocular is the ability to use Enochian software to create artificial signatures. Or disappear entirely if you're ready to go rogue.
Unlike headface systems, driven into us like iron rods in frozen, winter dirt, these devices feel like magic. They let you move freely through digital walls. In a totalitarian state, it's like having a superpower. Or like being a minor god.
I can't pretend I dislike the feeling.
As the six-digit key generates, I guesstimate I've got an hour. Two, if I'm lucky. The city's monitoring systems will catch on eventually. But for now, the mask needs to hold.
I check; it's solid.
Deep breath.
Now is the time to stay committed.
Much to my relief, the mask works. The overlay's presence on the Ironforge neural net is now invisible.
I can't quite believe it.
Inside one of the most tightly monitored networks in human space. It feels unreal. Almost undeserved.
No time to admire the colours or philosophise. I begin the search by starting with the IDA names.
Paydirt. Everything I need, including locations, city logs, and node timestamps. Every place they've touched in the last twenty-one days.
This is beginning to feel like a procession.
I've got everything I came for. But there's time to kill. And naturally, my mind drifts. Because there's someone else I want to check.
I type: Yveiv Huntelar.
No results. Just a blank field.
It's as if Yve never existed.
A stark contrast to everyone else: Renard Bray, Song Wallis. Even my own record. But Yve was here longer than any of us.
“Yve, Yve,” I mutter. My chest tightens. "What did you do here?"
More questions. But I can't follow them now.
The gamble has worked. That means it's time to focus.
Then, a message in my headface.
'Mask failed.'
A flood of diagnostics confirms it. Worse:
'Node now under ICAAP 3 protocols.'
Or, in hacker terms, they’re coming.
My stomach drops.
It took them a while, but the networks figured it out. The ocular is too old. It hasn't triggered a lockdown, but it's flagged me. Which is enough.
And so I might still be moving freely, but someone's watching. Any further misstep could send a Kapo to my front door.
The realisation hits hard.
If I want to keep going, I have to go rogue.
Which means it is time to speak Enochian, which means switching into the right headspace first.
*
Enochian software isn't written; it's grown. Mutated by exo-linguists, fringe engineers, and failed mystics using banned AI in the early days of off-world travel.
Of course, no one really knew what they were building back then. They told themselves it was symbolic logic. Ambient computation. But when it started to work, and I mean really work, that's they realised they'd made something else entirely.
Because Enochian-powered oculars don't respond to commands. They respond to shared intent. Emotional states. Logical resonance.
That's why they outlawed it. Not just because it was dangerous, though it is, but because it refused to obey.
It doesn't log your presence. Doesn't update a central server. Doesn't recognise authority. Rather, it slides sideways through firewalls, wearing your credentials like a second skin, and vanishing without a trace.
You don't need root access when the system believes you've always belonged.
I learned to interface with the intelligence back when people still passed around half-decrypted manuals. The kind of thing you'd trade for food. Or narcotics. The rest I learned by watching the software learn me.
Enochian is the only way to truly see within a world where search is a trap and knowledge is gated behind biometric locks and loyalty scores.
But like anything worth seeing, it comes at a price.
You stare too long into the code, and it stares back.
What do you do if a sentient machine intelligence likes you?
Worse: what do you do if it doesn't?
Strange things happen. Just last week, a man in Ledesma tried to break a language lock. The Enochian looped him for twelve minutes. When they pulled him out, he'd written eight pages of gibberish using his own blood and faeces.
But I'm not him.
And I'm trained.
Or at least, I seem to be.
Janine's voice again:
Keep moving your pupil up into your right-hand socket.
I key back into the ocular. Select create mode. Wait for the visual field to turn red.
Deep breath.
I draw the glyph. Twist the air. Slow and deliberate. Meditating with empty thought and focused breath.
The node responds.
A portal opens without any sound, although I hear a subtle crackle as half-seen alphabets flicker across the edges of its circular frame.
Without hesitation, I step through.
A shift in hue. Alongside an almost imperceptible change in air pressure.
And now I'm rogue and feeling like a burglar who's just crossed into the astral realm and left his loot on the table behind him. Can I take the data with me?
Not without going back and capturing it manually.
So, I run the numbers.
Who was I kidding about a procession? This was always going to be a smash-and-grab.
I open the portal again. Cross back. Hope no one's watching. The data's there, still warm, so I copy it.
Immediately, the system notices.
A cold bloom spreads through the projections as fractal watchdogs flicker into view.
Abort, abort, abort!
I hit the commands as the lights fade and the data trails collapse. The room becomes a room again, filled with light, warmth, and the smell of my microwaved noodles and fried nerves.
I groan. Because I've left footprints. They'll see the breach. Someone will see the shadow I left behind.
But for now? I have what I came for. Which is to say, everything I could need to know about the IDA contacts.
It's time to get a move on.
Thanks for checking out Hard Lines. To track the whole story so far, please visit the Serials page on Beyond Colossus. New scenes drop each Wednesday.