It's strange; it feels like time is bleeding out from a painless wound I haven't seen or felt yet.
I have everyone's names; more importantly, we now have their addresses. Even better, Control doesn't know I have linked the two, at least not in theory.
But the game is up regarding my disguise: anyone in Control can see that someone from this flat has been hacking their network. And successfully, for the most part, with an anomalous and old device.
So, now they have my physical location, target bots will be sent to investigate.
What fresh hell have they sent from their headquarters? I imagine the bots like Nazgûl in Tolkien lore. Riding black stallions through data fields to leave every cell darkened in their wake.
But there is nothing in this material realm, no sight or indication. Just ambient fades of light cast over the various walls and appliances. The quiet hum of the building generator, the background clatter and chatter echoing from the launderette. You wouldn't know that anything is happening at all.
I look around the box room and wonder how many more times I'll cross its door. After all, this phase of the mission will be over soon. Everything - including me - will have moved on. Developed in some way.
Why am I procrastinating like this? I need to move.
In an ideal world, I could utilise some kind of space. A safe house, perhaps. But, of course, that is all part of the challenge.
In Ironforge, I cannot imagine any space that would stay safe or unmanipulated for more than five minutes.
If only these contacts could show themselves, I think, as I prepare for a trip across the city on foot.
In searching for them, I have increased scrutiny on myself. Some kind of payoff was necessary to shift the balance, but still. To hear nothing back is excruciating.
What is it they say? With risk comes reward? Either way, I have another dilemma on my plate.
That is, do I use the ocular again, this time to establish real-time contact?
Of course, stealth works fine on a desk or box-room coffee table, but I am unsure how best to transport it. Or use it in flight.
No matter. This is my gut speaking now.
Take it. The device is too useful. And too dangerous to leave behind. Which means I will also need to find a way to power it.
*
"Good evening, sir," says Goldie as I enter a fairly crowded-looking lobby, especially considering the time of night. It seems Teunning has been flooded with a new intake of residents. "You look, er..., well..." His eyes can't help but be drawn towards the now familiar package that I am carrying under my right arm. "Will you be out long?"
"Oh," I say, looking down at the package with a smirk. "Just to meet some friends up the road." I don't bother to pretend to look embarrassed.
"Quite," says the AI, and I can't remember when I have ever seen an AI look so disgusted.
"Anyway," I say, enjoying the novelty of repelling interest, not vice versa. "Cheerio. Enjoy the rest of your evening."
*
Ten minutes later, I am inside a gene-hacked pulled rickshaw, this genie seemingly operating with some kind of boosted goat-like legs, the passenger section nothing more than a rusted metal cave swaying loosely over the back seat. The power unit, meanwhile, is a Frankenstein mess with a drone battery that I've lashed together with copper offcuts, a smashed thermos coil, and the heat sink from an old vape mod.
A small window's been fashioned into the rear so I can stare at the non-moving traffic behind if needed. Although looking ahead, I've already seen enough.
The rear of an expensive Delta V sits in front of my genie, and it’s the same for as far as the eye can see. At least at eye level.
A log jam for all those who can't afford it, a nice, easy glide across the skyways for those who can. After all, we're on one of the approaching freight roads leading down to the black mega-tower at Mitre Cross. None of the cars caught in this gridlock can afford AG drives. Otherwise, they could rise and blend in with the smooth-moving vehicles flying along the sky above our heads.
But even though we're stuck in stasis, and I'm travelling in a chamber that smells more like it's used for smoking and taking drugs than it is for transport, this suits my needs precisely, at least at this exact moment.
With the ocular lock on my lap and attached to this makeshift power unit, I have it running again, but now to try and cover my tracks. What if an agent from Control can resurrect my last session? That would give them access to the names and all the data.
I can't risk that happening.
That is why I have this ridiculous power unit beneath my legs, driving the ocular, which is interfacing with my headface overlay. I have gone back online to do roaming searches through all the servers around me like a scavenger bouncing between half-dead router relays. By the time Control notices anything, I've already moved on to the next housing block.
At least, this is the plan. So far, it's worked perfectly. And the ocular housing unit and overclocked power supply keep me warm in the back seat.
Questions regarding Yves's status still haunt me, but I must block them out and concentrate. I'm looking up members of the contact list again, starting with Renard Bray.
I instructed several powerful tracking bots I got from a shareware site to locate his addresses in the city records.
A small dialogue box tells me my request is pending, which is annoying, because it said five minutes.
Manni calls me over my headface, but I don't answer.
Instead, I retrieve details for Donita Meier.
But, still, the man persists. Again and again, like a jilted ex who can't get the message.
In the end, there's no choice but to answer.
'I hope you're not up to what I think you are,' says Manni over the common band.
'What?' I say, looking around me, remembering to peer through the postcard behind me, like it can show me anything.
'Because there's a drone hovering just three hundred feet down from your position,' he says as I gaze at the grills of stationary freight trucks and other rickshaws. Maybe it's his words or another sixth sense, but I feel the hairs on my neck prick up. 'And you know they use infra-red?'
'I dunno, do I?'
'Well, you do now.'
'So?' I say, like an insolent teenager. Knowing my plan is flawed. But still doggedly pursuing it anyway.
'So, that lock you're using is about to set fire to your tuk-tuk," Manni says quietly. "They know someone is using an ocular, Rene, and they are in your area and trying to hunt you down.'
I look down to my left at the ocular and curse. The damn thing feels like it is burning a hole in the trousers.
I picture my silhouette next to an ocular-shaped white blob in the drones targeting sights.
And yet, I do nothing. It's as though I've been gripped by a paralysing sense of fatalism.
'I am sending a cab to your position.'
'I'm OK--'
'Don't argue, Rene," Manni seethes, "don't even move an inch, OK? That drone is just a hundred feet away from your position now...'
All this is made worse because I can't see it. Just darkness and the steaming wet torso of the genie's backside standing in front, its tail tossing reflexively in the rain.
I only have the postcard window and the cracks along the tuk-tuk's side. Which are wide and considerable. And then I see the shadow from the drone. The repetition of its flashing lights.
A laser scans the tuk-tuk's right side. Then, thin shafts of crimson wash through the gaps.
'Go,' shouts Manni, 'now!'
'What?' I hiss. 'Where?'
'Don't argue, now!' he screams, and less than a second later, I hear the sound of matter splat against the front of the tuk-tuk. I look up to see blood everywhere.
Instantly, the makeshift vehicle lurches forward and loses grounding as the genie slowly drops down dead.
I need no more notifications or reminders, so push to my left, away from the laser fire and out into the night. And then I am nearly run over by an Amberlite EMV as it pulls up alongside me on the hard shoulder.
'Get in,' says Manni over my headface, and as if on cue, the gull-wing doors of the Amberlite swing up to reveal seats and cushioning for my fall. Then the wing is down, and I'm rising above the traffic and looking straight ahead at the mega-tower of Mitre Cross.
After five seconds, we become level with its first mall, but then the Amberlite swings around hard and instructs me to strap in whilst its AI engages the vehicle in a hard bank to the right.
How the hell did Manni get his hands on this?
I look for signs of the IDA logo everywhere, even on the kick panels and upholstery, but it stands to reason this vehicle wouldn't be marked.
Anyway, there is no time to worry.
Crushing gee forces are pinning me to the cabin's seat and pressing in with such intensity that I figure soon I will pass out.
And then, without any further fanfare, everything goes black.
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.