Chapter 7

The shape of the boot was difficult to make out, but I saw it. Whether due to the effects of my earlier experience with the nitrogen or my current limited air, I didn't panic.

Maybe there was someone, waiting unseen and ready to pounce; someone with a rebreather or air tank, waiting for me to investigate.

I quickly ruled out this possibility as I eyed the dust around the boot. The trail of my previous tracks skirted by, something I'd missed on my first pass-through, and I didn't see any other signs of human feet having tread where mine hadn't. Steeling my nerves, I made up my mind to get closer.

All senses were on overdrive as my brain continued to seek out any evidence of a trap. I crept slowly, trying not to make any noise as I got my first full glimpse of the person the boot was connected to. All Outerall suits, regardless of Corporate affiliation or Department, have a contact point near the collar meant for emergency communication and diagnostics if hand signals weren't viable.

I didn't need to use the diagnostic to confirm the state of the person in question: they were dead. Straight-up dead.

For one, the body was missing a leg, both arms, and ninety-nine percent of its moisture; It could've been a prop from a holo featuring ancient mummified skeletons, and I would've believed you. For another, the contact point was gone, along with a majority of the faded orange Overall still meagerly covering the desiccated corpse.

I had to fight to not get overexcited: Orange meant Maintenance. Maintenance meant a different configuration. Different configuration meant parts I might be able to utilize.

From where I stood, and by the appearance of the shredded suit, most of the components and systems along the back and lower parts of the body had been...shorn off somehow. Through a number of openings, I could see tiny nicks and cracks along the ribs, vertebrae, and skull. None of the cuts appeared to be recent. The dust within the edges of the tattered remains was thick, matching the surrounding flooring.

It's been here for a while. Good.

I relaxed just a touch as I turned over the body. It felt like it weighed nothing as the leathery skin stretched and deteriorated, causing my stomach to roll as I surveyed the remains of the decaying suit. I swiftly confirmed the Ident-chip, wicking system, and underlying electronics had all been removed. By what, or whom, I still wasn't quite sure, but what still remained made my heart leap in happiness.

A locking collar.

The air was getting thin, as my chest began to burn. I was overcome with an urge to breathe harder as I grabbed the tattered upper portions of the suit's remains, hastily extracting it from the body before making my way back to the opening doorway.

I finally made it back, having taken extra care not to disturb the drones as I replenished my air and took the time to examine the spoils of my dive.

I almost whooped in happiness at the state of the locking collar. While there were minor blemishes tarnishing the metallic ring, it was wholly undamaged and serviceable. Even better? Stowed safely within the collar was an old but usable soft hood. Having not been deployed, the hood had still been packed, safely ensconced beneath the metal ring of the locking collar, which had protected it from harm.

With the hood, I had more range. How much more I couldn't say for certain. It turned my once Herculean task into something a bit more...mortally achievable.

There was a soft clink as I worked to remove the collar. I set the collar aside as I worked to unravel the source of the noise and found a palm-sized metallic plate on what would've been the right breast of the Overall. A nameplate.

Laser-etched onto the face were the following words:

MAINTENANCE.
[Branch, P.T.] CC05.
CIDENT#45-17-1138.

The last few digits of the ID caught me by surprise. I pondered for a bit as I realized who the body belonged to; it was the owner of the code. The code I used to enter the tunnels so many years ago. The code, which was even now saving my life.

The presence of his body within the tunnels of an entirely different block was a mystery, as was the fact his codes were still working despite the proof of his untimely demise within. The length of time needed for his body to be in the state it was?

Wow.

I began connecting the collar to my own suit.

"Well, Mr. Branch," I said quietly as I readjusted the ring, checking the placement with my gloves to ensure it was positioned correctly, "Looks like I need to thank you. You've done a lot for me, and I didn't even know you, so...thanks." The collar clicked as it sealed perfectly into position. I was feeling good all the way up to when I reached back to pull out the hood and seal it around my head, trapping the air inside the suit like a bubble.

Yeah. It...it wasn't good. Phew.

Between the skinsuit still being wet, the muskiness of the scarf wrapped around my neck, and a dead guy's stained and crumpled soft hood?
I unsealed the hood, breathing heavily from the open doorway as I took off the scarf in a futile effort to cut the smell, even a little. It might have worked, but I couldn't tell. There were almost comical wisps of steam coming off of the soiled garment, looking like ripe smell lines in a classical cartoon holo as I wrapped the scarf around the suit's locking collar in order to free my hands. At this point, I was pretty convinced I'd need to get my nasal passages lead-lined the next time I visited a MedDoc. Perhaps it was even time to replace my sense of smell entirely...damn the cost.

I took a number of quick cleansing breaths, displacing the air by fluffing the hood open and closed a few times, before locking down and closing the doorway.

I jumped as I realized there were now three drones facing me from the tunnel, all three sets of eight eyes locked around my neck as they chittered excitedly, mechanical arms vibrating like rattles as their eyes turned a deeper shade of red.

They were close...far, far too close.

I yelped as one of them leapt, snagging my scarf and succeeding in dragging me onto the floor in a single move. The soft hood's seal held as the air was forced out of my lungs, and I hit the ground. I was face-up as the drone dragged me across the corridor and away from the door like a spider towing a juicy insect into a webbed lair.

The scarf was locked tight like a noose under the locking collar as I struggled, gloved fingers trying to find a way under the loop in order to loosen it enough to escape.

I redoubled my efforts as I felt a rapid series of tiny vibrations, the tap, tap, tap, tapping of magnetic feet as the side drones converged. Two sets of utility arms darted toward me from either side as I untangled myself with a sudden jerk. The sudden freedom caused the scarf to accelerate as it slid along. The arms retracted as I heaved, leaning sharply to the right, barely avoiding the rush of pursuing drones as they buzzed after it aggressively.

I was now behind them.

The two side drones caught up to the first, tearing and ripping into the steaming cloth with the same breathtaking efficiency demonstrated on the conduits earlier. The first one stopped to join once it realized the frenzy had started, and they acted as one. The drone on the left was using a tiny cutting saw to shear sections of the scarf into ribbons while the other two stabbed through the material and into the ground with ruthless abandon. The red-cast corridor was occasionally illuminated by strobing snapshots of horrifying violence as they fell on their prey; their sharpened probes sent off sparks with every brutal impact, showing all the grace of prison shivs being used to shank someone. It would've been an impressive display of synchronicity if it weren't so utterly terrifying.

I was trapped against the door, the three drones between me and the tunnel as I stood up slowly. The trio stopped; their movements jerky and halting as I froze, mid-rise. My face paled at the sight of their bodies now turning slowly in unison to track me.

The scarf was now a distant memory, the mangled pile of unrecognizably shredded fibers forgotten like a lifeless victim. The remnants grew cold and were discarded in the chilly air, and I didn't dare breathe as the arms of the drones began to rattle again. Three sets of eight eyes darted from place to place, individually and in sets, as they evaluated the surroundings for threats or targets. Curiously, they seemed unable to track me if I stood motionless like I was now. After a few tense minutes, it was clear the drones were no longer finding anything to focus on.

My thighs and knees were beginning to burn with exertion as I struggled not to move. My optics silently warned me of the nitrogen imbalance in the air again, the alert set to a minimal mode so it would no longer block my view. As if on cue from the alert, the three drones skittered off down the tunnel, seemingly happy to move onto their next task as if nothing had occurred. At the very least, I knew what had caused the smallish cuts on the bones.

I waited a few more minutes before attempting to open the door and reset my air levels, quickly shutting the entry before the drones returned.

I had a theory on why they were coming, but I didn't want to trigger them again, not yet. I was shaking, this time not from the cold but from the adrenaline of nearly being processed into a pile of shredded protipacks on a platter. My stomach growled despite the temporary weakness I felt at the mere thought of food.

I slowed my breathing to calm myself, thankful for the extra air the soft hood afforded me, despite the scent, as I focused on the positives of the ordeal. Now...I had information.

It was becoming obvious; the drones only started coming closer once I kept the door open long enough for the warnings to go away. The first trip had been a fluke. The trigger seemed to be the ratio of anything except the nitrogen gas now present deeper within the tunnels, and it had been a wonder I'd made it as far as I had without running afoul unexpectedly.

More than once I'd stepped by the drones as they'd monitored me while the nitrogen gas mix was present. It felt safe to assume, provided I kept my distance where applicable, I wouldn't risk aggression so long as I avoided another hidden trigger I might not be aware of.

Judging by how the drones had reacted once the trigger conditions were met, I had to assume their primary hunting senses were between electrical, scent, pheromone, heat, or motion. It was easy to rule out most of these options because of one absolute fact during the attack: they'd ignored me.

When I'd taken my scarf off, I'd wrapped it around the locking collar to free my hands. They'd gone straight for it, having been remarkably fixated on my neck when they'd first appeared. After the drone had borne me to the ground and I'd managed to untangle, they'd gone after it instead of attacking me.

I could argue there could've been enough...residue to have left enough medium clinging to the outside of my suit to follow by scent, or pheromones, yet they'd stayed solely focused on the scarf itself, particularly once it had been dragged away. In a similar vein, while Mr. Branch's suit had been torn to ribbons and the electrical components removed or destroyed, it didn't look targeted, just brutally efficient. I looked over at the pile of stray fibers and remembered the marks on Branch's corpse.

That left two: heat and movement. The most likely and the most effective when paired together with cold ambient temps like down here.

I tried to imagine what Branch's last moments must've been like. The sheer terror of suddenly being attacked in the dark and what he would've done. What I would've done.

I would've ran.

Based on my new understanding, running wouldn't have worked. It meant they would've gone into a frenzy, the motion drawing them toward him as he tried to flee. Worse? With every cut, he would've bled more heat into the frosty air, showing up like a fusion core in a dark void, all the while drawing more and more of the drones from sub-tunnels he wouldn't have been able to crawl through to escape if he wanted to. The main corridors would've been drowned in the tap, tap, tapping of those magnetic legs just like I'd heard as they hunted. Legs following him as far as it took until the heat stopped showing, and he finally stopped moving. No way out.

I stared down the tunnel, which was now absent of the red glow of the drones and their creepily watching eyes. My mind began to play tricks, imagining spiders lurking in the far-off corners to snatch and drag me away into the darkness, like the drone had begun to do when the scarf had looped around my collar.

Would it have tried to squeeze me through one of those smaller tunnels until I couldn't move?

The nitrogen warning reappeared on my interface. I shook off the thought.

I had a problem, or so I had once been told, of imagining worse things in lieu of facing the issues immediately before me. I wasn't a child anymore, but even then I'd known the monsters were real. The imagination meant I made it even worse on myself if I couldn't get control of it.

Here? Now? I could do something about it. I could do something.

Toggling the door open, I nodded to myself before readying up for another trek into the depths; the plan had not changed.

The Plan:
1. Find another doorway to work with the code. Avoid being drone-shanked. (Thanks, Mr. Branch.)
2. Try to trick the Goons into thinking I was going somewhere I wasn't.
3. Something something...lose 'em. I'll figure it out.
4. Success!

Better fear and action than doubt and quandary. Go time, Price.

I sealed my hood and closed the door before stepping forward down the tunnel.

Chapter 6

I felt...warm. Blissfully warm.

That's what made me stop.

My work light found nothing as I swiveled around. Dust motes were the only thing immediately visible, stirred by my intrusion within the dark tunnel. Something was off, but there wasn't anything I could see.

Warm? Warm was new. Warm was dangerous.

My fingers were now tingling.

I licked my cracked lips, taking a deep breath. The skin was dry. Torn. The sensation should have been somewhat painful. I could feel the roughness and wetness of my tongue. I could even identify where my lips had been hurting, but now? The pain was gone.

Physiologically? I felt the best I'd felt in a long time.

That seemed wrong somehow, but I couldn't seem to line up enough mental dots to decipher the strange feeling.

Overall I felt...good. Breathing felt glorious, like the first gasp after breaking the surface of a pool following a deep dive. I exhaled and inhaled deeply again, the rush of warmth and comfort increasing.

I took another breath. It came easily; no unease or feeling of panic, no constriction or pain, which might indicate organ issues. My logical thought centers kept telling me something wasn't right as the warmth and comfort shifted to a floating sensation...like I'd taken a long pull from a jar of Wren's Best.

Wren's Best was moonshine, and the name was a joke. Wren was one of the guys from Third Shift who made some of the worst moonshine you could ever taste, or at least it seemed to taste like the worst I could've ever tasted. Rob had threatened Wren pretty badly after one of the Second Shift guys went bli—wait.

Why was I thinking about this?

I felt lightheaded and dizzy now. The combination reminds me of what happened after trying his concoction for the first time.

The drink had smelled horrible and tasted worse: pure alcohol and jet fuel mixed with rotten fruit and vitriol. Enough to make my eyes water just looking at it. Despite the harshness, I'd felt a euphorically floating bliss right before...I blacked out. It had been warm then too.

I felt a mental tickle. The familiar trail of sensations allowed me to tug the string of an old memory, yanking it straight from cold storage into active view like a fish on a line. A safety briefing. The signs were all there: Disorientation, floating sensations, moments of euphoria that didn't match the situation, issues concentrating, and dry mouth.

The logical parts of my brain spun, and I turned quickly.

Oxygen deprivation. The lack of the urge to gasp and choke meant another inert gas was present, enough to keep my organs from functioning if I stayed...Oh no.

How long had I been down here breathing it in?! I might be in some serious trouble...

I intended to make for the doorway but stumbled and tripped onto the ground instead. A soft, keening alert notice came from my suit's sensors as I tried to make sense of my new position while the tunnel lifted and spun against the laws of physics. My temples were pressed within the jaws of a vice. My skull, reverberating with painful sensation, felt as if my brain were swelling to become too large for it to contain with every pulse of my heart.

A new alert, delivered by the suit's feminine voice, buzzed in my sound conduction implants as I tried to clear the near-blinding notice from my view.

[AIR QUALITY ALERT: WARNING! NITROGEN-RICH ATMOSPHERE DETECTED. SEEK LIFE SUPPORT MIXTURE IMMEDIATELY! WARNING!]

The next few seconds went by as I clumsily managed to prop myself up. The rest came to me in disjointed flashes, like old-time celluloid film in slow motion.

One flash and I was drunkenly bouncing off the feedline-covered walls, my head turning awkwardly as gravity led me to the floor in a tripping stumble.

Another, and I could see my booted feet, one foot flying above the other as they clomped with each heavy, stumbling step in a pounding staccato. Dust flew to either side of my passage as I slid and fell time and time again.

Now, a door. My finger aching as I jabbed it on the contact port a little too harshly.

I heard my words slurring as my tongue sluggishly formed the sounds necessary for the opening code. It took three tries before it was finally accepted.

I saw flashes of white, bordered by black, as the world began to dim and eventually go out.

I came to. My consciousness rapidly returned before I'd realized I'd lost it.
I was lying on my side. On the ground.

I'd collapsed before the doorway, which was open. Just in time.

My limbs ached. My eyeballs, hands, and feet hurt, but I was alive. Black spots I hadn't realized were obscuring my vision began to clear as the cold, the wonderful, biting cold, began creeping back into my body. The icy tendrils headed straight for my soul while I savored it. Absorbed it. The false warmth was gone, which I took as a great sign.

I rolled onto my back and watched as my breath floated up and out the open doorway. A dull safety briefing, of all the darnest things, had actually saved me. I'm sure stranger things have happened.

The atmosphere we breathe is made up of several different gases. Nitrogen represents about seventy or so percent of it. Combined with oxygen and a bunch of other stuff, it made up what some would call the proper mixture for breathing, or so the briefing had said. The same breathing I'd need to do things like walking, dodging, hiding, running, or...living.

Oh man.

Right now? The tunnels. The tunnels were going to be a problem, at least regarding my original plan.

They weren't filled with the right ratio, or at least so my sensory history said as I called it up. The recorded air mixture tied to the suit alert was showing something somewhere around ninety-eight point four percent nitrogen. Someone somewhere had flooded the tunnels with pure nitrogen. While I could tell you it wasn't this way when I was a kid, it didn't help my new problem.

My new problem was needing to somehow go through these tunnels, filled with an odorless, colorless, and entirely undetectable gas. Several times.

The distance I'd traveled, how long I'd had the door open, my height, general level of respiration, and even relative temperature all made it difficult to accurately gauge when I'd hit the beginning reaches of the large pocket of gas. I also had no clue just how long I'd need to be exposed. Going through once wasn't an issue, but since I still didn't know if the other doorways functioned with my current code, the potential existed for multiple trips.

No. For my original plan to succeed, I'd need to have a way of finding a working second door. That required a method of not passing out from the nitrogen and potentially dying while traveling through the tunnel. My suit sensors had only tripped after I'd fallen the first time, and that was also a problem. I couldn't trust them to let me know before I'd already gotten too much of a dosage to be dangerous, and there were now too many unknowns. The suit was a major part of it.

Outeralls were the external-most layer of three, which consisted of Outeralls, a single-piece outer protective garment, a jacket, pants, boots, and a base-layered sweat-wicking skinsuit worn underneath everything else. Together they made up the whole of the official Port employee uniform. Originally, the Outeralls, at least the external portion of it, was simply a cut-down hostile environment suit meant for the outer fringes of abandoned mining colonies. It could do an amazing job keeping me mostly insulated from the cold environment outside without a head enclosure, so long as the undersuit did its job of warding off hypothermia by wicking away the moisture and sweat.

It wasn't sealed. It wasn't airtight. The supply line feeds for water, air, waste, and nutrition were still present for convenience and operation, but the mechanisms had been changed out, just like Pod Housing; no longer valid for exotic conditions outside Corporate norms in the Stacks. In the currently retrofitted configuration as a Port Uniform, where weight mitigation and cost prioritized over utility and functionality? Let's just say I could've worn a plastic bag over my head and gotten more headway toward my current problem. A potential bust unless I could figure something out.

If I just had a locking collar, helmet, or at least a soft hood, I could've even used it for a few minutes of extra air. Sadly, the suit configuration lacked those features. All I really had, besides the Ident-Chip and Contact Interface, was the wicking system, which put "captured" liquid into a fluid bag.

Yeah, it's as gross as it sounds, but so was sitting in a pool of sweat. Stewing.

Hmm...

I sat up straight as a thought began to form.

Without the wind chill, the cold could almost be manageable, and the undersuit was actually a touch larger than it should've been, so I might be able to stretch the neck up past my mouth and nose.

Rob used to joke the wicking system worked a lot like a protein vac-sealer, which extracted air and liquids in order to seal the proteins within a polymer sheathing to be stacked and shuttled off to cold storage. The inner layer of the skinsuit worked much the same, keeping the air and liquids inside, close to our bodies, as the suit's condenser system worked to extract and funnel the captured medium into a fluid bag. The way it does this? Scientific Gobblety-Gook. When used In conjunction with terms like "Unidirectional Permeable Nano-fibers", "Liquid State Constrictiors", and "Systematic Distilation Processes", the idea boiled down to: gases and liquids out, but not in.

Specifically if the outside were wet.

Let me just say to you now: You don't EVER want to be in a suit with a malfunctioning fluid condenser system so the outside gets wet. Once the external part gets wet, it obtains the liquid retention qualities of a sealed bottle with you trapped inside.
It isn't a pleasant feeling, but I was going to have to do it on purpose.

Yuck.

I'll save you most of the grisly details.

Since I hadn't had time for a changeover after working a double, the bag was near full. It meant there was just enough for the exterior of the skinsuit. It only took one test run to confirm my makeshift air trap would work, but wasn't without flaws.

For one: It felt atrocious, the sensation made worse by the requirement of having to pull the neck of the suit over my mouth and nose. Two: The smell. Silicon All-Father's-Missing Eye, THE SMELL.

The liquid had been cool when I...deployed it, but once my body heat did its work of warming it up?

Well...my ribs were still hurting from the series of dry heaves I'd done before I could get myself back under control. I'd only made it a few steps on that first try. However, since the makeshift seal worked, I at least proved I wouldn't immediately end up passed out and so continued.

On the second trip, I progressed beyond the T-intersection but made the mistake of not controlling my breathing, made worse when I turned the corner and had to choke down a scream. My gaze had been unexpectedly met with eight glowing red eyes from directly above me. A crawler drone.

I didn't dare move as the drone continued on, metallic legs creaking slightly as it glided its feet from tip to magnetic tip on its path toward me. Carbon dioxide levels rose with each short exhale into my makeshift seal suit. There was no false warmth, sense of comfort, or euphoria as there had been from the nitrogen exposure. In its place was a harsh urgency, the chemoreceptors of my brain screaming for me to find air as I stood stone still. Several smaller utility arms extruded from the flat, thin body, their tips and edges waving languidly toward me as it stopped, eyes bouncing around in scrutiny. I likely would've felt myself sweating if I wasn't already drenched.

Instead? I stewed.

With a sudden lurch, the drone caused me to jump as it skittered sideways into the gaping maw of a rectangular shadow above. I could still hear it as it worked, the taps of its utility arms almost as fast as my racing heart as I pressed onward. As I passed, I witnessed the drone, belly crouched down low in the sub-tunnel and maintaining an eerie watch as I swept my work light across it. It continued to direct its attention toward me from the darkness but let me continue on unmolested.

I was unnerved. It had been the first drone I'd seen in person in a long while, and they were just as bad as I remembered.

Wasting no further time, I headed in the direction of the working doorway, my skin and scalp crawling as I pulled down the neck of the skinsuit and breathed heavily. As a kid, I'd avoided any and all drones within the tunnel. Their spider-like movements, mannerisms, and extruded tools, which were capable of cutting through reinforced plastcrete like a hot knife through butter, were far too much for my childish imagination to be comfortable with.

Now? As an adult? I was still finding them far too much for my mind to deal with.

They were creepy.

Oh. So. Creepy...

I let the shivers finish going up and down my spine, wiping my arms fruitlessly with my gloved palms to shake off the imagined crawling feeling, before prepping the suit for another try.

On the third try, I adopted an easy and measured pace, controlling my breathing as I walked quietly around the working drone with extra care so as not to disturb it. This time I made it fully to the terminus point, where I'd stopped originally. Two more drones had taken station in other sub-tunnels along my path. I was working on gliding by their positions undetected when I spotted it.

There, further up the corridor where it stuck out from one of the sub-tunnel entrances illuminated by my work light, sat the sole of a boot.

A boot, which seemed to be connected to someone, stretched out and lying face down on the floor.

Chapter 5

After positioning to place a few levels of clanking metal gantry between my tormentors and I, I glanced upward. Rat Face was my sole, visible observer. His sneer was easy to see. His beady little eyes, nestled above his long hooked nose, tracked me at a retentive pace, adding weight to the lingering bad feelings of being sucker punched.

Across from the shadows in a nearby stack and several levels above, I saw another Security Officer holding up both hands as if trying to look through a narrow opening. He straightened his fingers, making them into a blade-like shape before pushing the flattened hands forward and backward as if zooming along a narrow corridor: Port Sign for Attention.

My optics suite fired up, having identified an initiation action for signage data translation. He held up one arm, straight like a flagpole, establishing a point of origin as the other arm was rigidly directed at me like a targeting laser. My optics, having the default port translation package, automatically calculated the pointing trajectory as a semi-translucent red beam, sliding out from his fingertips straight to the center of my chest. It moved like an aimed turret to follow my position, a spotlight pointing out an escaping prisoner.

Anyone who saw the initial signal would see the same: a bright, visualized line straight to where I was standing.

Great.

Reaching ground level, I decided a bit of obfuscation might be prudent.

A small plume of dust rose and swirled in my wake as I pivoted, pushing forward suddenly and utilizing my arms in a swinging heave to make way for the opposite side of my original exit. The visualized beam disappeared as the line of sight was broken, and my motions brought me before an area seemingly railed off from access. Like a cavity beneath a pier, with supports and walkways above covering an almost secretive space below, it brought forth dark thoughts of trolls and other boogeymen fabled to haunt abandoned alleys and dangerous bridges to nowhere, ready to snatch you for their own nefarious purpose.

McCreed wanted me followed. I didn't want to do what McCreed wanted me to, and he knew it. I also had a feeling he wouldn't care about giving me back what was mine, not after he saw what was in there, and there was little to keep him from ordering Rat-Face and his Goons from "dealing with" me once I'd done what he ordered to keep it. I was left with a bit of a conundrum. Even if I was going to do what he wanted? I didn't need him telling me when; I'd get around to it, but not before I dealt with my own, more immediate problems.

My stomach squirmed; the excitement of not wanting to be caught was an all-too-familiar feeling.

An idea came over me.

I jumped over the railing into the restricted area and began a game: a game I was more than prepared to play.

Kids, and even most adults, tended to feel uncomfortable in restricted areas, worried someone might discover their trespass, but not me. For me, it was a classic starting move. One useful in childhood games like Stacker Tag, Staggered Chutes, and Bluebell Winter, where children used any extra edge to be declared winner among the racing stairways.

The ultimate goal of these games? Don't get caught.
The way to do this? Don't be predictable.
The added trick was making your chaser assume they've already gauged where you're going and then trying not to be there.

My secret? As the de facto Bluebell Winter King of Block 13? I had an edge some others never possessed: I liked these spaces, and I knew about the Feed Tunnels set into the base. Tunnels, which might now be my most likely means of losing McCreed and his thugs and maybe finally getting a handle on the remains of my smoldering life. I wouldn't be able to use the entirety of the tunnels, being much larger now and in a completely different Block, but I'm sure I could formulate a way to make it work.

Under the Plastcrete columns on which the walkways and support struts were perched, hidden from view, a short flight of molded stairs sank down under the base level. The stairs ended at a door. A heavy door. One protected by an access code, which required the use of a contact datapoint to even enter. In the eyes of an imagination-heavy child, the door looked like the entrance to a bunker or some treasure horde of untold riches. The truth proved to be far more mundane and had been a partial disappointment of my childhood ideologies: they were just there for the feedlines.

All Pods had a number of requisite feedlines supplying data, air, water, and sewage. The feedlines themselves traced up and down the support stuckers of the Pod walkways, with each Block's lines terminating at Substations and Primary Feed paths like some large interconnected network with gateways and sub-controllers. The tunnels were almost always empty save for a few automated crawler drones meant to check for structural and mechanical failure or to run and reroute the feeds.

The tunnels became my first introduction to how few people knew the workings of our infrastructure. Spurred by the urge to learn more, I'd inquired with one of the maintenance workers on how and why the Pods were connected the way they were. He'd been ecstatic to teach me, giving me lessons about how the Stacks were connected and how they maintained them. It had been the beginning of a trail of breadcrumbs necessary to find the way.

Through painstaking discovery and exploration, I uncovered four major facts:
1. Every Stack of every Block had one.
2. If you ever gained codes for a particular tunnel's maintenance access, they were almost never changed out.
3. Nobody seemed to ever monitor them or even rebuke me for being down there despite having used them for years.
4. Unless their job involved maintenance, most people had no clue they were down there and so never thought of them existing; perfect for losing someone if you knew how to use them.

Just knowing a code wouldn't give you access. Most workers only knew what items were needed to do their jobs but didn't actually care much about code security so long as someone couldn't wander in and cause an incident report. An Outerall Rig and Cortex Link were considered the bare minimums to work the door mechanisms. Turns out they weren't fully necessary, or so I'd discovered.

I heard a commotion above as booted feet clanked, voices yelling in urgency. They'd lost me and were now trying to determine my current location.

Good.

On the face of the door, in chipped and faded stenciled yellow paint on burnished metal, sat a label:

[Block D, Stack 43, SS21A]

I extended the index finger of my left hand, pressing the tip to the hollowed data-contact spot in the middle of the door. An access authorization request blinked up as if in mid-air, projected within my implant Heads Up Display and appearing before my eyes.
There was more shouting as I assumed other Security Officers signaled down the line, trying to triangulate where I might be. My position was obscured from their view, and so I was still safe unless someone thought to climb into the restricted zone and peer down the stair.

ACCESS REQUEST INITIATED: INVOKE CODE

As a kid, I'd had to scrounge and salvage after coming across a technical document on one of my father's old chip drives. It was a very dry read, but it outlined the security mechanism and their processes perfectly. A wrecked Outerall suit's glove, an integrated controller, and a few pre-loaded script sequences were used to construct a Contact-Stick, a small device capable of could keying the door open without needing a full Cortex implant suite. The access code proved to be trivial to get. One of the workers had an obsession with an old entertainment media, heavily featuring a specific number. The number had been seeded in the various works like an Easter egg for fans to identify, and it had been easy to find after overhearing a conversation.

"Delta, Four Three, Twenty One Alpha, One, One, Three, Eight," I sub-vocalized quietly, allowing my implants to convert the spoken words into one the doorway's controller could utilize. The door unsealed, silently pulling inward before wooshing downward into a recessed base embedded in the ground. The yawning entrance of a forbidden tomb now stood open, the pitch-black tunnel humming ominously in the chill night air.

There were mutterings as Ratface and the Goons communicated between higher walkways. I entered the tunnel, needing to crouch and turn slightly to make my way into the interior, but I mostly stood and clicked on one of my suit's forward-facing work lights to see.

The doorway closed behind me.

It was achingly cold and damp.

The feeling of the tunnel was not unlike entering one of the Corporate Cantina's deep protein freezers, where I'd worked a few shifts during the final years of my primary education. They were airtight and set low to keep the various freeze-dried foodstuffs from spoiling or aging. There had been many, many warnings and training sessions to remind people never to stay within them for too long without specialized equipment. I'd felt a flash of panic when I realized what dangers my adolescent mind hadn't taken into consideration.

I had to stoop slightly to avoid hitting my head on the upper metal supports; the tunnel sides were close, but there was room enough for me to be able to turn around if necessary, even suited. The environment was much too cold for me to use as any form of permanent shelter. Like a wight, a being with a thirst to consume the souls of the unfortunate as they traversed the Underworld, the tunnel leeched away any bit of heat my body fought to retain. The walls, ceiling, and floor of the tunnel acted as cooling surfaces.

My breath curled like smoke around me in the illuminated beam of light, phantom tendrils probing the cramped interior for a way out yet finding none. The vapor, which hung in the stale air, was a physical reminder the tunnels were airtight. Hypoxia might be my biggest enemy if the code wouldn't work on the other doors.

I moved forward quickly, the deck clanking as my booted feet gave traction on the dusty surface. There were trails, like dots, marking the passage of the crawler drones as they had done their work. The tunnel walls were densely packed. Neat and orderly rows of feed lines shot off in clusters to various ports of access. The metal bracing above ran the length, following along into cavities drilled straight into the walls as they progressed.

When I had been smaller, a number of the crawler drone sub-tunnels were uncomfortable but easy to inch through. Now I was larger and an adult. These side passages were no longer an option, which shortened my list of possible destinations. The thought of being stuck now, with hostiles around and no way to send for help, sent a shiver up my spine.

The short walkway ahead led to a T-intersection, the ceiling and sides opening up for a greater number of feed lines. A trunk, or main line, which would head straight to the primary substation. I stepped out and turned down both sides, clearing them with my work light. Being given only two actual options from my current position, forward and back, I quickly made my way forward. Both directions led to one of the adjacent stacks on either side of the Lane.

Late one night, when I'd felt the need to be alone on a really bad and stressful day, I'd realized I was wearing my Port Uniform, fully integrated with the Cortex rig I'd had since I was eighteen: The minimal requirements. My mother had confiscated my original Contact-Stick after finding out I'd been using it. I had no clue where it had gone after that, even after she died. With the suit and rig, I'd tried the old trick, and it worked. I had gotten in. Whether through laziness or archaic protocol, the very first blackout maintenance code I'd started with was still valid. After the initial shock and excitement died down, it made an odd sense why it would work. When I began my role as a working part of the "Corporate System," so many design decisions became apparent once I learned why and how people worked the way they did. It was obvious the old adage of Corporate Operations still held true: "It isn't a problem until it's MY problem."

I'd yet to test the code on any other door, and I needed to resolve that.

The tunnel continued on, meeting up with several cross junctions, all labeled to indicate the grid-like directions toward each stack on the alternating lanes. I pushed onward, my goal shifting toward first finding another door within view of Rat-Face, one which would work with my sole remaining confirmed-working access code, and secondly, leading the Goons on a merry chase opposite where I meant to go.

My plan required at least two accessible entrances to work.

Honestly, while I felt a bit stupid tromping around as if I were back in a childhood game, I had to admit I enjoyed the satisfaction of letting my rebellious streak buzz along without trying to stop it. Any embarrassment I was also feeling was overpowered by the sheer quantity of Goons involving themselves in the search. If I were lucky, they'd do the same as every other Kid used to do when they eventually couldn't catch up to me: go home and complain.

I continued on. The only noises other than mine were the slight vibrations along feed conduits as the platforms above were swarmed and far-off clicking noises as the crawler drones worked and roamed in the darkness. Earlier, on the walkway, I'd felt trapped, penned in like a wounded animal. The irony of being underground, with feedline-covered walls pressing in yet somehow receiving a sense of boundless freedom, was not lost on me.

Now? I had room to move. Room to evade. The numbers outside made the game more difficult, but not impossible.

I felt, oddly, alive.

Flexing my fingers, which had begun to feel cold and achy even within their gloves, I directed the single beam of illumination to cut the darkness ahead and pressed onward.

Chapter 4

My weight shifted as I climbed. My body lifted slowly as I applied the necessary leverage to rise and stare down into the darkness.

I'd lost my home. I’d lost love.

I was just like her. Just like my moth—I slipped.

My boots had lost traction, the treacherous frost causing me to lurch down into the railing, banging my shin and chest in a painful whoosh as my lungs were forced to expel into the chilly night. Reflexively, my body sucked in a huge breath against my will, trapping me in a paradox. My system struggled with conflicting signals: lungs full to bursting, yet still feeling as if I were unable to breathe.

Startled, I clattered painfully back onto the metal walkway, a spike of sudden, urgent fear pumping through my bloodstream. The lonesome ache and urge to fill an undefinable void evaporated as I began to hyperventilate, a wave of panic crashing over me like a tsunami.

This was a deep fear. A primordial fear.

A fear of horrors flying hidden in the skies as you flail in the open. The fear of sharks sampling your blood in the water as they circle. The fear of spiders, of other creatures, and any number of terrible, terrible things that might watch you from the dark: unseen. Unbidden.

Hunting and waiting to pounce. To snatch you from your bed, or your home, or your mind.

All as you stand helpless.

No cover.

No harbor of safety.

No heavy comforter to hide under in which to seek refuge and warmth as the noises...My god, the noises! The noises of her—of her needing to do the things she was forced to...

I trembled at the thought.

Of the horrible, horrible things she'd needed to do to protect me. To hide me.

The only way out. The only way to stop it is to...

Is to...

I shook my head. Hard. Enough to almost puke as the vertigo took over again.

Just like your Mother.

Do it.

Go.

I paused.

The thought was random, not genuine, but was enough, barely enough, to quell the stream of consciousness somehow invading my thoughts. I now knew the voices hadn't been mine. She wouldn’t want this...Not for me. I could never do this because she wouldn’t want this for me.

Her willingness to sacrifice, a willingness to put up with the endless lies, the unpaid promises, and the crushed hopes rotting in an unharvested field. Sacrificing happiness and her chance of a future just to keep me safe? She had put up with so much to ensure I’d have a future. A future without having to do the things she’d...she’d had to do.

More importantly, who she had to do them with.

For.

I couldn’t.

Her loss had to mean something. Her loss had to mean...anything.

I clung to the thought, a tiny piece of salvation to pull myself free. Clear as a bell in the echo chamber of my own head, I heard my voice, my true voice, ring out loud and clear: I won’t.

The statement seemed to echo as the urge to jump faded.

Oh, it was still there, prodding and prowling along the edges. But now? I could think. Breathe.

I continued breathing, bringing more thoughts of my mother consciously forward. How she had looked. How she had smiled. How she had told me her greatest wishes for my future and where it might lead before she had done it. Before she had killed herself.

In.

Out.

In.

And out.

And out.

I felt weak. Tired. A little bit nauseous and definitely very hungry, but the pull was gone.

I pressed my forehead against the freezing metal as I continued to breathe. My dominant hand remained clutched onto the lower rail, ensuring I wouldn’t go over. I was eventually able to see again. The sensation of vertigo also faded as, inexplicably, the lonesome ache simply vanished as if a switch were thrown.

I looked around confused. Dazed. My head still feeling odd, but a different oddness from before: Hazy and nebulous as opposed to waxy and monochromatic. The vertigo and risk of falling were a danger I couldn't ignore. I called up a subroutine for my implants and worked quickly. Digging down until I could find the hidden settings menu I’d accessed years ago, toggling off a module. A close call at the port, involving a loading cart and damaged infrared emitters, spawned an interest in how to disable the luminosity inhibitors. The specifics are too detailed and boring to go into, but the need had arisen, and for now? Better safe than sorry.

The surrounding area plunged itself into inky blackness as the optics began to recalibrate. What I saw next caused me to swear softly as I blinked several times, not believing what I was witnessing. Rather than the dullish greys and greens of low-light vision, which often washed out colors but provided a distinct outline for surrounding surfaces and details, everything looked...unexpectedly clear, but dramatically altered.

Many times before, I’d perch myself at this very spot, often right before my shift at a time just as the sun went down. The Spire had stood as a beacon of hope for my future, a bright and glowing star of promise on the horizon of my mother’s, and by extension, my dreams. But now? Save for the bright puddle of lights by the port, with the clouds acting as a backdrop to a hellish landscape surrounding it, the Spire looked...discordant. Unpleasant and ugly to look at.

Without the automated low-light mode configurations, I began to notice other things with a different look: the port lights were harsh and too blue, the pathway lights too orange and noisy. The sky revealed itself as a hellish landscape of reds, purples, and blues, all reflected beneath storm clouds surrounding the Spire like a portent of doom to come.

Having never seen the Spire, REALLY seen it as I was now... it was shocking to say the least.

Spears of lightning lanced forward. Like the smashing of giant fists against metal armor, the atmosphere boomed, the delayed rumbles of thunder crashing with great intensity as the bolts struck. A battle of titans on the distant horizon. The towers accepted the lashes stoically. Claw-like whips of power sparked and scraped along the surface, probing for a weakness. With the camouflage stripped away, the stark change became impossible to ignore. Between flashes, I could see the skin of the Spire. Where once it had appeared perfectly mirrored and smooth in the comfort of low-light. It now looked pockmarked and roughened, where deep shadows pooled in low areas and crags, mimicking a lunar face. I felt a sense of loss as the last vestiges of my childhood stood exposed to reality; my tinted goggles lifted unexpectedly.

The Spire took on a sinister, almost evil visage as McCreed stood nearby, not close enough to touch, but closer. His smile had changed, cracking at the edges. Uncertainty now filled his eyes as the corners drooped into a frown. I had the vague feeling something...something else had happened, but it was like trying to remember the title of a song where I only had part of the melody trapped in my brain. I couldn't describe what I was missing despite feeling I knew the rest was right there. He glared, eyes slightly wider, eyebrows knit together in puzzlement, but otherwise making zero moves. It was almost as if nothing happened. The rail still remained warped and bent, manipulated by his now obviously augmented hands.

His iris rings adjusted, their astronomical expense more apparent with my disabled inhibitors. The internal mechanisms silently and smoothly functioning with every nanoscopic twist and turn, the clearest sign of their worth. He continued silently observing my somewhat compromised position sprawled out on the walkway like an erstwhile partygoer.

He didn’t attempt to help me up, which, let's be honest, I really hadn’t expected him to.

I stood, dusting myself off. With us being something around fifteen levels above ground, there was a distinct lack of dirt or grime, but I was nervous and felt the need to do something with my hands.

“Cheap optics,” I said sheepishly as I rejoined him at the rail, feeling the need to serve up some sort of excuse for my sudden need to...What?

What exactly happened?

I had another odd feeling I'd somehow lost track of time; however, the chronometer on my interface continued clicking onward. It didn't seem like an excessive amount of time had passed. McCreed didn't react. He continued to stare, his iris rings now rotating faster, as if they were trying to focus on me and me alone.

It was really starting to get on my nerves.

"So going back to what you were saying," I said, pressing onward to avoid my own discomfort, "What exactly would those 'lords' deign of me? A lowly worker just trying to get a visa?”

His frown was quickly replaced with a thin line, a perturbed expression leaking in. I'd somehow thrown him seriously off his game, and he wasn't happy.

Good.

He turned, no longer looking at me as he stood straighter, reassessing.

"They’d deign," He said slowly; Dangerously, "All your personal assets be bequeathed to those the man who died left behind...provided of course, you neglect to take any potentially corrective actions available to you."

“What?!” I said, exasperated, “Look. I only tried to help the guy that died. You were there. You know.”

He frowned at this. Looking downward, toward the lights of the port, which had flickered and faded from errant strikes. A common occurrence. The red glow of emergency lighting indicated general power would be knocked out until the recovery system could come back online. Mote beams of personal utility lights pierced the black as damage control teams scuttled about within the darkness, like ants swarming the side of a kicked hill. Their number made it nigh impossible to pick out any specific individual from the crowd.

I had a stray thought, one I was surprised hadn't come up before now: Did they call Robin back in, or not?

McCreed continued, unaware of my internal question, "In the eyes of those lording over us, what if...what IF it were deigned his death was caused by no wrongful action on your part?” I jerked my eyes upward, mouth opening in protest.

He snapped up a hand to stall me. I let him. At least he was finally going somewhere with our talk.

“I am not happy about any of this. Especially since that man’s actions not only proved to be costly for your future but also for my own carefully shaped plans. Regardless of my own...personal feelings," he said, pausing dramatically, "your assets are currently in holding until such a time as many of these plans might...redirect themselves toward a better resolution?”

"Plans?" I blurted out, "PLANS?! Damn your plans!" I jabbed a finger out toward the direction Rat-faced and his goons had headed off, “They took everything from me that isn't already gone! How are your plans going to matter if I can't survive?! I barely have clothes to wear, let alone a future."

A colder gust of wind blew through, sharp and piercing. A speckle of water followed, and I shook, trembling from the cold and...the rage. A rage had been kindling up until the mention of his plans, which had ignited it.

“I am well aware of that.” McCreed said, as if I hadn’t just yelled at him. He raised one of his perfectly manicured digits to waggle it at me in an authoritative manner. “Hence why I staved them from doing so. I would remind you of that fact, as well as the fact I might be able to assist you...”

He paused again, eyes now looking at me pointedly.

“Provided...what?” I asked, letting him pull me in.

He smiled, back in the game. Metaphorical hand on the rod, ready to hook.

“While I’m not fully aware of who might have ordered it, and I’m sure someone along the line has,” he said haughtily, “It’s highly likely I, personally, will catch the backlash in any actions seen as helping you. Do NOT forget why you still have the few things retained. It was only within my good graces you were allowed to do so.”

I fought the urge to roll my eyes. A feeling had been growing the moment he stopped the goons, but I wasn’t sure the weird hunch I was beginning to get now was any better.

“And now is when you start telling me you’ve got some sort of proposition?” I asked, crossing my arms, “One where it would behoove me to take heed and listen? Or else?”

Extortion: A classic switch move; no bait needed because there wasn’t a need for an enticement when all you hold dear was either above you, just out of reach to grab, or about to be taken away from under where you stood, the dangling noose already tightening around your neck as your world gets kicked out from underneath by force.

“Quite observant as I always knew you were, Mr. Price,” McCreed said, flashing me a smile. A man back on top of the world and inviting me to join him. To collaborate. I might have seen it as dazzling, maybe even charming and charismatic.

Except...it didn’t reach the corners of his eyes. Smiles like those are designed to be not only fake, but costly at the expense of someone other than themselves.

MY expense in this case. Ugh.

The damaged railing remained behind him: bent, dejected, detritus to be ignored after being manipulated and left to be dealt with by...someone else. Just not him.

I looked at the Spire, letting my gaze linger. I was a man with one bag, still dressed in work clothes not really belonging to me. With no berth for self-delusions, my filters were already gone when it came to being deceived. If there was any lesson my father and, most recently, Dora, had left me, it was those.

McCreed continued on, building up momentum like a conman setting up the patter necessary to hook an unassuming rube. However, this rube wasn’t unassuming, just unable to do anything about it. Like a passenger on the ill-fated Artemis Stargazer, the first trigger for the eventual corporate space ban, I could only stand and observe as the trajectory sped toward an impact point, much too far in the distance to see, but not too far to imagine as the Controlling Intelligence cowed everyone into believing they were on the best path forward. It's also where the saying, "All paths have an end; some are just more sudden," became so popular.

“And so...” McCreed said, voice smooth, “We reach the crux of the matter. Should you decide to do so, I have a need. A need for you to meet up with an acquaintance of mine and deliver a message."

"To whom?" I asked.

"Someone who I believe to also be an acquaintance of your...girlfriend, is it?” he crooned.

“Former,” I said flatly, “by about ten minutes.”

“Oh my.” He said with a playful tone, “How unfortunate.” He said it, notably, without any pity or natural reaction. Just a simple statement.

“She’s apparently acquainted with more people than I realize,” I said. Pithily...there was definitely some pith in that one. Maybe even a little spite.

“Who's it for?”

“Her employer,” he said.

“I’ve never met them.”

“She’s well aware of who you are.”

“She? Why?” I asked, “How? I absolutely have never met her.”

“Have you never visited her establishment with your vivacious...ah. Apologies. Former paramour?” That look again, almost mischievous, as if he knew more than I did.

“I’ve never been to The Glow.” I said, doing well to hide my irritation, keeping my tone light and airy, “No reason to go.”
I caught it then. A slight tightness of his eyes and pursing of his lips before he could control it. He was fishing, trying to find some nugget of information. I wasn't reacting the way he wanted me to. I was managing to keep from giving up too much.

“Am I mistaken then, in having heard you were originally from The Glow?” His tone had shifted, a slight feeling of pressure to answer. His eyes were now very focused on me, his iris glowing slightly, watching my face as if searching for a hidden feature.

“My parents were from there. I was too young to remember much about it,” I said, a little too quickly.

Whoops.

He narrowed his eyes at me, staring intently. I squirmed a little inside.

“But does your record not tag your official location of birth as,” He paused, his eyes taking on an unfocused look, “Marcott Claim, Lane 74? That’s within The Glow, is it not?”

“I mean, technically?” I said, suspiciously.

He raised his hand, and I again surprised myself by snapping my mouth shut.

How the f...

“Tut tut.” He said breezily, "All things aside, I have something here for you.” His voice had taken on that silken tone again, and with a flourish, he extended an object between forefinger and middle on his left hand, lifting it from the railing. Like a magician presenting a trick there had been a little snap and poof: a card.

I...actually hadn’t seen him reach for it. Pretty darn impressive, even if I was annoyed about the weird behavior. Side admittance here too: It was smooth as hell. Look, I wasn’t some rich Corpo with tickets to a local show or anything, so don’t judge me; small joys and all that.

I took the proffered card, mostly transparent like Mr. MiddleManaWhatevertheHell’s had been except with fewer, flashier features and decals stamped all over it. Despite lacking content, the card felt higher quality in my hands, which was weird to say. The lettering was etched into the face, looking laser-cut instead of holofilm projected. Flipping it over a few times, I tried to examine it as fully as I could, but I kept feeling like I couldn’t really see it.

Visually, the surface pattern looked almost like a processor wafer and seemed to be the source of the inability to see. I blinked a few more times, but it remained blurred, like someone was protecting someone’s identity in a holo-feed; It was disorienting as hell, and the more I looked at it with my ocular implants, the blurrier it seemed to get.

Interesting.

I jumped as the harsh red projection on the outer door’s lock screen blatted loudly. The door opened with a clunk as the final stages of a lockdown release completed. Several goons came grumbling out of the lock, empty-handed and aggressively displeased. All glared at me; guess they hadn't been happy there was nothing there either.

McCreed ignored them, pointing to the card in my hand.

“Consider the card your introduction,” he said, “complements...of me.”

“And you want me to do what? Just say hi? Uh. In case you’ve forgotten, I...um, don’t really have anywhere to go.” Fatigue washed over me as my body came down. The adrenaline spike no longer giving me the blissfully warm but temporary boost to my system. I trembled, now unable to stop.

“Perfect!” He said, tapping the rail with his palms, not even perturbed in the slightest and absolutely ignoring my other questions, “You can go there then. Soonest is best.”

I glared at him, or at least attempted to. He had already turned to look back at the Spire as if it were all that mattered to him in the moment. My gaze ended up directed at the back of his perfectly coiffed hair as I felt vibrations through the soles of my boots. Ratface and his goons came into view as they tromped up two of the stairways to join the others. I began to feel penned in again.

“We,” McCreed said with finality and an irritatingly pompous wave, “are done here.”

The discussion was now over. I'd been dismissed.

One of the goons “handed” me my bag. Which is to say, he bypassed my extended left palm and shoved it right into my solar plexus. Between the pain of the impact and an empty stomach, it wasn’t a nice feeling. “Thanks,” I eeked out, deciding to beat feet while the beating was good rather than deal with any other indecencies.

Their thuggish laughter haunted me all the way down to ground level.