“Son-of-a-bitch.” Rob had spoken the words in a cold, spine-tingling way, his eyes never leaving mine as I fought not to crumple.
Purposefully. Slowly. I blinked under the unexpected scrutiny.
A hex code flag was visible in front of my vision; a thin line was sticking out from the mass of a pulsing vein peeking out from Rob's forehead like a rising summit. It was incredibly distracting.
"Uh. So...what's going on?" I asked, trying to act as casually as I could. My voice wavered in the delivery. Ultimately? The specific shades of the floor, ceiling, and Rob's face, which had settled onto a puddled maroon or muddled vermilion, were not the kind of data I had an immediate need for right now.
His rage, or rather the target of his rage, was.
His eyes were still emberlike discs, spiraling like flaming windmills planted on any of the four montes of Venus. The hex value flags attached to them were fluctuating, the characters ticking by at an alarmingly rapid rate. I couldn't judge to whom his ire was being directed, but the flag pointers were sure giving my optical processing unit a run for its scrit as an overclock triggered, making the workings feel like they could've bored holes into the back of my skull.
“You’re a techie kind of guy,” he said. “You seriously didn’t think to do a surface scan? Maybe even a refraction filter or thermal underlay?" Rob held up the card, which was now causing a new style of flag to go haywire. I felt my sinus cavities begin to burn. The image on the face remained blurred.
“Scan it? I can’t even see it,” I said, head aching as I attempted to look directly at it again. “It’s a weird, blurry spot where the card should be. Is that not how it looks to you?”
He stopped turning it, a contemplative look on his face as his eyes probed the surface.
I felt the heat creep along my neck as I mentally searched for a way out of needing to answer what was likely to be his next question. It was my turn to change colors now.
"Dora yanked my Cortex Rig, remember?" I said feebly, trying to buy time.
Crud. I'm coming up blank!
Rob frowned, sweeping the end of the card around my head in a small circle, the suspicion tightening the corners of his eyes.
“Couldn’t use your optics?” he asked.
“Uh—” I said with uncertainty.
“You’ve got what, Mark Tens? Nines?” He leaned forward.
“The thing is—” I began to sputter, but he had already begun scanning. One of the last things I would've ever wanted him to do in the moment. An active lectonalysis request: infrared tight-beam, straight from his optics to mine.
Oh no. I thought just as a warning indicator flashed along my vision. There was a shift in color as both iris rings focused, and I felt my vision stutter momentarily while I tried not to squint. From the putrid darkness of the Capsule Bays to the brighter shades of the Port, Stacks, and loftily lit corridors of CorpoLand and the Spires. Admittance of "inferior" mod use was oft taken as the sign of a deeper shame.
Bad enough to exist in squalor. To not seek out and obtain better?
You were a castoff. A Scrabbager.
“Oh...” he said. His voice had become soft. Delicate. “Mark Fours?”
A strong and immediate urge to sink below the table washed over me as I found it hard to meet his gaze.
Now he knows. My cheeks were hot. Burning.
"Tanta Mark Two's," I said. The shame was a typecast, settling perfectly over my face as I tried not to look up. The color of his eyes shifted from molten red to one resembling their normal shade of brown. Where before there existed anger and outright suspicion, now there was only pity.
“Price,” he said, his voice firm but steady, “Level Six means you were supposed to get a set of Nines basically for free to do what you wanted with when you hit Line."
I remained silent.
Before now, I'd never had to say anything aloud about them, at least in a way audible for others to hear. In front of someone I respected and didn't want to risk further judgment from? I found it...difficult. Even if I logically knew better. My Corpo-minded stepfather had managed to drill into the folds of my mod-addled brain the need to keep up appearances. Dora had only reinforced it.
"Hell." Rob continued, "Five was supposed to also give you a DIFFERENT set; they fully expected you to upgrade. Why aren’t you using them? You sell em?”
I nodded.
He leaned back grimly, examining my face.
I spoke up, quietly. “Except for the Nines. We, that is Pandora and I, figured she’d get better chances at generating scrit if...” I stopped to trail off.
“And whose idea was that? Originally?” Rob asked.
I didn’t answer. We both knew.
“You know?" He said coldly. His eyes brightened as his jaw clenched in irritation. "It’s surprising how much more you can hate someone in such a short amount of time."
There was a stretching noise as his right hand squeezed. The sound was not unlike a synthleather glove being pulled onto a hand far too large for its capacity. His expression looked like he wanted to strangle something.
“So, even without the total amount from the sales. With what Dora was likely pulling in working at InCorporeal and whatever else you were squirreling away in between the side work, extra shifts, and overtime from the Port. You’re telling me you’ve been, for the better part of the past two Lines, stuck with an ancient pair of Tanta Mark Twos?”
I nodded again.
“That’s basically the entire time you've known me!” He nearly shouted, and I winced.
I'd always had difficulty dealing with the internal struggle over the illogical sense of shame. Existence within the envelope of Corporate Citizenship meant different standings. Different structures. In my own mind, I'd always been quietly happy, maybe even strongly prideful of my ability to take discarded parts and make them work. Even recognizing it was Rob who taught me how to weave miracles with a few scrap pieces of wire and a toothpick, it had always been on current spec machinery and never on an implant. Implants were different.
I shrugged, still unable to meet his gaze.
“Owen, Mark Twos can’t even do some of the stuff I’ve seen you do at work,” he said, a tinge of vexation in his voice now.
“Funny what you can get away with when you insist on always wearing a Hardset. You know,” I did double air quotes with my fingers, “for safety?”
Rob frowned. “It bothers me they gave you so much grief about that."
The Hardsets, a bulky protective head rig that included noise, vision, and breathing filters for loud and potentially risky environments like the Port, were a not-so-popular option among most of the, shall we say, less-than-safety-oriented members on the Port roster. My insistence on wearing the goggle-like protective rig—with its collection of strategically placed impact plates, digital feeds, and sensors—was often a subject of much ridicule in certain circles but allowed me to complete tasks like optical scanning and visual marking confirmation my Mark Twos couldn't.
“What about the visual and audio lag?” Rob asked, genuinely curious.
“Bypassed.” I said, “There were limiters on the sensor suites for some design reason." I paused. The hex codes were still furiously tagging every item, shade, and color within view. I'd just gotten better at ignoring them. I made a mental link, which felt like it snapped into place with a satisfying snick.
"Inhibitors and limiters," I said aloud. A sudden flash of hindsight thumped me like a flick to the forehead as I looked at Rob. "Do you ever find it weird we keep running into things locked out all the time?"
He was nodding now. Slowly.
Very slowly.
“Hmm,” he said, after a moment of silent contemplation.
I filed the idea away for another time as he spoke again.
“Owen. You’ve always been much better at the work we do.” He said, without sarcasm or heat. I felt inordinately pleased with myself, truth be told. “And I always had my suspicions you knew more than you ever let on.”
I grinned at him.
“Even if they said you were an idiot savant or something.”
I felt the grin disappear.
“Peterson used to say you might have been, like, injured or dropped as a kid—"
“Well Peterson used to lock himself in the Loader Bays because he’s a fu—” I began.
“Still doesn’t explain why they look so much less artificial,” Rob said, totally ignoring my protests as he pointed at his own eyes, “Like I wouldn’t have mistaken them for Fifteens or anything, but I definitely didn’t think those were Twos. That's insanity.”
I shrugged. “It’s not hard to find some cheap cosmetic work to make them look better. So long as nobody gets too close, they work out alright.”
Rob’s face was quizzical, head tilted slightly to the side: “So you couldn’t afford upgrades, but you could afford cosmetic work?”
“Cosmetics are cheaper,” I said, “and, uh, Dora insisted.”
“Dora? Why’d she consider that more important than just upgrading?”
“She said it’d be embarrassing if someone saw her with me. If they looked like they—uh. I...did.” I stopped, pondering on what I had just repeated from the memory of her arguments.
Mm.
Ouch. Okay... So let me clarify something.
In this moment, I was feeling something. What that feeling was was new to me. What it was...unexpected.
More mallet than finger, the impact was like a meteorite. Before I'd felt an ice pick between the ribs and right into the heart.
This? Feeling every part the fool as you realize the foolish things you put up with without being aware are, of all experiences, not one I would recommend to anyone. Like Karl and the heavy loader, the full force had come to bear. Once the threshold was crossed, it was irreversible.
It wasn’t a good feeling. Nor a pleasant one.
It was—ah...Oozy? Smearish? Smeary? Smeagoly? Is that a word?
Slimy. It felt slimy.
In summary, it was a sensation not entirely unlike having your skin suddenly and unexpectedly come in contact with something of a slimy, unidentified nature. Wiping freehanded in search of the initial point of contact might only serve to enlighten one about other places unexpectedly reached.
First it started as a slow creep into the gut like icy tendrils, inching their way through my belly.
I tried to make sense of it but couldn't.
Second: A lurch. Like the feeling of missing a step I hadn’t expected to. My mind raced to box up all the ramifications and -isms of the situations I’ve found myself in.
Despite trying, in the moment, I couldn't feel the edges.
Third: The Depth Charge. A sudden boom of shock, followed by the sensation of confusion.
I was abandoning the search for the edges and was now just trying to figure out how badly I'd been hurt. I was, at once, all too worried the lack of immediate pain meant severe and irreparable damage, silently wishing the best but expecting the worst. It was a sudden, unintentional, and entirely unexpected journey of discovery.
Maybe it was true what they said about not being able to see your situation when you are in it, only able to see anything once you’ve exited through to the other side because, holy scrit-in-a-jackpot, I was getting mine.
A thin mental spotlight marked where I now stood, smack in the middle of a pool of light in the emptiness of a forlorn darkness. I flashed in a breakneck transition through all the odd moments, snarky comments, eye rolls, and insistent directives or withheld discontent like a clip reel of outtakes and montages.
Each one centered around very obvious actions featured to hallmark her choice of leaving me the way she had. Many of which I had just ignored. It was easy to at the time. After this? I couldn’t ignore them anymore. Like a lonely fisherman on a wharf staring off to observe a ship which had long ago set sail, I was alone and cast ashore. The journey no longer mine.
Dang.
Rob's voice pulled me back into reality. There was a very serious look on his face, which was sobering. “I want it clear, right now,” he said, tapping the card he held onto the table three times. “I’ve already paid you back the few favors I still owe you. Understand?”
I looked at him in surprise at the change of tone. “Paid me back? Hell, Rob. You’ve more than paid me back. Why the shift?”
“Because,” he said, pointing the card at me, “I need you to understand from this point forward we’re starting on even ground. This isn’t me trying to pay you back. This isn’t you trying to gain a favor. Understood?”
“Deal. Even. Now what’s up? Are you kicking me to the curb already?” I gave a nervous laugh, tinged with a dash of desperation. I wasn't actually certain he wasn’t about to give me the boot with a quick, “So Long, Sucker!” imprinted on my ass, but I hoped he wouldn't.
He smiled at that, but what was more worrying was the little bit of sadness now creeping in to the edges of his expression as he cleared his throat and sat up.
“Owen Price,” he said in his serious Rob voice, “this is the moment that’ll change everything you do from this point forward, so pay attention.”
I sat up straighter, preparing myself to absorb whatever he was about to tell me.
“Listen, kid," he said, putting the card onto the tabletop before leaning over it, "you’ve been hit pretty hard the past few days, so I'm not going to do a song and dance, but what I'm about to say is an offer. Straight up.”
“Offer?” I had to stop my brain from going into overdrive as I gave him my full focus.
“This is your one and only chance at this offer."
I was more than a little off balance as he continued to speak.
“Chance at a future. Maybe not the future you wanted, but a future you might get to call your own at least.” He rubbed his chin in his hand as he took in a breath. “As for whom, let’s say it’s for me—for now. But it should also be made clear that I work for others. Others with end goals matching my own enough, I’ve been willing to stay in this hellhole to make better things happen for good people. You and your mother were two of them.”
I looked up at him in shock. Of all things I hadn't expected...this.
He held up a hand to forestall my comment, "It's more complicated than that, and a very long story. The summary is, it was me and one other who helped your mother escape Ian. I never knew she'd fled here until the day her death letter asked me to keep an eye on you. It's how you got the position at the port."
He'd said my biological father's name. Ian. Ian Price.
"I..." I started, hanging up on the word. My mind was racing. Rob was the one who brought us here?!
Admittedly, I wasn't in as much shock if I hadn't already had a hell of a night. More pieces of the puzzle were snicking into place, and I finally knew how and why Rob had been so upset finding out we'd been in the Capsule Bays. He hadn't known.
"Answer me this, then." I said, "Why not tell me after she died then?"
He was silent for a moment, thinking on what to say.
"She didn't want that," he said, frowning. There were creases from doubt and worry across his face, making him look...older. "She specifically requested I not do anything to compromise your chances for Citizenship." He tilted his head toward the holo-card which was still blurry to my own eyes. "Things have changed."
I mulled over this for a moment. Rob had been the only good thing, good friend of these whole past few hours and I was indebted to him. But hadn’t he just made it clear I shouldn’t be?
As if reading my mind, he spoke, answering the unvoiced questions, “You owe me nothing, Owen. Get me? NOTHING. Don’t choose yes because of some sense of obligation or loyalty. I will seriously kick your ass right now.” I figured it would be a joke, but his face remained stoic, his body stiff and still.
“You. You’ve got to be the one to choose. For yourself, even if the future is uncertain here,” he paused, forcing himself to relax as if realizing how wound up he was becoming. “If you say no? You say no. I’ll still help get you out of the Stacks to wherever you wanna try to go for a dust-off.”
“Why though?” I asked, touched but also wary. “Why do that for me if you owe me nothing and I owe you nothing?”
“Because,” he said, smiling sadly, “I think you’ve let others have a say on where you get to go or not go for far too long.”
The Power Cell on the table between us ticked upward again. The glowing amber "49%" facing me like a luminous sun.
Rob's emphasis on ensuring I understood I could truly make my own choice here was a bit of an epiphany.
Even with my mother, her actions were done to achieve a dream she had envisioned for me. I, in turn, took up the vision as my own, viewing it as my life’s goal, framed by the worry her sacrifices would be taken in vain otherwise. McCreed having taken away that touchstone was an action that I could never forgive, an action designed to manipulate and force me to concede to the plans he had deigned I follow because he willed it, and ultimately Dora’s choices had been a directive force pushing me toward a slowly decreasing number of already limited options.
Rob unplugged the Power Cell from its cradle as I made up my mind. Like a baton passing between members of a relay team, he handed it to me, and I placed it onto the surface of the table next to the blurry holo-card as I looked up at him, my face forming into what I hoped was determination as I spoke.
"What do I need to do?"