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Ghostseeker (Tentative Title)
Elmund Egivand:
Chapter 5: Fakes
"Monsieur Villiers?"
The bank teller interrupted my stream of consciousness. Her jade-green eyes were ringed in faded red. Plaster-white flaked under her eyes.
"Monsieur Villiers?" she repeated. Her expression was a mix of worry, confusion, and recognition. She was staring at the mediderm on my forehead. She must have recognised me from that viral ‘police brutality’ vid from my costume.
"Monsieur Villiers, your cash is ready for collection," she said gently. Egone spine poking from under her stiff white nylon collar. It's pin-prick LED flickered. Must have tried to sleuth on me using social media apps. She won't find anything but fragmentary scraps. I had made sure of that.
"Monsieur Villiers?" she asked again, sounding more agitated. I looked away from her tanned neck to her china-white face and smiled. I snuck my hand under the counter window, retrieved an envelope and opened its flap. I was greeted by a stoic Doule dos Rouvenor, stone-faced, looking straight ahead, head facing 45 degrees to his right. Counted thirty-seven thousand Villore sovs. I returned the bank teller’s plastic smile.
The panel on the envelope's flat side displayed a monochrome version of the bank teller. 'BEAT THE QUEUE! UPGRADE TO PRIVILEGED ACCOUNT!' her text bubble urged. 'VILLORE REGIONAL BANK' and a scannable code swept in and took up all of the e-ink panel.
I tucked it into my slingbag.
Huumph and harrumph emitted by a robed Amarr behind me. His carved frown curled to expose his regular pearly-white teeth. He flared his nostrils. I smiled, nodded with mock embarrassment, and stepped out of the line. "Huumph!" huffed the Amarr. With upturned head, he stepped towards the counter. Many dozens of lines behind him, spread across the twenty-or-so counters. Mostly tourists and expats who have yet to adopt the cashless system.
Stepped out. Weather’s downcast. I pulled up my hood, not for the impending rain but for the cams and cops.
Following the street was unpleasant, what with all the eyes laid onto me. Pedestrians glancing and pointing, drivers and passengers slowing down to take a closer look. Hurriedly took a right into an alley, made several turns before arriving at a clearing.
Jade grasses and trees, pink flowers, buzzing bugs, marble benches, meticulously arranged in four quadrants. There were interactive sculptures in each of them.
Right at the center was a bundle of 19 pillars, all with equal diameters. 7 supports at center surrounded by 6 pipes and 6 hyperloop elevators. Ads projected onto their every surface. Albert and Alberta’s silicon smiles, the seamless Aliastra PrinTex, Tei-Su Street Food’s white-pajama-ed chrome-bot, Quafe purple clashing with Starsi orange, stiff-lipped Civire holding a spoonful of Ishukrunch aloft, facing off another equally stiff-lipped Civire holding a spoonful of Kaalaki-O's.
Hovering over them was a revolving holo-projection clearly visible from any point in the garden. It showed a clean-shaven buzz-cut Gallente in nylon suit. He pumped his fist as he addressed an imaginary rally crowd.
Subtitle named him as Francent Sealford. The resemblance to one of my fake names was purely coincidental. He criticised Kalsa Aldenner's policies, called it too naïve. He questioned how increasing the welfare payout was supposed to relieve the burdens of the growing lower class. He then spoke of his own plan to increase the allocation of district funds into the development of service and entertainment industry sectors. He made no mention of the drones and automation encroaching into these sectors, neither did he acknowledge the existence of increasingly-popular purely virtual artists.
A ding. Elevator spilling out passengers. Suits and costumes. White- and blue-collars. Pure and modded. Uptier, Lowtier, Surface-siders. No traffic restrictions. Free society.
One passenger remained behind. Tanned, hard features, dreadlocks flowing down his hood, face masked in tattoos. He was dressed in a yellow glossy-plastic jacket, with slashed sleeves. He shot me a plastic smile. His stubbed mech-prosthetic finger was pressed into the floor select panel popped up onto the OLED screen, positioned on a button labeled '6'. It was glowing red.
His index finger slid down and lingered around '1' to '3'. He kept smiling, feigning embarrassment. Not convinced. DataMiner IDed him as Tawhiri Ngata. Minmatar immigrant, entered the Federation shortly before the Empyrean War. Still jobless. Tried and failed to land or kept position as cleaner, blacklisted in over five companies for suspected burglary, none of which were proven. Last pic, from just three days ago, showed him pure, without mech-prosthetics. Stub on fingertips must hide lockbreaking tools. Seemed he became the very burglar they had accused him of being. Too bad he was floundering in his very first caper. 6th Tier and up are restricted to politicians and executives. Biometric scanner under the OLED keeps anyone else out.
Not so free a society.
Twenty or so more passengers filed in, separating us. Generous wriggle room, despite the crowd. More panels popped up all over the OLED wall as we selected our floors. The door shut with a quiet shush. The elevator car’s turbines and electromagnets silently hummed as it began its rapid descent.
The ad on the wall showed sculpted oiled men in black singlets, turning oversized wrenches in what looked to be the bowels of a large starship. Violent shudder, flickering lights, sparks bouncing off their swollen biceps. Their smiles were wide with thrill.
‘The best pilots need the best crewmen!’ read the tagline at the bottom. Tagline melted, and a yellow bacteriophage with a deathshead on its capsid, the logo of Pandemic Legion, emerged. New tagline: ‘Are you the best? Take our aptitude tests at our offices today!”
"4th Tier," the speaker announced. I followed half the crowd out as soon as the door opened. Garden was similar as the one above, albeit with a different set of interactive sculptures. Clouds above were further away. The pillars vanished into the sky at the 35th-metres point, counting from the carbonide-coated brick-lined floor.
I moved around the pillar bundles and weaved through another network of alleys. Stepped out, turned left, turned left again into the turquoise-tinted interiors of an Aliastra boutique.
"Welcome, customer," greeted an Excena-voice. Virtual-attendant flickered on before me. Hair green, clothes green. No bumps or anything resembling texture on her tiny mini-dress. Flat colours. Aliastra's pushing the PrinTex line hard.
"Please proceed into one of our booths to begin," the Excena-voiced holo-doll, who did not look anything like Poer Excena, directed.
Stepped into booth 5. I felt my hair stand as discrete scanners took my measurements. OLED blinked on, showing the Aliastra logo, then the neatly categorised selection of clothes. The clock read ‘1247’.
I decided to try out the PrinTex line of garments, seeing that there’s a 15% discount for the purchase of a complete set. I tapped on ‘Recommend'. Discrete cams snapped my mug. Took less than 20 seconds for the store A.I. to calculate best matches for my physical profile. Spat out the selections. Aliastra logo emblazoned on most of the front side of the beanie and t-shirt. I tweaked the selection, then select ‘Purchase’.
'Trade-in for a further discount,' suggested the OLED. I undressed and peeled away the wire-mesh patches from my garments, then deposited them into the chute. Booth scanned the deposited garments and applied a further 10% discount.
Still way marked up from cost.
I searched my pockets for a chit with a specific nick. Tapped it against the paypad, brought up my breach terminal and penetrated store network security via an opened port. Rummaged through boutique data-store while the chute spat out the seamless garments in easy-tears. Accessed folder ‘booth05’, subfolder ‘datalog07041191247’ while dressing up in fresh wear. Deleted subfolder, cleared access logs, logged out and left the premise.
Pedestrians strolled about, easy-going despite the rainy sky. The clock displayed `1307’ when I stood outside the ‘Bouchées Petites’. Having detected that I had lingered in the vicinity for 10 seconds, the store's hidden holo-projector flickered on. Felt the light shock of haptic feedback as I pointed at ‘1 pax’.
Blinking signal lights on the floor led me through the diner. It was nearly full-house due to this being the lunch hours. Students, suits, blue- and white-collars. Many engaged in face-time conversations, even more were hunched over holo-coms, poring over datapads or nodding to nothing in particular. No execs, the place is not posh enough for the likes of them.
I was led to a two-person seat nestled at a right-angled corner, fenced by black iron. I made myself comfortable and tapped on the black iron table to bring up a holo-menu. I ordered a latte and a croissant, then established private VPN connection and streamed Covertor 01.
The night and morning's excavation had turned out a lucrative yield of data. Sergei Drogodziej had been very loquacious and adventurous. Treasure trove of data to work with.
Opened filters, converted display time from NEST into V-IV-LST and selected 'Primary Source Only'. Plotted an activity chart, a process which took half-a-minute, mostly contributed by network lag in my private connection. I then searched for an anomaly in the chart. Didn’t take me long to find it. Steep cliff near the end of interval between 16.04.YC117 and 17.04.YC117, dropping precipitously down to ‘0’ on the x-axis. Stayed that way since. Zoomed in. Y-axis point read ‘2311’. Geosense metadata of last transmission read ‘Block 19-20, Isley Street, Rouvenor District, Wellside, Aidonis Spire’.
Dossier stated his apartment was in Block 30.
Brought up index, sort according to time, date and location. Included third party data referencing Sergei Drogodziej in filters.
Heard china-clatters. Tabbed out of DataMiner terminal. Would have stumbled off my chair if not for the black iron fence.
Sebiestor lass seated on the opposite side of my table. She lifted her wire-binder book to cover her lips. "I am sorry," she said with a slight blush. "I didn't mean to startle you."
Quickly regained my bearings, stood up and offered my hand. She took off her headphone, an actual headphone, and wore it around her neck. She was wearing a tribal-patterned capelet. The same retro-connoisseur I had encountered on the Whakra.
"Raschard Villiers."
She laid down her book, which turned out to be a paper sketchbook, and an actual graphite pencil beside her mug of cappuccino, stood up and clasped my hand in hers. Her hands were warmer than an average person's. She bowed slightly. "And you are..." I asked. She grinned impishly, cocked her head to her left and said, "Take a guess."
DataMiner turned up blank. DeepMine showed her strolling, wandering and exploring in various locales, some by her lonesome, others with Elmund as companion. I looked through the library 'Elmund Egivand' to see if I could find any mention of a woman, Sebiestor, brown-haired and amber-eyed, height about 160cm.
‘Ball-and-chain’, ‘My wife heats up easily.’, ‘Teases me with the dried leaves.’, 'Isi'.
Isi Efelate Egivand.
"Ah, my apologies. I didn't realise, Madame..."
"Please call me Isi," she beamed. "I am not one for smokes and mirrors."
"Ah, pardon me. Pardon me," I sat down and she followed suit. "So, how did you find your stay in charming Libertopolis?"
"I found the arts and culture rich and intriguing, and its architectural engineering marvels most awe-inspiring."
She sat down and sup on her cappuccino. She laid it down on the china tray. Her tone carried a hint of excitement, "Your megascrapers, especially this Foiritan Tower, impress me the most."
"Was it the tiers being their own township, the seamless connectivity between the megascrapers and the surface, or the weather simulation?"
"Everything, but the weather simulation. I must say the weather simulation disappoints me somewhat. It is raining, yet not a single drop has moistened these roofs and streets."
"Authenticity has to make way for practicality," I nodded. "You could try 6th Tier and up. I believe a person of your stature has access. The sprinkler systems of these tiers are programmed to simulate rain."
She took another sip of her cappuccino. "I am not fond of the upper tiers. Too much politeness, too much hidden malice."
"You will find no shortage of smiling villains here." I leaned back, picked up and sip on my latte.
"Are you a smiling villain, Monsieur Villiers?"
I grinned and shrugged, "Who knows?"
"Should I credit Fortune for my meeting with such a charming lass as yourself, or was it something else?"
She placed her elbows on the table and rested her sharp chin on the back of her fingers. "I am here as an agent of my husband's. I am curious," she smiled, "What had you uncovered thus far?"
"Well...," I tabbed back into my DataMiner terminal, "I had learned that your husband's friend ceased all network activity near his home four days before he was due to leave Villore IV." I set the filters to sieve out anything prior to 17.04.YC117 and to include secondary and tertiary sources.
Chatlogs in social media sites. 1513, 17.04.YC117 log showed Dominika berating Sergei's tardiness, demanding to know if she had been stood up. The messages were never replied to.
Another individual calling himself Oculus communicated to Dominika that he was setting up discrete cams in and around Block 30. Pics are transmitted to both his and Dominika's Egone. Must be a P.I. Dominika must be hung up over being stood up.
One pic showed a yellow autocab stopped in front of Block 30. Metadata showed time of pic taken as '0017, 18.04.YC117'. The fire-bearded visage of Sergei Drogodziej, back of head towards cam, was visible over the roof of the vehicle. Other pics showing him walking up the steps towards his room. Hands in pocket of black pants, dressed in black suit. No tie. Face stern.
"He appeared in front of his apartment block on 0017, a day after his sudden cessation of activity..."
I brought up pic gallery pics from 16.04.YC117 and back. A glance-through showed him wearing various summer jackets, t-shirts and caps. He was smiling in all of them, some happy, some smug, some mischievous.
"Though he exhibited behavioural changes."
Last message from Oculus was from 0700, 19.04.YC117. He said he was going to go check with a contact in YellowBug, the local autocab company. Discrete cam showed Dominika going up the stairs towards Sergei's apartment on 0901, 20.04.YC117. Next pic was of Sergei, back turned away from cam. Dominika wasn't with him. No Dominika in pics timed before or after his departure. No further chats from Oculus.
"Last person to be in contact with him was Dominika, last seen going towards Sergei's room. She wasn't seen leaving. She was in contact with a P.I. named Oculus. No further communications between them since 19.04.YC117."
I set filters to 17-18.04.YC117 and started looking for other pics containing 'Sergei' and the autocab, plate number AS-337-V4. Results were unsurprisingly taken from the various unrelated persons whose cams just happened to be directed at the road or the general direction of the autocab. Plotted results on map of Wellside, Aidonis Spire. Number of points too sparse to plot route taken by the autocab. Too scattered. Not enough data.
Set filters to 15-16.04.YC117. See if I could find any references to suspicious individuals. Parties. Lots of parties from all over Libertopolis and Aidonis Spire. In one, Sergei downed twenty bottles of vodka and only got tipsy out of the binge. Talked quite a lot about the Project and what it meant to baseliner crewmen of capsuleer starships. ID anyone in the pics. Couldn't find anyone who didn't fit into Sergei's web of contacts in all the pics. Extended timeline. Nothing.
"That is all I could give you, for the time being, I'm afraid," I said as I tabbed out of DataMiner. Isi's holding onto her sketchbook again, staring at me intently. Her mug was empty.
She slowly lifted up her sketchbook, over her little mouth, and asked, "Shouldn't I?"
"It's okay."
She laid the sketchbook beside her empty cup. "How did you find all these out in such a short time span?" she inquired. "Program I wrote," I answered. "It was running all night and morning, actually. Uses images and texts of subject to search all social media sites, messageboards, image albums, anything publically available on the Galnet, and index them for analysis. Data and metadata. Doesn't even need to be from subject or his contact. As long as the software A.I. can recognise the subject in the data, it excavates it."
"That is quite the pattern recognition algorithm."
"My finest work," I smiled as I sip on my latte.
I put the latte down and continued the previous subject, "It isn't perfect, however. It can only excavate and analyse what is already available publically."
"And this is where you hit a snag?" she asked, her head cocked to her right. I nodded in reply, "Yeah."
"Are the implants not helpful for your search?"
I shrugged. "Only wetware of any use is the Fifth Lobe."
"And?"
"It is rigged with a backlash program. Detected attempted intrusion and force a power surge to destroy itself. Couldn't get anything out of it."
"I see. Are you still confident that you can complete your assignment?"
"I have other ways, Madame," I sipped on my latte again. "I will find you, and your husband, the perp." I put the latte down. "You will hear from my agent by the end of the month, Madame."
"I will leave you to your work," She stood up. I followed suit, gripped her hand and gave it a light shake.
"Winds lift you."
"That's not Minmatar, is it?"
"Caldari," she beamed, before leaving her seat and tottering away.
I sat down, picked up my croissant and gave it a nibble. Saw a notification from my mail app. Opened it. BunnyHop agreed to meet at '2000', asked for a meetup venue. Replied mail with a coordinate, then shot another mail to Mr. Baqir, asking to hire Krueger's services. Brought up my contact list and called my favourite barista.
Saw that Isi didn't bring her sketchbook with her. It was still on the table, beside the empty cup of cappuccino. I retrieved it and saw my own face under the seamless grey hood. At first glance, my eyes looked to be a smudge. Closer look revealed definite outlines of my irises. My irises were ghosting about, like REM with opened eyelids.
I wasn't the only one in the sketch. Suits, costumes, modded and pure, flowing ghost-like around me. I could see the square in the pocket of an incoming suit. His mustachioed face was of lighter shade, lit up by his holo-com. Lady in plastic panel dress was overlaid onto him.
Too detailed for expressionism. More like slow cam on graphite.
"Yes, Ghost, you called?"
"Hey, Hwan!" I grinned, putting down the sketchbook. "Do you have time tonight?"
Elmund Egivand:
Chapter 6: Social Calls
The text ‘1.3km’ was hovering over the yellow tracer arrow when Hwan’s icon, a steaming mug with the Kim-Jung logo, turned up at the top right corner of my vision.
I extracted the fifth coordinate from YellowBug ID# AS-337-V4’s activity log, dated 18.04.YC117, and extrapolated it onto the Wellside Aidonis Spire map.
“I’m five minutes away from the pub, in case you are wondering.”
A yellow curved-chassis autocab zipped past me at that moment. Pale Sebiestor in a dark blue jumpsuit at the passenger’s seat.
“Dressed sexy, I hope?” I quipped.
“No. The usual.”
“Shorts, maybe with tights, a little tie and a nice hat?”
“You know my style.”
A whiff of ozone. Glistening graphene rods poking from behind the five-storeys’ roofs.
“You should change up your wardrobe. Diversify from that boyish-cute look.”
Soft turbine hums of unseen maintenance drones.
“Any more fashion advice, Monsieur ‘I shop at Aliastra’?”
I silently scrolled down the 70% transparency window, then extracted and extrapolated another coordinate.
“You aren’t wearing one of their PrinTex garments, are you?”
Extracted another coordinate and extrapolated it onto the map.
“I take that as a ‘yes’.”
“It’s not that bad,” I sighed. “Breathable, stretchable, no lint…”
“Flat colour palette, smells like polyester stretched over a fire, skin rash after a year...”
“Hey! The colour isn’t flat!”
Extracted the seventh coordinate, extrapolated it onto the map. “Besides, it could be worse. I could be wearing FedMart.”
Extract and extrapolate.
“I still have your birthday present from last year. Thinking of framing that up and posting a pic of it. ‘Fashion-blindness Exhibit One’.”
I snorted. A Ione passerby gave me a dirty look. Old dame wearing faded out woolen shawl and prescription glasses. A living antique.
“Please don’t do that,” I rubbed the bottom, sniffled and fought down a grin. “But really, boyish-cute? Policemen can’t appreciate anything but bare skin.”
Dame rolled her eyes and crept on down the lane.
“You had instructed, ‘Get a detective to talk,’ not ‘Seduce a detective.’”
Went back to window. Extract and extrapolate.
“Relax, Ferghus. Ten-times UC Quarterly Debate Champ, remember?”
“You never stopped reminding me about it, but the police...”
“Debate’s not just about arguing and convincing, and you know that. ‘Sides, barista and bartender for five years. I am schooled in the arts of making people talk.”
“You know what the wise men said. Pride preludes fall.”
“I’ll take that as your vote of confidence. By the way, Dad said he wanted to speak to you.”
“You told him about my favour?”
“He asked. Filial piety. I can’t lie.”
“I swear, one of these days I’m going to hang in the Kim-Jung family meat locker and it will be your fault.”
“Regret passing over the dialectic course during your student years?”
Ozone odour stinging my nostrils. Coils, wires, ceramic-coated cylinders and blocks, all carved, printed and welded together into a Faraday-caged abomination. Drones circled around where the rods rose from its back to pierce the firmament. Landing, nipping, taking off, like flies around a speared corpse.
Tracer arrow read ‘0.33m’. I tabbed out of the window.
“Very. Talk to you later, Hwan. Maybe see you, if I finish early.”
“Right, just saw my mark. Want to keep the comm open? Listen in?”
“Nah,” I replied. “I have faith in you.”
“And not because I’m about to enter an area choked with interference.”
I smirked. Turned into an alley. “You know me.”
Icon blinked out. Called up Krueger. His icon, a stylised double-K, blinked on. “I’m on site, where are you?”
“Look at your chest.”
Red dot.
“I said ‘muscle’, not ‘sniper’.”
“You said ‘keep ‘em honest’. Paint him and he will be honest.”
“I don’t understand you Caldari.”
“Your understanding is unneeded. Where’s your contact?”
“Saw anyone in the premise so far?”
“Technician. Left ten minutes ago on a YellowBug autocab. You do not know your contact, do you?”
I kept silent.
“I do not understand your ways, Gallente,” Krueger quipped. “Black-hood approaching your location.”
The ‘black-hood’ turned up, blocking the alley-mouth. He glanced about as he stepped into the alley and strolled towards me. He smiled. Perfect teeth. Too perfect. Porcelain white. Hawkish nose, curly beard, bags under eyes. Smelled of Synthkaff.
“Where’s your muscle?” he asked.
I pointed at my chest. He looked down at his. He spread his arms, lifted his hands and exasperated. “A sniper? Really?”
DataMiner spat out his details. Faylen Mouckley. Employee dossier amidst the social site pages. LPD IT Technician. Felt my throat tightened. I gathered saliva under my tongue and swallowed, then gurgled out, “You BunnyHop?”
Mouckley dropped his arms.
“Faylen, but you know that already.” He clicked his tongue, glanced about, wagging his index fingers. His gaze fell on the general direction of Krueger’s nest. He craned out, then retracted his neck. “Tell your sniper I’m no threat, Ferghus. We are all friends, yeah?”
Jolt down my spine.
“You know me?”
“Ferghus Rillard.” Mouckley clicked his tongue again. Did a little tap-dance. “Caldari State sympathiser, suspected terrorist.” Tongue-click. “Enturrer-wannabe. Developed program to shut down Tripwire from a home terminal.”
“No other persons tailing your contact,” Krueger reported.
“Look, Mouckley. I…”
“It’s all bullshit,” Mouckley interjected. “Anyone who paid closer attention to the allegation would find it riddled with holes. For one…” he extended his index finger towards me, “if the allegation was true, you would be a proud State citizen by now and Roden would have Tripwire replaced already.” He dropped his hand, glanced around, licked his lips and craned his neck towards me.
“I’m on your side, friend. The datadrive is no lie.”
He patted the messenger bag lying against his hips. He then opened its flap, retrieved a black-cased object three times the thickness of my datapad and handed it to me. I looked at the drive, then back at him.
“How much?” I asked.
He grinned wide, showing his porcelain teeth. “As a token of friendship, free of charge.” He rummaged through his bag again and removed a clothes pack. “And a change of clothes, as a bonus.”
Before I could ask about his generosity, he craned his neck and uttered, “Listen, friend, this datadrive and clothes are going to save your life. The Eagles’ got eyes on you.”
My throat clenched.
“Car, brown, pulling up 10 meters from your location,” Krueger’s voice scraped in my skull.
“Suit firmware’s updated a week ago. Caches vids now. When they couldn’t find the vids on database, they had me pull the vid from the suit. Analyst took the vid before I could obfuscate it. Now, they are tracking you, and frankly, friend, you made it easy. Even now, the cam’s are looking out for you, watching your every move. Gather intel, find your nest, ID all your associates. It’s only a matter of time before they move in and erase you and yours.”
“Driver and passenger disembarked. Armed. Taking the shot.”
Mouckley’s smug mug turned into a mask of shock when I seized him by his collar and hurled him into the back of a nearby dumpster. I dived after him, just as Krueger sent a ferromagnetic shell through the carbonide-coated wall and into the skull of an interloper.
“What the hell…” Mouckley started to shout. His outrage was drowned out by thunderous gunfire.
The klaxons went off. “Attention citizens of Foiritan Tower, Tier 1, Utilities Sector. The Libertopolis Police Department has declared a State of Emergency.”
“More vehicles approaching the other end of the alley. Move as soon as you hear my shot. Keep the dumpster behind your back.”
“For your safety, please return to and remain in your homes.”
His sniper rifle cracked aloud. I ducked and sprinted towards the opposite exit. “Hey, friend! Wait!” Mouckley shouted as he ran after me.
“For your safety, please return to and remain in your homes.”
Bullets striking the floor. Headlights flashed past me and I shielded my eyes. Metallic-screech, loud crash and sound of shattered glass. Smell of melted polymers. I skidded over the car’s bonnet and sprinted for the opposite alley. Heard the car-door creaked open, the sound of gauss discharge and a sickly pop.
Bullets whizzed past us as we ducked around the corner. “Three more cars moving to box you in,” said Krueger.
“Shit,” I muttered under my breath as I tucked myself into a niche. I turned my attention towards Mouckley, who had tucked himself into the opposite niche, and accused, “Your friends followed you, Mouckley!”
He had leaned out and fired an SMG at the unknowns before I could utter the first word. He ducked back into cover as bullets whizzed past, looked at me and shouted, “What?”
“I said your friends followed you!”
“Friends? These assholes?” he scoffed. He leaned out only to duck right back in. The shots missed his head by a hair’s breadth. “Not LPD or Eagles! Sending hitmen isn’t their style!” He poked out his SMG, sprayed at the general direction of the unknowns, and shouted again, “Who did you piss off?”
“Police drones closing in on the unknowns.”
Loud ‘brrrt’ of autocannon fire, right on cue. The unknowns lifted their suppression fire and retaliated against the machines.
“I’m clearing out 9 o’clock. Get ready.” Krueger instructed. I realised I was still clutching the datadrive and the clothes-pack. I tucked them under my hoodie as a loud boom reverberated along the alley. Whines of a dying turbine, followed by a loud crash. A second boom replied with the simultaneous discharge of a thousand guns. I immediately dashed towards the direction of the explosion, past burning wreckages and shredded corpses.
Headlights in my eyes. I dived forward before the ramming vehicle could make a smear out of me. The unknowns flooded out of the van, and Mouckley fired at them. He caught three of them in the chest and limbs. The rest dived for cover. Just in time for the searchlight and the ‘whoom’ of an incoming dropship to sweep over us.
Heavy boots touching the ground. Canned orders shouted, followed by the discharge of assault rifles. Heard return fire, more skidding tires.
“Unknowns closing in on my location. Relocating,” Krueger reported. Skidding tires and howling turbines all around us as we took cover.
“Sighted more cars and vans at my next stop.”
“How did they…”, I caught glimpse of the minimised breach terminal on the sidebar in my vision. Realisation dawned unto me. “Shit!”
“Krueger! The unknowns are tracking us via our Egones. Get rid of it!” Without waiting for an answer, I pulled back my hood and yanked my Egone right off. I then ripped the SMG from Mouckley’s grip, aimed and the device and pulled the trigger. My arms and torso shook violently as they absorbed the shock of the blowback. Mouckley snatched the gun back and exclaimed, “Are you crazy? What are you doing!?”
Tremors all over my body. Muscles twitching. Hands trembled and ached. I stared at the pulverised remains of the gadget. “Egone’s compromised,” I answered. Took a deep breath, exhaled. “Shit!” I kicked the wall.
“That’s shit, alright! Completely ruined my plan!”
I ceased my tantrum and stared at him. “What?”
“My plan! Look!” Mouckley turned me around and directed my attention towards the closest bundle of pillars, “We are going to the Elevator Plaza, and we are going there using a network of cam blind spots.” He then directed my attention towards the direction of the pillar-facing exit. Bright flashes of gunfire ahead. “Closest blind spot is passed that blockade. We get there then carve our way towards the plaza.”
“Blind spot?” I mouthed. “The cams have 360 degrees viewing angle!”
“Doesn’t mean they can see through covers and shadowed corners, and I had found them all out. Perks of the job. But!” Mouckley slotted out the magazine and glanced at its side-holes. He then clicked his tongue and continued, “I can’t get us both there myself with only seven rounds, thanks to somebody. We really need your sniper to help us out, but without your Egone, we can’t let him in on the plan. So!” he dramatically spread his arms, “Plan’s busted and we are in deep shit!”
“No, not exactly,” I uttered. “Change of plans...friend! We are not going to the plaza. If these goons are anywhere as competent as I think, they will be waiting to ambush us there.” I pointed at the bundle of pillars at the edge of the tier. “We are going to the service elevator instead, and before you ask,” Mouckley shut his mouth, “I have the key. Sort of.”
“I know of another blind spot in that direction, but in case you have forgotten, we are surrounded by armed men. Sooner or later…”
I rolled my eyes, “Take cover behind the dumpster at that alley-mouth and just wait for my sniper to fire.”
Mouckley frowned, “How can you be sure he will figure out what to do? How do you even know he didn’t just cut-and-run?”
I smirked, “Former Home Guard. Professional. He will adapt.”
“What?” Mouckley gaped. “He’s Caldari? And Kaalakiota at that? You trusted a nationalist hardliner to watch your back?”
“He got screwed over by double-K. Besides, he lives and dies by his reputation. He won’t cut-and-run.”
Mouckley shrugged, “Well, if you say so, but if we end up huddling behind that dumpster until we get shot or detained, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
It didn’t take long for Krueger to live up to my expectations. About three minutes in and there was a report of gauss fire. The shot caught the police dropship in the turbine, sending it spinning and veering into the closest five-storey. It cut through two other neighbouring tenements before colliding into one of the unknowns’ vehicles (a van). Its descent rained glass, gravel and carbonide shards down onto the combatants, forcing them to duck and cover their heads.
Mouckley stood up and started to run. I immediately dragged him down, just as the report of another gauss fire rung through the street. The dropship ignited, and exploded about three seconds later. I let Mouckley go and ran after him, as he led the way to the next blind spot.
The police and the unknowns poked their heads out and aimed at us and each other. Mouckley leveled his SMG towards the unknowns’ ruined barricade and pulled the trigger. They ducked, just as the SMG clicked. Not enough to suppress our assailants, but more than enough to grant the police the advantage and to buy us time to get out of sight.
The klaxons were still blaring. Report of gunfire can still be heard from all around. Couldn’t tell the time, not without the Egone transmitting its UI data into my brain, but I estimated it had taken us fifteen minutes of weaving, ducking and rolling from cover to cover to get to the service elevator.
Circled around to the topmost pillar, right at the edge. No handrails or fences to separate us from the streetlights below, not that there was any risk of slipping and falling down there. The megascraper’s shell lined the edges. The scenery was a holoprojected illusion.
“Friend, what are you waiting for?” Mouckley asked. He was fidgeting, looking around, aiming his empty SMG at the shrubs, bushes and alleys. “We stay low and wait for my sniper,” I replied.
The LPD IT tech lowered his SMG and noted, “You are bleeding, friend.” I swiped along my neck and scalp and then stared at the red sheen on my palm. “Yeah, yeah, I’m bleeding, alright,” I murmured, a little surprised that I hadn’t felt anything.
“Better get that patched up before the adrenaline wears off,” said Mouckley.
“I still have the nanofilaments…”
“Just disinfect the bloody thing,” he replied, retrieving mediderm patches from under his windbreaker. “Then get to a backalley doctor once this is over.” He looked at me as he peeled open one of the patches. “You know one, right, friend?”
I nodded and turned around. As I squatted down, my right knee hit a hard object I had forgotten I had tucked into my hoodie. I retrieved the datadrive and the clothes-pack, slid over my slingbag, unzipped it and stared at the datapad inside. The wire which had connected it to the Egone was still stretched towards and through the slingbag’s port. Recalling that it wasn’t networked, I decided to hold onto it. Just needed to scrub it once I retreated into Asclepius District.
My neck and scalp tingled when Mouckley smoothed the mediderms onto my skin. I tucked the datadrive into the slingbag and tore open the clothes-pack. It contained a black FedMart windbreaker. To the touch, it felt like the thin film-like biodegradables the Jin-Mei soup kitchens use to pack their rice.
Mouckley rose up with a start. He heard a metallic screech emanating from the alley behind us. He immediately aimed his empty SMG towards that direction. He was visibly trembling when he heard the heavy footfalls and saw the silhouette of a broad-shouldered giant emerging from the dark.
A click. Damon Krueger emerged, a bolt pistol in hand. “Lower your gun, black-hood,” he growled. Mouckley grinned nervously. “You our sniper, friend?” he said, pointing at the gauss sniper slung behind his back. He lifted the SMG, removed its magazine and shook it at the merc. “It’s empty.”
I stood up, draped the windbreaker over my hoodie, peered around the corner and greeted, “Hey, Krueger.” The civire mercenary snorted as he lowered his pistol. I tensed up immediately when he suddenly spun around and aimed into the alley behind him. He slowly retreated to our location and motioned for me to do...whatever it was he had expected me to do.
I took out one of my credit chits, the one with a scratch along the length of its surface, close to the edge, and tapped on the side of the pillar. The discrete touchpad beeped and my hair stood, as nanocoating peeled off the pillar’s surface.
“How did you do that?” Mouckley inquired.
“Not much of a hacker, are you?” I replied. The vacuum tube hissed as the elevator car sank onto our tier.
“I cracked and decrypted some drives and electronics in the LPD. Nothing fancy like what you did just now,” he said as we stepped into the elevator car. I tapped on the button labeled ‘Ground’. The door shunted shut and the car’s turbine hummed as it begun its descent.
“Credit chit’s nanoelectronics are touch-key analogues. Its program, I coded it myself,” I replied.
“You still needed a valid UIN and biometrics of a registered service tech,” he pointed out.
“Swiped it off one of them.” I noticed Mouckley’s questioning look and smiled. “Most of the work’s already done by the time I stole the key off a drunk tech in a friend’s bar. Heavy drinker but can’t hold his alcohol. Man’s knocked out cold. Never stirred in those three hours I cracked his key open, extracted the UIN and biometric data and spoofed them. That’s why the UIN hasn’t been de-registered.”
I felt the G’s when the elevator slowed to a gradual stop. My hair stood again as the door opened, and they remained standing when the door shut and nanocoated behind us. I inhaled deeply, took in the scent of the street, and sighed in relief. It was then my knees decided to give way and my neck and scalp decided to sting.
Krueger caught me by the armpit and jabbed stims into my neck. “You can rest after we get to the CyberClinic,” he said. “Who are these unknowns attacking us? They do not look like Black Eagles, FIO or police.”
“Must be the perp’s men,” I replied. “Backtraced me and bugged my Egone.” I noted the subtle shift in Krueger’s expression and added, “Yours too. Must have gotten to yours via our connection, as soon as he figured out that you are around to cover my back.”
“He had like a platoon up there gunning for us,” Mouckley asked. “This perp you pissed off some kind of egger?”
I shrugged. “Could be.”
Mouckley paled.
“We should get going,” Krueger interjected. Mouckley blinked. “So, I guess, until we meet again?” “Sure,” I replied. I pointed at his right hand and asked, “By the way, friend. You sure you want to go out there with that SMG?”
Mouckley stared at the gun and grinned wearily. “Yeah, be pretty stupid to be seen carrying this, huh?” He chucked it into the dumpster and went on his way.
Elmund Egivand:
Chapter 7: Fallout
Shaky-cam on the dusty OLED screen. Grey right arm and red chest on the mannequin at the bottom left of the neon-blue HUD. Black boots hit glistening carbonide wall. Cam rose over the ledge. Below, gunmen and drones traded tracer rounds. Concentrated fire shredded and sheared black carapace off a police drone. It yawed, smoked and crashed. The gunmen ducked as retaliatory tracer streams impacted their carbonide and steel covers.
Rifle barrel rose into view, reflex sight dead centre. Tint. Muzzle-flashes. Chat-stream exploded.
My nails gouged fillings out of the faux-leather armrest. Richter had drawn fire out of my neck. "You are tensing up too much," he rasped. "Ease up!" I clenched my teeth and, with a trembling hand, raised the can up to my lips.
Two windows at the bottom corners of the screen, hovering over the scrolling ticker. Bottom left, a virtual newscaster in Quafe-blue dress & Quafe-blue beehive hairdo smiled plastic-like. On the bottom-right, a steel-haired pretty boy with badges, smiling a million-sov smile.
LPD Foiritan District Precinct’s media darling: Captain Gerald Bradley.
Fake girl said something. Pretty captain said something. Probably announcing the end of the ‘terrorist threat’. I gulped down my beer.
Light taste. Not malty enough. I turned the can around. ‘Quafe Beer’ logo emblazoned diagonally on its Quafe-blue surface. Malt-flavoured still. Fake beer.
Richter depressed the trigger. Hair-like nanofilaments fell into and coiled up in the water-filled aluminium basin. I took another sip.
Black, white-striped dropship moored against the ledge. Side-hatch opened. Cam rose over chest-high wall and hopped right in. Pretty captain tapped on the side of his desk, bringing up the map of Tier 1, Foiritan Tower onto the main screen. Five uneven pentagons converging on a red rectangle. Guessed the 'terrorist threat’ isn't over yet.
I choked on my beer. Richter had jammed his prong into the back of my neck and pulled the trigger. Jolts running up and down my spine. Tingle in my skin, fiery prickle of stiffening rods in my flesh. No hair left to stand. I coughed, clenched my teeth, lifted up my can and gulped down another large mouthful of fake beer.
Door ‘shunk’ed open. Krueger, in a padded digi-camo hooded jacket, sleeves slit up till elbow, entered the operating theatre. White patches and stripes on the side of his head and knuckles, where the mediderms used to be. "Hey," I wheezed. He looked me in the eye with steely gaze and said nothing. With the pinky of my can-clutching hand, I pointed at his rucksack. He put it down, unzipped it and pulled out and laid down easy-tear clothes-paks. One after another, total up to four. I peered over my shoulder at Richter and croaked, "Really?”
The cybersurgeon shrugged, "Compensation. For yesterday's debacle." He gripped my skull and twisted it forward. I sipped on my beer and croaked, "How long?”
"One week," Richter answered as he jammed his prong into my neck and pulled the trigger. I tensed. Tingle. Fire in my flesh.
"Should blow over by then," he continued.
Krueger pulled an SMG out of the rucksack. Same model as what Mouckley and the unknowns had used, but modded with sliding stock, foldable sight and extended mags.
"What's that for?” I asked, pointing with my pinky. "It's for your own self-defense,” Krueger grunted as he pulled out two more magazines.
I winced. Fire drawn out of my neck.
The gate opened briskly as soon as I recited the passphrase. Krueger drew his bolt pistol from his sleeve and pointed it at the Cartel guard as soon as he glimpsed the drawn SMG in the guard’s hand. “Hey, hey, hey, wait!” I cried urgently, my arms raised, elbows bent 90 degrees, palms out. I looked at Krueger, then at the guard. They glanced at me, then back at each other, guns still drawn. “What is this about?” I demanded. The Cartel guard looked at me again. His goggled faceplate was unreadable.
“Boss wants to see you,” he replied.
The guard had his SMG aimed at my back the entire time he marched us up the three flights of bare titanium stairs. Krueger, though his face was blank, was twitchy the entire time. His finger never left the trigger of his bolt pistol. I could hear his oculars whining, whirring throughout our climb up towards the Boss’ office. Probably watching the guards on the parapets below, their guns following our ascent.
Cold, freshened processed air blew in my face when the door slid open with a loud clang. Inside, behind an ornately-carved blackwood table and beside a swamp-green leather armchair, a 9-foot tall Brutor stood with his stout back facing towards us, his fingers pinching a depleting smoking cig. He was looking down onto the entirety of Asclepius District. Krueger’s oculars whined, probably sneaking glances at the antique weapons cabinet lining both sides of the fernite carbide walls. There was faint flute-wheeze playing in the background.
Boss turned around, revealing savage war-scar-like tattoos etched all over into his tanned face. His crimson oculars locked onto us. There was a slight twitch at the edge of his thick lips. He pointed his cig at Krueger. “Holster that gun, Krueger,” he boomed, his voice overpowering the background flutes.
Krueger glanced at the domes and raised plates on the fernite carbide ceiling before lowering his weapon. He snapped his pistol to a hidden latch which sucked it up into his sleeve. Boss snapped his fingers and the view behind him winked off. Dim ceiling lights further dimmed into toe-snubbing darkness. Boss tapped on his table and brought up a red-orange squat cylinder. He flicked at the cylinder, and it floated to the middle of the room. He then flicked his thumb and index finger simultaneously. The cylinder expanded, filling the room with its maroon glow. Panoramic surveillance holovid. I recognised the shuttered gate and the wall beside it. ‘2305’ blinked on the top edge of the holovid.
Boss flicked his finger three times then tapped once, then flicked out his thumb and his index finger simultaneously, zooming in and focusing on a specific section of the vid. On it, two beige-coated men were tucked into a shadowed corner, facing the shuttered gate, frozen on the spot. Boss tapped on his table and the strangers rocked and sway in response. Smoking, drinking but never speaking to each other. Their eyes were transfixed onto the shuttered gate.
The digits on the top edge counted to ‘0010’ and two Pharma guards, clad in jade-green, turned up with gauss rifles in hand. They spoke to the strangers and the strangers replied. Conversed, nodded their heads, then one of the strangers stood forward, puffed out his chest, pulled a drag and belch smoke at frontmost guard’s faceplate. Said guard then shoved him in the chest. The stranger tucked his hand into his coat. The guard levelled his rifle at him. Stranger’s friend grabbed him by the shoulder and shook his head. The stranger looked at him, then back at the guard, then pulled his hand away from his coat. He took another drag, expelled smoke and walked away with his friend.
The vid reset. Boss pointed his cig at the strangers, “Know these men?” His voice was low, bassy.
I looked at him and noticed three holo-windows hovering where the District view was. One of them alternated between neon blue and rapid flashes. The other two were graphs with similar lines.
He knew.
“They were the same guys shooting out Tier 1, Foiritan Tower. They were hunting me.”
Boss took a long drag, then snubbed the cig into his ashtray. “Why?”
“I was looking for their employer. A job. He, or she, has ties to a clonejack with Duster implants.”
Boss produced a cig-box and slid out another stick. He tucked it between his lips, lit it up, then took another long drag. He removed his cig, exhaled smoke and declared, “You will have your network back once I am satisfied that your mainframe is thoroughly scrubbed.”
I stared long at him. “You have dumped residents’ computers into the Septic Pit for lesser offences.”
“You are a ghost-hunter. They are not. ” Boss took another drag. He exhaled, “You will find this ‘employer’ for your Brunner, and for us.”
Another drag, more smoke exhaled. Oculars glowed a menacing red.
“You have two weeks.”
Krueger ducked as soon as he opened the door labelled ‘7’, and the chrome-chassis deck that was hurled at him nearly grazed my shoulder. A shrill squawk that was a mix of terror and outrage emitted from within the gallery of refurbished tech, "Oh, shit, Krueger! Damn, man! Sorry about…”
As soon as he saw me, Bjorn forgot his apology and lunged at me. Flash of light. Blurred vision. Pain erupted on my nose. Cold metal plates on my back. I thought I saw Krueger shrugging his shoulders.
“What did you do, Francent? They cut off our net!” Bjorn yelled, shaking his swelling fist.
My head spun. Couldn't feel my nose. I tried to inhale and ended up gagging. I sat up, snorted out blood onto my thighs, gripped the bridge of my nose and shook my head. “I messed up bad,” I said apologetically. “Caused a security risk.”
“Well, fix it! Fix it right immediately!” Bjorn shouted. Had expected him to stamp his feet. “Your ‘security risk’ is about to screw me out of a hundred thousand sovs deal! The deadline’s arriving in half an hour!”
I staggered up and answered half-breathlessly, “I don’t know if I can scrub my mainframe within that time frame…”
“Get to it already, you daufr argr!” Bjorn shoved me towards the stairs. “Get me my network back in half an hour or your processor’s going into the Pit!” he punctuated with a boot to my bum.
“Security key not found,” said the Excena-voice. “Please state the security key number.”
I looked at Krueger and nudged my head towards the stairs. He nodded in affirmation and went upstairs. As soon as his shadow left the fernite carbide wall, I stated the 20-digits-and-characters long password. “Security key verified,” acknowledged the Excena-voice. Rest of the authentication process went smoothly. “Welcome home, Francent Delacroix,” greeted the Excena-voice. The OLED and holo blinked on. I noted the crossed-out network icon on the bottom right of the main screen.
I hung up my sling bag, unzipped it, retrieved Mouckley’s datadrive and cash envelope, then went and laid them down on my workstation. I then picked up my custom holodeck and walked towards my mainframe computer blocks. Plugged it in, ran the scrubber, then went to the mini-fridge, picked up a can of real malt beer and sank into my recliner. I froze, suddenly aware of the unfamiliar weight pressing against my abdomen. Recalling that I was armed, I put down my beer on my workstation, unzipped my padded jacket, removed the loaded SMG and the two extended mags and laid them down on the desk. I studied the unfamiliar object's fernite carbide shell for half a minute before retrieving my beer, pulled the tab and drained out half the can in a single gulp.
I burped aloud and swivelled towards the drawers to my right. I opened the top-most drawer and retrieved my old Impetus Five-Six holocom. I placed it onto the charging pad on the right side of my main workstation. The holo lit up. It was greyed out. Fifteen minutes to full charge.
I emptied my can and picked up another.
Twenty minutes later. My head’s abuzz. Twenty cans of beer haphazardly stacked all over my workstation and floor. Beep behind me. I returned to the computer blocks. Holodeck projection declared that the bug was caught and excised. I unplugged my holodeck, brought it to my workstation, connected it to Mouckley’s drive and ran the scrubber again. I peered up the stairs and hollered aloud, “Security risk’s gone!”
“Then tell Boss! Hurry!” Bjorn shouted back. “You do it!” I answered aloud. “Boss set me up on some impossible task! Two weeks to catch the perp responsible for this mess! I need to start work now!”
“Spirits above, Francent! Fine!”
“I need that drone’s processor, by the way! Right now! I will put the cash on your workstation!”
The door slammed open and the hollow ringing frantic footsteps trailed away before I could start my sentence. “Your neighbour’s already gone,” Krueger said aloud. “I’ve noticed, Krueger,” I deadpanned.
I returned to the holodeck and saw that the scrubber found zero malicious programs in Mouckley’s datadrive. I streamed my holodeck’s projection onto my main screen. The datadrive contained two doc files, one of which was 200mb, a note file titled ‘Read Me First’ and a folder.
The first sentence of the note file read ‘Warn me before you begin cracking the LPD network. Below it, username and password. The folder contained .dll’s and .dat’s. Source codes.
The door slammed with a hollow ring. The number of active slaved computers displayed on the top left panel jumped from ‘0’ to ‘231’. “Your neighbour has returned,” Krueger said aloud. “I know!” I shouted my reply. I turned on my holocom and Hwan’s icon blinked on immediately.
“You were offgrid for almost twelve hours. What happened?”
“You’d watch the news?”
“The terrorist attack?”
“Yeah. I was caught up in it.”
Silence. “You okay?” she asked, slowly. There was a crack in her usually cool voice.
I rubbed the back of my neck. Cool sensation. Palm rubbing nanite-impregnated fabric mesh. “A little scuffed up,” I said as reassuringly as I could, “But I’m fine.”
“Sounds like you got more than a little ‘scuffed up’. What happened?”
“Pissed into some egger’s cereal, I guess.”
“Think you will get out of this alive?”
“Probably,” I replied. Licked my lips and then continued, “Some powerful friends butted into this business. Want this sorted as bad as I do. I will be fine.”
“If you say so.” Coolness cracking, revealing uncertainty. “I’m sending to you my interview with the detective. Is there anything else, another favour you want to ask for?”
I rubbed the mediderm on the back of my neck again. “Yeah. My friend and I lost our Egones. I also need some paper cash. Ten thousand sovs.”
“I will get them to you by ten pm.”
“Thanks, Hwan, but we can’t be seen together, for your own safety.”
“So, drop-off point. Like two years ago.”
I smiled ruefully. “Like two years ago. I will transfer the money and transmit the coordinate.”
Hwan’s icon blinked off. I opened my bank app for a different bank, and transferred the amount for the Egones and to cover the cash withdrawal. I got off my recliner, picked up my cash envelope and went upstairs.
Krueger was leaning against the elbow of the railing, tapping on the steel-grey projection of his holocom, when I laid my foot on the topmost step. He peered at me, then back at his holocom and said nothing.
Bjorn was at his workbench, fiddling about with a palm-sized gadget with an old-timey digital display and a set of dials and switches. He nodded, tapped his feet, nodded again, shook his head again. Egone on his neck. Engaged in a mental conversation with his client. He turned around and his big smile dropped immediately into a rebuking frown.
Eyes peered on the gadget in his hand. A slight smile, one last nod, then looked at me, his frown returned.
“Closed the deal then,” I remarked.
He nodded his head, and then put the gizmo down. “Drone processing unit, yes?”
I nodded in affirmation. He put out his hand and I gave him the envelope. He opened its flap, took out the bundle of paper notes, gave it a quick count, regarded me again and nodded once more. “I am tempted to mark up the price another twenty percent, you know, for that stunt you pulled.”
“I didn’t do it,” I replied dryly.
Bjorn grunted, then went and retrieved a black-shelled drive from one of his shelves. He shoved it into my chest. “Take it and go!” he growled. “I don’t want to see your face for another two hours.”
I nodded glumly and returned downstairs to my room and back to my workstation.
I copied the contents of Mouckley’s drive into my holodeck and then set the drone processor unit up for scrubbing. Tabbed out of the stream window, ran PostHound and then browsed my mails. Hwan had sent her voice transcript.
Holodeck reported that the processor was clean. I retrieved another can of beer, opened its tab, played the transcript and got to work.
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