The Hightower Affair

By Ella Drake

Zetter Kohl will do anything to survive, or so he believes. But when a thwarted mugging leads him to a job too good to be true, he has nowhere to turn. Not to the citizens of the city or the techno-gangs of Lowquat. He can't even trust his own reality as it melts around him. No matter what, he'll never be a citizen, but he can never go back to the back alleys of his youth. Nor to the woman who haunts his dreams.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ella Drake
• Release date: Dec 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386476832

Ella Drake

As a child Ella read books under the covers with a flashlight. There she found a special love of elves, dragons, and knights. Now that she's found her own knight in shining armor and happily ever after, she loves to write tales of fantasy, hot enough to scorch the sheets. No flashlight needed.

Book preview

The Hightower Affair

by Ella Drake

A romantic cyberpunk in two parts

Note to the Reader

This book is in two parts. The juxtaposition of book one and book two create a divide in the times of Zetter Kohl’s life. That utter change is part of who his character is, and the parts were left distinct rather than blended together—as this world is abrupt and disruptive, it impacted Zetter the same way. I hope you’ll enjoy reading his story for what it is, a look into what could be.

If you’d like to delve into the differences in style and technique between books one and two, I’ve included a critical essay at the back of the book that discusses cyberpunk as a genre and how that created book one. Book two, Stolen Flesh, explores Zetter as a man searching for his own worth. Rather than a noir-feeling cyberpunk, book two is written as a cyberpunk romance.

Enjoy!

The Hightower Affair

A citizen brushed past. His syntech loafers carelessly splashed in a puddle and shattered the reflection of mold-covered, squat buildings lining the sides of the crowded street. From the alley he’d called home for the past several weeks, Zetter Kohl rose from his crouch and hunching his shoulders to blend, slipped into the crowded walk. The flow of people split around a trolley cart that stood in the walk selling some rank, rolled meat. Zetter held his breath and his empty stomach pitched.

The tall man stood out from the crowd. He could only be from the soaring spires of the city. With perfect sharp features and hair cut in a precise style, he’d been created with an exactness that only citizen society could afford. That’s what made him prey here in Lower Quarters. If a lone cit, a citizen, came to Lowquat sans security he begged to be robbed. Zetter would be happy to do it. He hadn’t eaten all day. He was so hungry the rolled meat seemed almost-appealing.

Keeping several downtrodden, haggard-faced strangers between them, Zetter followed the man for some minutes. The cit knew where he was going. His stride never faltered and there was an air of distraction about him that meant he didn’t need to look or think about his direction. His coat was slightly worn but not quite as much as it should be—he obviously kept it for his excursions into Lowquat. It didn’t billow out as he walked—probably to hide his rich clothing—as most people opened their slickers or took them off during the small windows of time the rain had stopped.

His mark turned into a building and with a swipe of his hand over the security scanner, the cit opened the door. Taken by surprise, Zetter lunged forward, barely catching the door before it closed. No wonder the cit had appeared to know where he was going. For some reason, the man had a place in Lowquat.

Glancing at his feet, Zetter quickly nudged aside a bundle of mail. Bending, he grabbed a package and strode forward with a jaunty step, whistling a coarse tune, and grinning at the thought of the hot pot soup he’d order later while he flirted with the waitress. That would end the day perfectly, skimming cash off the cit, filling his stomach, and watching a pretty woman.

You, there. I need to see this delivered. You’re not Fatima Patel, are you? Zetter was nearly as tall as the cit, a full head taller than everyone they’d passed on the street.

Bernie. Who are you? The cit, Bernie, frowned at Zetter then his head canted. Have we met?

Zetter’s stomach dropped before he remembered his ruse. Shaking his head, he thumped the package. Not as I remember, but I do deliver a bunch of these. Name’s Zetter.

Fatima Patel moved three months ago. That package has been sitting in that alcove for weeks.

Bernie stepped toward him but Zetter didn’t budge.

In this hood, being caught meant never backing down.

Listen, Bernie. Why don’t you just shove this package up your ass? Zetter sneered.

Finally. The man reacted. The emotion blazing through Bernie lit up his network and pinpointed the location of the flesh-based, live-weave pattern. It started on his wrist and disappeared up his sleeve. It was a standard, conservative one—likely from one of the old families—of simple lines and whirls of implanted data that lay mostly hidden beneath his clothing.

Zetter took full advantage. In a quick strike, he thrust out and using the black-market chip he’d implanted in the pad of his thumb, brushed the live-weave on Bernie’s wrist, and held it there. The connection would grab whatever random, unsecured info it could get before triggering an overload. It’d keep the man from getting help while Zetter shook him down, got whatever he had on him.

The hive mind hovered in the sides of Bernie’s neural net, hiding from the code Zetter had perfected himself. It should have worked. Zetter jerked back. You have a block.

Bernie crossed his arms and replied evenly, I do.

Zetter poised to run. This had gone bad. Fast. A cit wouldn’t normally do anything violent, but he couldn’t really be sure what this guy was doing. Tensing, his body ready to ditch this place, he reluctantly paused. His twice damned curiosity got the better of him.

Why? Zetter stayed on his toes, ready to bolt. Of course. You frequent this flat. You have emotions, passions, and are living at least partially with a breeder in Lowquat. You’d have gotten a block after your first mugging. Must’ve happened a few times, eh?

Who will I find when I run the DNA you left behind when you touched me? Bernie ignored Zetter’s conjecture and lifted his wrist where Zetter had tried to initiate a connection.

You have upgrades. Zetter’s heels settled back on the floor. He’d have to stay long enough to find out what this man would do with his DNA. He’d fucked up and now he had to see it through. It wasn’t any more dangerous than closing his eyes at night.

As you said. I created safety blocks. The cit shrugged.

You’re not afraid I’ll hurt you? Zetter stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and thumbed the rock there. A well-aimed throw had gotten him out of trouble before but could it help him to get away when he’d left behind clues to not just his identity, but where he’d come from?

I think this is beginning to look like we can help one another.

I’m not going to kill a citizen. Not worth my life. Zetter edged toward the exit again. A cit asking for help couldn’t mean anything nice. Or easy. Maybe this man may not plan on hurting Zetter physically but there were things worse than a black eye.

I thought as much. Bernie nodded. No, I’m not afraid you’ll hurt me.

Zetter slowly backed further away.

You seem young enough. Not yet completely disheartened by living here. Which parent was a citizen? Your father or your mother? Bernie hadn’t moved. No matter how Zetter had planned to make him a victim of robbery, the man wasn’t cowed.

Then the words penetrated Zetter’s mind. His body jerked to a stop.

Bernie continued. I’ll know soon enough. When I enter this DNA into the network.

No need. Tempted to tackle the man and drag him to the nearest cleanser, Zetter ground his teeth. Then forced himself to deal. It was like when he made his own mental bets on the horse races—as if he had the nikoels to actually do it. Sometimes he just had to make a leap. My father.

You have some interesting wetware. And a higher strain of DNA.

You’re slumming with a breeder and you’re pulling that elitist shit? Zetter threw the package down and glanced around the empty lobby. What? We’re going to stand here and circle each other all day? I have better things to do.

Here. There’s a storeroom below. Your so-called-cover, Ms. Patel, left her flat furnished and they still have her sofa down there.

I’m not going to sit in a storeroom when there’s a perfectly good bar where you can buy me a pint. His stomach growled. And a bite.

This is too sensitive. When you leave, if we’ve come to an agreement, you’ll have your nikoels to buy several of your friends a pint and a bite.

He didn’t bother to explain he couldn’t afford friends, not while he was trying to work his way into the Faction—or maybe away from the Faction. He hadn’t decided which was the better gamble.

They took the stairs into the dark hole at the bottom. A light flickered on and Bernie sat on the shadowed sofa crammed against a wall.

The storage room was stacked with boxes, old appliances, and equipment. On the market, this would bring a good amount of nikoels. Maybe enough to bet on the horses for once. Zetter cataloged the contents of the room and the layout. If he could get back in here, he could strip this place down to the walls and live for a year, maybe, and not need the Faction.

Perhaps I’ll suggest moving this couch into the lobby. Have a seat, young man. And you have me at a disadvantage, Zetter. Do you have a family name?

A cit couldn’t play him like a Faction member, or a breeder. At this point, there was nothing keeping Bernie from finding out anyway. Not with his DNA sample.

Zetter Kohl.

Kohl. Bernie frowned. I seem to recall something.

Enough of that for now. Zetter slashed a hand in the air and leaned against the wall next to the stairs. Why are we down here?

I’d like to hire you.

I won’t kill your girlfriend or whoever you’re slumming with.

No, that’s not it. I want to hire you to find my missing employee.

You’re not looking for an employee. Zetter couldn’t stop the mocking if he tried. You’re fucking a breeder. There is nothing else to it.

You will show respect. Bernie’s eyes shone and his fists clenched on his knees. His weave brightened the room.

You’ve tampered with your life weave, haven’t you? You must have, to even be able to have an affair. Citizens can’t think dirty to save their lives.

"All I need is for you to join the Faction and find her. I have access to the empty flat, the one that used to belong to the woman you tried to deliver a package to just now." Bernie raised a meticulous brow to stress the point. Zetter was a thief.

And then what? You’ll bring this employee home? Zetter’s smile was cruel, but he’d lived the consequences and found that now, he couldn’t find sympathy for someone who’d make the same mistakes as the elder Kohl.

That’s why I need you to infiltrate, not just get her out. Not just pay the ransom they’ve requested. I need everything about her wiped from Faction memory. I’ll teach you how to do that. Give you some technology…

I wouldn’t need you to teach me how to hack a system. Been doing that since I could read. Well. He had. When he had equipment. Maybe he’d fleece this dude for some tech. And how do you know I won’t join the Faction?

After all, he’d intended to. Maybe.

Would you? If you had a living?

No.

Good. Find her. You’ll have your job. I’ll have peace of mind.

It’d be worth the gamble to hear the cit out. Joining the Faction was a short ride to the crematorium—usually known as the recycling incinerator, a nicer term by some standards. This stranger couldn’t do anything worse to him.

Give the Faction a weakness, and they’d beat on it until nothing was left.

The Faction. For one second, Zetter wondered if the cit had something to do with them, but he dismissed it quickly. Cits were part of the government in the city. They’d have no part in the Faction, the union that ran Lowquat like an iron fist. This man had a weave, a visual network that lay on the skin and hooked them all together into the net, called the hive mind. But to be sure, Zetter needed to see that weave in action.

The day went from strange to surreal.

Bernie led the way to the lift, remained quiet the few minutes they were enclosed in that tight space, and strode off it on the correct floor. After a hesitation, Zetter followed. Before they reached a door, one opened. A slight woman, pale skinned and dark-haired, stood aside as they entered the apartment. Brushing past her, he took a deep breath. A fleeting whiff of something foreign but clean filled his nose before it disappeared.

Thank you for arranging the purchase of the flat. Be sure security is alert on your return to the city, Celeste.

"Yes,