Through Digital Ascent: Matriarchs - Silicon Gods, #2

By Chris Sarantopoulos

A digital god has no need of worshippers; only slaves.

 

It's been ten years since Chris Leuben's fall from grace began with no apparent end to it. When the mafia boss he has grudgingly been working for threatens his son's life unless he apprehends the terrorist responsible for the A-B Massacre, Leuben is forced to accept.

 

When the team they paired him with gets exterminated after the job is done, Leuben begins to investigate. What he discovers shakes his faith in the system he has defended throughout his life.

 

Now it's up to him to expose those hiding in the shadows and to prevent them from succeeding with their sinister plans. There's a timer ticking down for him and the entire human race.

 

If you love dark, futuristic urban settings, corporate conspiracies seeping into the underworld, and digital entities, then you will love this cyberpunk thriller, the second instalment in the Matriarchs - Silicon Gods series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Sarantopoulos
• Release date: Feb 7, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224023417

Book preview

Through Digital Ascent

Matriarchs - Silicon Gods book 2

Chris Sarantopoulos

Copyright © 2022 Chris Sarantopoulos

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed Attention: Permissions Request, at the address below.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Chris Sarantopoulos

Unit F, Winston Business Park

Churchill Way #38738

Sheffield

Zip code: S35 2PS

https://csarantopoulos.eu

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Cover design by: DreamIn Digital Dreams

They say patience is a virtue.

You were the most virtuous man in the world.

They say the heart is the most important organ in the human body.

Yours was the strongest and the biggest.

You enveloped me with love and gave me life.

You accepted everything without complaint.

You tolerated everything without grumble.

You, my beloved and greatly missed father.

To Eleftherios Sarantopoulos

1940 – 2021

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Chapter 1

Change; nothing more inevitable. Life and death had always been mere aspects of it. The world as he knew it was coming to an end. Again. Or some part of it anyway. Leuben felt it in his bones. Meaning either he was getting too old too soon or the alcohol level in his bloodstream was low. The more alcohol flowed through him, the less reality’s shittiness stank.

The half-melted ice cubes clinked in his glass, now filled with more watered-down alcohol than his taste buds enjoyed. Here’s to first times for everything, he said and downed the whole thing in one swig. The last thin trail of smoke out of the ashtray next to him, a remnant of the cigarette he had put out less than a minute ago, vanished. Cheap aftershave wafted from somewhere behind him. A new client. Leuben watched the patron heading upstairs with two half-naked, giggling girls, their spinal augs glowing, ready for maximum pleasure. Further back, a middle-aged bleach-blonde followed a young stud into one of the many private booths. She was already devouring him with her eyes and her wandering hands now cupping and groping his butt. Just what this fine establishment advertised: pleasure guaranteed.

Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

He opened his cigarette case—now a habit to have the case near him wherever he went—took one out, popped it into his mouth, and twisted the ignition patch. His hand stayed there a little, his eyes fixed on his ceramialloy arms. A reminder of what that job for that fat fuck, Bruno, had cost him.

The holo-link projection over his eye changed to a newscast bulletin. It was about the Board of the Ten again. Or what remained of it. More yammering about the aftermath of the A-B Massacre. Bureaucratic imbeciles, the lot of them.

"The debate over the board’s reform, Onitech Nanorobotics’ representative said, had escalated to accusations and slander thrown against our company for being willing to do the obvious: step in and step up to the challenge, and provide what citizens need the most; employment. He was one of those bulky employees with more metal and lubricant in them than flesh and bone, who lately preferred giving interviews from a virtual construct rather than from a studio. The collapse of Augmen Corp and Biolife Medical Solutions, he continued, left millions without employment options. The rest of the Board fails to understand that those people can’t wait on legal technicalities. They need real solutions to actual problems right now. Yes, we stepped up to that problem and we provided a solution. If it benefits our citizens, we are willing to do anything."

Leuben couldn’t argue with that, even though he would have liked to. Mostly out of principle than anything else. The Matriarchs, even as crippled as they were at the moment, were still the law, and the law was a sacred thing. If only those executives could pull their fingers out of their asses and rewrote some laws to bring some sort of order to this chaos. How hard was that?

When asked about the accusations that Onitech had illegally seized assets belonging to Augmen and Biolife, the same representative commented, "the rest of the Board accuses us of stalling the procedures that would allow the Board to reform itself and thus enable a so-called fair distribution of said assets. I tell you this: it’s been ten years since the A-B Massacre, and the Board has yet to find a new suitable name for its operations. Ten years! I ask you, he said and faced the camera as if he addressed each and every one watching him, how long can you keep your hunger at bay? Would ten years be enough? If you can, then you, the people we at Onitech so vehemently protect, should be the ones to tell us to stop repurposing Augmen’s and Biolife’s assets. Everything we do, we do it for you. We have a responsibility towards you. You. Not the Board."

The news feed showed thousands of people marching in favour of Onitech’s business initiatives. Cue the random individuals asked in the street what they thought of it. Every one of them synthetic and most likely every one of them an Onitech supporter even from before the massacre; meaning Onitech’s employees. Not to mention that the faces of those ‘randomly’ chosen and the things they said were guaranteed to please the masses.

Leuben went for another sip of his drink, but his glass was empty. He brought the counter’s holo-display up and ordered another one. New beginnings with old habits were the best.

The counter in front of him chirped and demanded its due. Leuben checked his credit balance. The number made his stomach burn more than the shitty booze they served here, but he wanted the drink. Hell, he needed it, so he paid for it. The display chirped happily, the counter parted, and his order appeared from an opening on the counter. Here’s to second chances, he muttered.

He brought the glass to his mouth and was about to down the drink in one gulp, when a hand with red digipigment nails pushed it gently down. Why so glum and lonely? a woman’s voice half-moaned in pretended sexual ecstasy. Her hand moved across his synthetic arms up to his shoulders, to his jaw and the days-old stubble there, slipped to his chest, and made its way down to his abdomen. She bit her lower lip and pretended to fail at stifling a giggle of faked excitement.

Damn, those flesh hookers were good. No wonder they cost more than anything an ExperienSer programmer could cook up.

You up for business? she asked as her hand crept inside his pants. Got any more hard parts to show me, lover? she whispered in his ear.

He put the glass down and took her hand out of his pants. Not here for this kind of business, he said. He took a drag out of his cigarette and downed some of his drink. Maybe that would calm his stirring manhood. Damn, she was good. Besides, he said, you’re young enough to be my daughter. She couldn’t have been older than eighteen, maybe; as old as his son. Up the cigarette went; this time he let it rest between his lips. Thanks for the offer though, sweetie. First day at work. I’m the new security. What’s your name?

The nanotech in the corsage she wore must have read the change in her body’s chemistry and behaviour; perspiration levels, shift in hormones from estrogen and oxytocin to adrenaline and whatever else controlled fear made the animated, smiling girl on its front to take on a sad and pouty expression.

The flesh hooker blinked and sat back straight. Her throat went up and down. I’m Jet, she said. She looked away, as if looking for someone. Or looking out for someone. You here to roughen up the girls or the clients who roughen us up?

You get roughed up a lot here? I thought this was a classy place. The cigarette bobbed up and down his lips as he spoke.

She raised a shoulder and pretended to casually glance around her. The way things are these days, Fleshville—even the higher level brothels—attracts some bad people. Prices have gone down, you see. Flesh comes cheap. She ran a finger on the counter top across some of the listed assortment of booze the place offered.

How long have you been working here for? he asked. Maybe that’s why this place wanted extra security. If Leuben’s luck had taken a turn for the better, the owner would have seen an ex-cop like him as a good way to keep things under control and make sure his patrons still considered this brothel a decent and safe place to be. That would put the owner on Leuben’s list of ‘potentially half-decent people’. Then again, the way she had looked around her could mean only one thing.

Have you ever been the victim of such a situation? he pressed on. The questions came to him naturally. Old habits died hard; interrogations, questionings, collecting evidence. A lifetime ago.

His holo-link interrupted his train of thought. The hologram of his new employer filled his field of view.

Sometimes, the girl said, it’s not even the clients who do the roughening up. She stood and cast a glance at the boss’s face in the hologram before walking away.

Leuben watched her heading to her next would-be prey, then answered the call.

I don’t pay you to sit around and drink all day, the boss said. The man must have been around mid to late fifties; one eye synthetic, teeth and lower jaw also synthetic, wearing a white-sleeved shirt. Leuben and the new boss shared the same receding hairline, but the boss reminded him of a lipless caricature, especially if one took into account the oversized top of his head. If you’re drunk when I want you—

I’m sober, boss. I’m ready. He was. Sober, that is. At the moment anyway. Unsure though how he would be after he got home. Something about this fine sex establishment gave him the feeling that he was accumulating a layer of filth that only alcohol could wash away. But Mark wouldn’t approve of him losing another job. If nothing else, he had to stay sober for his son.

Get your ass up here. Time to prove your worth. The boss’s hologram winked out.

Leuben gulped the rest of his drink, put the cigarette back in his mouth, and took his cigarette case with him.

* ​* ​*

Leuben carried on cleaning the area between his fibralloy knuckles. He had gotten out most of the guy’s blood, but some had found its way under the alloy plating. It was always better to clean them as often as possible to avoid servicing them more often than his almost zeroed bank account allowed. He turned the faucet on and rinsed them for the fourth time. He was certain there was more filth stuck there.

Don’t they rust? the boss’s goon asked. He had been standing there like a vigilant sentinel all this time, studying Leuben, assessing his ability to perform what the boss had asked of him.

Leuben cast him a disinterested side glance. The babysitter was a big guy, with bulging and enhanced muscles thanks to the assortment of neurostim pouches inside his body. No doubt he could intimidate most patrons coming here—the upper class wimps who had hardly ever been in a fight—but if Jet downstairs had been honest and the quality of the clientele had worsened, then this goon couldn’t handle things. Another reason, perhaps, why the boss had employed Leuben.

The former client behind him—now a mass of beaten up, naked flesh with several facial bones smashed—groaned and tried to drag himself on the tiled floor. Two thin blood rivulets mixed with spit started from a gash near his right eye, joined the bloody mess of his mouth, and followed the tile joints to the drain on the floor. The client was Leuben’s test. If he passed it, he might be considered worthy for a more permanent employment. Perhaps even a better salary. The former client groaned again, longer than before. Probably trying to say something.

His pained and garbled sounds contrasted with the giggles and the nearby sounds of ecstasy from the patrons and the sex workers just outside. The pheromonesonics the place used tickled parts of Leuben’s brain and anatomy that were best kept at bay right now. Perhaps it was this strange mixture of images and feelings that turned Leuben’s stomach upside down. Perhaps it was the nature of the job. Being on the other side didn’t come easily. God, he had fallen low. If anyone ever told him that he would be working as a brothel bouncer, beating up clients who went too far with the prostitutes, and God only knew what else the new boss would ask of him later, he would have laughed. Then again, working here was better than spying on cheating husbands and wives with that illegal crime reconstruction camera knock-off tech in his head, lurking in the shadows out in the streets, and being the extortionist creep that line of business entailed. Better than having no money at all or having to borrow from people like Bruno.

Leuben’s holo-link chirped. Yeah, boss.

Is it done?

Leuben glanced at the goon and nodded.

Let me see.

Leuben switched views on his holo-link and faced the beaten up victim.

Now get rid of him.

The churning feeling in his gut turned to a rock-solid lump. You mean get him back to his apartment or dump him out the back?

The goon chuckled and flexed his fingers.

What is this? the boss asked. Kindergarten day? I thought you could handle some violence. No, I mean kill him. Get rid of him. Put what’s left of him in a compactor or something. Leave no trace, you idiot. Paulie will help you dispose of the body. Paulie, you there? The boss turned the other way to another display that threw additional silver backwash on his face.

Yeah, boss, Paulie—the babysitter—said.

Help him dispose of the body. You got things under control there?

Code for, can you handle the newbie and teach him a lesson if you have to?

Paulie grunted and fixed Leuben with a cold and hard stare.

Sorry boss, Leuben said. I won’t do that. Beating up someone who went too far with the prostitutes was one thing. But the cop in him and the law still coursed through him.

Ex-cop.

Paulie the goon took one threatening step closer to him. He tilted his head to the right, cheek almost touching the shoulder. A sparkle of stored energy made his eyes glow for a moment. Yep, Paulie the goon, hired muscle for a once-upon-a-time upscale brothel, had just used a trigger somewhere inside him to activate his neurostims. Things were about to get interesting.

You do as I tell you, when I tell you, or else—

"Yeah, about that or else, Leuben said. Not a very smart thing threatening me."

The boss’s hologram disappeared from Leuben’s field of view.

You got it, boss, Paulie said through his connection. In a swift and fluid motion, Paulie the goon, reached under his coat, pulled out a slag gun, and pointed it at Leuben. He took a couple of steps closer to Leuben.

The beaten up guy on the floor whimpered.

You want to think long and hard about your next move, sunshine, Leuben said. The goon was less than three feet away. By the looks of it, he knew how to squeeze a trigger, but his posture was all wrong. Full of street gang bravado with zero balance. Informal street gang training did that, not to mention that the neurostims probably made him feel like a bull held behind a cage of toothpicks. Put the gun away, Paulie. I’m a … He almost said a cop. Almost.

Being unable to say it, to make it have substance and meaning, made him see red spots all over Paulie, targets to release some of the rage inside him.

Leuben snapped like a whip at the gun with one hand, grabbed it, and pushed it away. He smashed the ball of his other hand on Paulie’s temple. Paulie staggered under the blow. His head bounced to the side. Leuben tightened his grip on the gun until it gave in.

Paulie’s fingers were trapped and crushed into the wreck that once was the gun. Paulie screamed in agony. Either from commitment and loyalty to the boss or fear for what was happening to him, Paulie lashed at Leuben with his other hand and grabbed a hold of his jacket.

Leuben took the goon’s hand and crushed the thin bones there. Paulie screamed and wailed. He fell to his knees.

Leuben let go of the crushed gun, grabbed Paulie’s hair, pulled the head back, and kneed him in the area where the chin met the neck.

The goon choked and gagged.

Leuben kneed him again, this time on the face.

Blood erupted from Paulie’s nose and mouth. Some of it landed on Leuben’s pants.

Leuben dropped the goon on the floor to wheeze through his broken nose and slowly coil himself in the foetal position.

I warned you, Paulie, he said and tried to remove the bloodstain from his pants. You should be happy I still go by my old cop code. It applies even for scum like you. He turned to the beaten up and naked client and loomed over him. And you. The guy whimpered and cowered. Under the swelling and the drying blood, Leuben saw a new mask of horror. You want to play rough with the hookers? Try a V-hook or an ExperienSer. If you roughen up any of the girls in any flesh brothel, I’ll find you, and I’ll tear out everything that protrudes your torso. He leaned closer and cast a fleeting glance at the man’s shrivelled manhood. Everything. Understand?

The man whimpered, cried, and nodded.

Paulie’s holo-link rang. Leuben answered the call.

Hey boss, if you’re looking for your goon, he started and looked at the still gasping and coughing Paulie. The man had retched and was still coughing up air. He’s unavailable. Bit of a problem swallowing and keeping himself from drowning in his own puke. I’ll let him know you called, though. By the way, this is me handing in my notice. Oh, and if I hear that you hurt or mistreated any of the girls, or if that one of your patrons went missing, like the guy behind me, he brought his synthetic hands close so the boss could see them, I’ll rip your arms out of their sockets and feed them to you. He dropped the device to the floor and crushed it under his foot.

A couple of girls, the ones nearer to the restrooms, waited outside, their mouths in perfect Os as he walked out. Jet was among them. She granted him a thin smile and a minute bow of the head.

That was thank you enough as far as he was concerned.

The pheromonesonics tried to make him feel good about himself, did their best to fill his mind with images of pleasure.

They failed miserably.

This complicated things a great deal. He had wanted to make this work. He needed this to have worked. How would he pay his rent? How would he pay Bruno? He hated being in that man’s debt. He hated ever having met him.

Leuben’s holo-link rang. Speak of the devil.

Chief, Bruno’s voice said. Audio only. Strange of him, though pleasant, to be honest; the last thing on Earth Leuben wanted to see was Bruno’s fat face.

Bruno was a dangerous man. If the world was a living organism, Bruno was the cancer that no one could excise. His business ventures spanned from extortion and gambling to trafficking, bio-hacking, and drug and hormone dealing, among others. Before Leuben was dishonourably discharged from the force, Bruno’s name had often appeared in conjunction with several missing or presumed dead people. Briefly, before the damned case with that doctor ten years ago, Bruno had been a prime suspect for all the missing executives.

What do you want? I’m busy.

I have a job for you.

Not interested.

You still owe me.

I’ve paid what I owed you ten times over already. I owe you nothing.

If you will not pay, then I guess I will have to come over and collect the merchandise.

Merchandise equalled synthetics. Everything was up for sale with Bruno. The way I see it, Bruno, it is you who owe me. I was the one who got injured and lost my arms. It was your security escort gig that got me injured. I still protected and delivered your cargo. I was at your employ.

Do I look like a claims insurance agency? Bruno’s voice sounded clipped and jumpy, as if the mafia boss’s anger somehow made the connection waver under the impact of the words. "You owe me, you pay. You refuse, I come and collect. I say when your debt is paid in full. I am sending you detailed information on where and how to meet."

Leuben checked the incoming data package. Virtual? Since when do you meet people in virtual?

Don’t keep me waiting. Bruno killed the connection.

Leuben needed a fix, and fast.

Chapter 2

For the first three blocks, the street teemed with prostitutes. Faces plastered with makeup and coloured metallic wigs that caught the light and reflected it in shimmering brilliance moved past him. They all smiled and promised the time of his life; oh yeah, baby. People momentarily showed up in his field of view, hawking their bodily merchandise, and were gone soon after. Dismissed faces without a second thought, seen through the haziness of his smoke. Soft hands reached out for his, and more often than he cared for, guided his synthetics to feel the business parts of their bodies. Pleasure like never felt before, baby, any way he liked it, oh yeah. Promises given out freely now, as long as he had credits for later.

Not the fix he was after.

And once the Fleshville joints thinned out, the digital prostitution claimed its turf viciously. Subliminals and pheromonesonics to the max from the V-hook brothels, the strip joints, and the ExperienSers flooded his mind with images of the things he and the digital prostitutes could do to each other. Everything was painted in washed-out shades of magenta, blue, and light green. Promises, promises, promises.

Not what he was looking for.

One of the perks of being a cop was knowing where to get all kinds of illegal stuff and who sold what and where. If his memory served, Lupus still sold low-grade merchandise a couple of blocks down the road.

Leuben entered a tunnel where the scant illuminum bars flickered and caused otherworldly and stretched shadows to form on the walls. Water trickled down the fibralloy polycrete and formed small puddles on the ground. He approached a deep recession in the wall.

Come out, Lupus, Leuben said and increased the magnification in his retinal cameras. I’m not in the mood for hide and seek.

A pair of silvery grey-blue orbs came out of the shadows. A small, thin man followed. Lupus loved shadows. Word on the street back in the day was that he had his eyes changed with a model that allowed him to see in the dark, but the drawback was that his relationship with the light took a turn for the worse. Screwing over too many people had the tendency to make you seek shelter in the shadows, apparently.

Hey, chief, man. Didn’t know it was you.

Cut the bullshit. You can spot a needle falling from the top level in pitch black. Lupus tried denying it, but Leuben cut him off. You got any 4-7?

Damn man, you go through my shit faster than a hooker goes through dicks in a gangbang. His chuckle was deep and resonating like his voice. Yeah, I got some left. Got some sweet for me?

Probably not. Leuben checked his credit balance. Not nearly enough to make it through the end of the month, but enough to get what he wanted. Strike that; what he needed. He nodded to Lupus.

The small man with the glowing eyes took out a vial and held it between his index and thumb for Leuben to see. When the nearest illuminum bar came to life, some of the floaters in the vial caught the scant light and sparkled. But only a little; this was the cheap variant. Normally, the real thing would almost glow.

Leuben reached out, but Lupus slapped his hand. No touching the merchandise. Sweet me first, babe. No discounts, even for the former Chief Investigator.

You’re a leech, Lupus, you know that? Leuben transferred the funds to Lupus’s holo-link.

After a second or two, the dealer smiled and handed Leuben the vial. Glad to be doin’ business with you, chief. I got other stuff if you like. Stronger. He wiggled his eyebrows, and his glowing eyes gave Leuben the impression he was staring at a wild animal of a bygone time. Yeah, chief, they’ll get you up, they’ll get you down, they’ll take your mind right off the ground. He chuckled. Perhaps it was the way he chuckled that made Leuben eager to punch him. See what I did there, Chief?

What can I say? You’re a wasted poetic talent. Do they work with stored experiences and memories?

Man, they work with whatever you want them to work; ExperienSers, V-hooks, sonics, virtual, you name it. Lupus came closer. He smelled of mould and cheap cologne, the kind that made sewer rats run away. With V-hooks especially, they’ll turn your dick into a rocket for two days straight, man, he said.

How about a free sample? We can work something out.

Fuck you, man. What do you take me for? I don’t do that kind of shit. You want free drugs, go sell your ass to Fleshville. Even someone like you can get some clients, bitch. Get the hell out of my alley, man. The shadows swallowed Lupus and his glowing eyes.

Moments like this, when Leuben held the drugs in his hand, before scoring, the surge of emotion brought him to the brink of mental collapse. Most would say that it was the withdrawal symptoms kicking in. Others would say that it was his mind reaching out to get its fix now, now, now. He thought it was just the anticipation of feeling them close again. And the shame, of course. The mental battle between what he had once been and what he had become.

Leuben walked out to the main street. Above him, on the keel of the level pressing down on everyone, a smiling hologram of a heavily augmented woman advertised the benefits of working for Onitech and how they could install implants that would transform frail humans to powerful gods.

He spotted the nearest ExperienSer and headed towards it. He ignored the digital employees who came to provide assistance, walking through them as if they didn’t exist. He went straight to the restroom, locked himself in a cubical, and took the 4-7 out. His hand shook. He opened the vial and put two drops on each eye.

It usually kicked in with just one drop, but lately he needed two, sometimes three drops to get started. Probably because he could only afford the cheap, diluted version instead of the real thing.

Oh yeah; the stimulant’s tendrils coursed through his body, taking hold of his brain. A moaning sigh escaped his lips.

He brought his holo-link out and summoned a hologram from twelve years ago. When things were still okay and he still had a family. It was only two seconds long, on loop, but it was more than enough.

He opened the door and headed to the main room. When he checked his credit balance, he almost wished he hadn’t done it. He would have to make do. He needed to feel close to them. Now. He rented the first vacant private booth and stepped in. A small hologram jumped from one of the booth’s walls and asked him what he wanted: SexSperience, AlternaSperience, or MemoSperience. He swiped awkwardly through the Memo and sat back. The interface of his holo-link changed and accepted the connection with the booth, then a pair of self-navigating nodes came out of the chair and headed for the sides of his head. A woman’s smiling face took shape. The face looked more and more like Nikita’s the more he focused on it.

Nikita reached out and took his hand. Her touch was warm and soft. Her laughter was a series of ringing bells that kept him up at night and loved every minute of it.

Mark slipped his small hand into Leuben’s other hand. His grip was form despite his age. His son was laughing hysterically at some joke. What was the joke again? Oh, yeah. Mark had bought a stress ball from an antique shop. Supposedly, the thing would help Leuben quit smoking. Mark had insisted he tried it. Leuben had complied, and Nikita had made a joke about the whole thing. Laughter all around him.

It had been raining in the world beyond the stacked megacity of New Ringwood Eden that day, and the wind from the north carried some of the humidity even as deep in their level as they were living back then. Had it already been twelve years? No, it must have been only yesterday. The smell of his wife’s body was still there, like her warmth. He felt them right now. He missed them so much. Back then, he still had time to play with Mark and spend time with him when he got home from work, even if it was past his bedtime.

A couple of years later, his life had turned to shit. Nikita, for all her shortcomings and need to stay high within society’s level, had loved him. Once. Back then, when there was laughter all around.

Fucking Matriarchs, Leuben mumbled. That massacre. A rivulet of tear streamed down from each eye. He reached out through the vision to ruffle Mark’s hair. His hand brushed the boy’s hair. So real. Almost. He should call Mark tomorrow. After Bruno, he ought to see how his son was doing.

The MemoSperience carried Leuben into a sea of virtual dreams made of bits and bytes.

Chapter 3

Leuben flexed his right hand hard enough to ruin the cigarette he was holding. On his way to meet Bruno, and after he had sobered up from the 4-7’s effects, all he could think of was busting down that mobster’s door and turning that fat rodent’s face into pulp. He paused a block away from the ExperienSer’s, well away from the feromonesonics and the subliminals. He studied his crumpled smoke, considered lighting another one for a moment, but chose not to. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

You need to calm down, Chris, he mumbled to himself. Too much repressed anger. An entire decade of it piled on top of an endless string of failures.

He would simply refuse whatever the mobster offered him. Quietly. Another breath. Calmly. He rolled between his fingers the damaged cigarette he had in his hand, then pretended it was Bruno’s spine, crushed it in a bone-shattering grip, and threw it on the ground. Yet another deep breath. He nodded to himself. Complete control.

A choir of giggles full of promises of pleasure and moans of ecstasy assaulted him the moment he entered the feromonesonic’s effective radius from the ExperienSer Bruno had chosen for their meeting in virtual. His skin tingled with invisible and gentle touches from soft hands that were only in his mind.

Pleasure.

The word bounced around his head.

He shook his head, cleared his throat, and hurried inside. A half-naked hologram appeared and asked for his preference. The hologram stuttered momentarily, then reshaped itself wearing business attire once Leuben presented and transferred his private invitation data. This way please, she said and led him to a private booth at the back of the room, where she gave him his access codes for the virtual meeting with Bruno.

The nodes came out of the chair and slowly made their way to his head. Why on Earth would that scumbag mobster want to meet in virtual? What was so important he couldn’t say it face to face?

The world around him turned black. A myriad of numbers and letters floated around him. This virtual Bruno had set up for their meeting was different from any other he had ever been in. He looked down at his feet; was he floating or was he standing on something solid? It was impossible to tell.

He reached out to touch one of the floating digits and make up the access code he was given, but stopped when he noticed his hands. That fat bastard could have at least taken the time to set this place up to feel as real as possible. He could have made it so that Leuben would have real arms here instead of the synthetics. He sighed and keyed in the rest of the access code.

The digits fell away. The way they moved gave the impression he was flying up. His stomach lurched instinctively, and he had to try hard to stifle the urge to throw up. The digital world came to a sudden stop.

He stood outside a familiar door, one he had crossed on numerous occasions in the past, and every time he did, he felt dirtier than shit. He exhaled audibly and shook his head. All these theatrics for what? He opened the door and stepped inside Bruno’s office.

Bruno was sitting on a high-backed chair wide enough to fit his bulk. He tried hard to emulate and emanate an air of culture and sophistication, but with the cigar hanging crookedly from the left side of his mouth, the rolled-up sleeves from a shirt whose buttons were stretched to snapping, and the suspenders, culture and sophistication were the last things that came to mind. The guy was a glorified thug, a mob boss through and through.

And yet this time something was different. The way he sat, the way he regarded Leuben when he entered the room. He had an air of arrogance and coldness that Leuben had never seen in him before. Then again, it could have been intentional to compensate for what he lacked in real life. After all, this was virtual. Anything was possible in virtual.

Bruno enjoyed dimly lit environments—rats and roaches had always been partial to the dark anyway—and preferred sitting with a light source coming from behind him. Leuben was certain it was either part of creating fear in those sitting across from him, or because he didn’t like people to know exactly what he looked like, or he didn’t want them to read his facial expressions. Old habits died hard even in mob bosses, even in virtual.

In real life, Bruno was a security conscious man. He often had at least two bodyguards by his side at all times when he was in his office and another multitude in the building he used as a base of operations. His crew.

Now he was alone.

Leuben suppressed a snicker; maybe that fat mobster was afraid of him. He quickly dismissed the thought once he recalled the turrets Bruno had in his office.

Why virtual, Bruno? I still get to see your ugly face either way. I mean, you look a bit different, but you’re still wearing the same shitty face.

Bruno’s gaze flicked to the sofa facing him for Leuben to take a seat. It had materialised out of nowhere and was identical to the one in real life.

Leuben sat and crossed his leg. What do you want? I have things to do, places to be.

Bruno studied Leuben and nodded with a smile. His virtual construct wavered momentarily, some static appeared, then it returned to normal.

A glitch? Maybe Bruno was using cheap software or this virtual was something one of his hackers cooked up in a hurry. Whatever glitch the software or the hardware had run into, when his avatar returned, the air of superiority he had been radiating was gone, and the good old Bruno he knew was back. The sleazy, shady rat.

You still owe me, Bruno said. "So I would be more careful with how you talk to me. Every time you jerk off with your new hands, you do so because I allowed it. Every time you reach out for a drink to up your stupor levels, it is because of me, get it?"

Leuben put a hand over his heart. You’re a real philanthropist, Bruno. I’m touched.

Bruno slammed his fist on his desk. Do not interrupt me. Your synthetics are mine. You hear me? Mine! Your debt to the Mendozas is mine. That means you are mine. Everyone you know, everyone you have ever talked to is mine. I own you and your world.

Leuben’s smile vanished. That right there was the reason why Bruno was dangerous. He always went after the innocent, the unsuspected. And he took his time planning his strikes. Meticulous beyond measure. If one crossed Bruno, they had better make damn sure they would kill him more than once, because he always had a way to resurface like a zombie and wipe out everyone who wronged him as well as those who hadn’t. The Mendoza crime family had learned that the hard way. All eleven family members, plus the employees, the goons, the servants, and the house pets. After that, all Mendozas’ debts and assets were transferred to Bruno.

Like Leuben’s debt.

Get that through your thick, cop skull of yours: I will never release you so long as you keep testing my patience. Nobody goes free until I say so. Got it? Not until they pay me what I am owed.

Leuben reached for his cigarette case into his pocket and brought it out. He took one out, put it in his mouth, and twisted the ignition patch. He stood and put the case back.

Sit down, you ungrateful mongrel, Bruno said, or I will …

Leuben didn’t want to hear what Bruno was saying. Most of what he said was the same old rant, the same old threats that he had heard a hundred times already. And not just from Bruno, but from a thousand other thugs and mob bosses he had crossed paths with in the past. When he was still a cop.

He ought to call his son once he was through with Bruno. Try to get back into his life. And of course, he could always ask about Nikita. He still loved her even if she left him for that fancy-pants guy. He couldn’t blame her. Not after the way his life evolved.

Leuben looked around him. Where did the door go? He wanted out of this virtual.

Hey, Bruno called. Are you listening to me or are you high again? Damn 4-7 junkies. I said, sit down. You will leave when I say it is over. Do not make me fry what little is left of that nugget you call brain.

Leuben took a puff from his smoke and eyed Bruno. A well-placed punch in his fat windpipe would shut him up once and for all. In real life, of course. In here, it’d be pointless.

You forget we’re in an ExperienSer’s virtual, Leuben said. Their coding doesn’t allow clients to really hurt each other. It’s not a torture virtual.

Bruno’s avatar flickered once more. The regal posture returned as if someone else had taken his place. He sat back and gave him a smug smile. You would be surprised with what I can do. Especially in here. Another stutter in his hologram. Now do not make me repeat myself.

What could he do? Bullshit. This was still an ExperienSer. And even if Bruno had sent someone in real life to hurt Leuben’s body, the ExperienSer security would wake him up. Plus, he had been uploading martial arts techniques in the cores of his new cyberware and trained frequently in virtual. Anything to speed up getting used to his new arms. Not to mention he was using a highly advanced neurachem, courtesy of being an ex-cop.

Leuben!

I heard you the first time, Leuben snapped and returned to the sofa. You fat bastard.

Bruno grumbled and brought up a holo-display over his desk. I am putting a team together and you are part of it. I want you to be the brains for them, so I hope you are not high right now. The mission is to arrest a hacker. She goes by the name Erica. The holo-display showed a distorted and fragmented hologram of a woman’s face. Used to be BOI, Bruno said and fixed Leuben with a meaningful stare.

Leuben’s hand with the cigarette froze before it reached his mouth.

BOI; the thorn under Leuben’s foot. Most of them died when they attempted a hit on Onitech, mowed down by their security, but apparently not Erica. Their hacker. Could she also have been their leader? Funny how life presented opportunities when least expected.

I want her alive, Bruno continued.

Not happening. If he captured her, he would make sure to put an end to her terrorist activity. Once and for all. Leuben raked his teeth over his lips. It was no coincidence that Bruno wanted him for this job. That bastard was manipulative. This was bait. He wanted him to bite. No doubt, he counted on it.

So what was Bruno’s angle in all this? He wouldn’t outsource this task. He would send his own private army of thugs to deal with it and send a message. Meaning, someone else must have been behind this. In which case, the question became, who employed Bruno to catch Erica for them? Why not do it themselves?

No, Leuben said. Find someone else.

Bruno blinked. Did I mention BOI? Blaze of Insurrection? The notorious terrorist group? Did you hear me say BOI? I know I heard me saying BOI. You lost your precious badge because of them.

Leuben took another huff from his cigarette and flicked the ash on the floor. I heard you. Not interested. Which one of the major players was still on good terms with Bruno? He hated not having access to information like this. The police would have extensive records on his associates. Who else would employ him to take down a terrorist hacker?

Oh, I am sorry. I probably misguided you into thinking this was some kind of negotiation. That it was open for discussion. My bad, because it is not. You will do it.

Which Matriarch are you working for? Leuben asked. Because this doesn’t come from other mob bosses. You lot are too proud to have someone else do your dirty work for you. And since a great deal of hackers get employed by Matriarchs, for their shadowy corporate espionage, that means—

Stop, Bruno said. A wave of static ran through his hologram. Regal once more. He pursed his lips and shook his head. No Matriarchs. A player, yes, but not a Matriarch. You know me better than that. I never work for any Matriarchs. It is bad for business, as I am sure you have come to experience first-hand. I do things my way only. His hologram flickered once more.

Leuben took the ancient lighter he carried with him, the last family heirloom he had from his father—couldn’t even light a fire after all the years but apparently it predated the wars—and popped the lid open, closed it, then opened it again. Wherever you’re transmitting from, your tech is shit. You keep flickering. Anyway, glad to hear you’re not working for a Matriarch. ’Cause I’d hate to find out that this is some kind of Matriarch plot against a civilian. Even a bad one like this BOI terrorist. If Matriarchs are involved in this, I might feel obligated to intervene, because the way I see things now, based on my experience, when a Matriarch sets out to do something supposedly out of the goodness of their hearts, they make people’s lives miserable and good people die in the process. Innocents get caught up in the crossfire. He flicked the empty lighter