Tunnel

A pair of gloved hands at ten and two. Phosphorescent light. A clock on a sleek console reads: 07:54 – 03.08.2089. Other cars coast alongside, then pass by as speedometer flashes 50, 40, 30. Tail lights vanish, traffic disappears into the distance coming to a stop.

The right hand reaches across the steering wheel to the left wrist, setting a stopwatch: 05:00.0. Bells chime as the door opens.

A polished black shoe steps on cement. Man in his twenties closes the driver’s door then opens the back. He grabs a briefcase off the seat and closes the door, stepping away from the car. A digital license plate built into the rear bumper reads: LOS ANGELES 6284992132

The man walks a hundred meters, stops, turns to his left, and stands at ease, taking in the immensity of the tunnel. A super-structure designed like the human heart, its steel ventricles and arteries subdivided between auto and aero decks.

Now standing in the center of its twenty lanes, he looks upward, listening to the dim pulse of the tunnel. A light wind blows against his face, signaling the next wave of traffic approaching as he kneels to open the briefcase. He assembles a rifle with paramilitary precision. He raises the rifle to his eye. The head of the driver of a car in the farthest left lane comes into view, still a thousand meters away.

His target becomes clear.

The driver is distracted, talking to the woman sitting beside him, and two children in the backseat, oblivious, at a distance of seven hundred meters, six, five, four, three.

Then, just as another driver honks and hits his breaks, at the very moment panic rips across the lane, the man fires.

A blink of the eye. And again. He aims and fires, aims and fires, a total of twenty rounds, from left to right. Within sixty seconds, every driver in the front row of the oncoming traffic is shot in the head. Each vehicle loses control, causing a chain reaction of swerving and spinning, colliding and crashing.

Miles away, at the mouth of the tunnel, a green light prompts another wave of cars, accelerating. Giant traffic monitors overhead register no cause for alarm, while deep inside, the tunnel roars with screams and screeching tires, as car after car is crushed like cans.

Seeing the maelstrom moving directly toward him, the man checks his watch, which shows he’s beaten the clock with seconds to spare. He returns to his car and flees.

PACT

Detective John Curtis, forties, weathered, spent, enters the office of Lieutenant Moss

Moss is a seen-it-all cop ten years older and Curtis’s commanding officer in PACT, the Precinct of Anti-Cyber Terrorism.

“She said you wanted to see me,” Curtis says to Moss.

“Sit down, Curtis.”

Curtis sits.

“See the news?” Moss says.

“I saw.”

Moss opens his top drawer and pulls out a flask. He sets it on top of his desk. Curtis eyes the flask.

“What’s the occasion?”

“Two things.” Moss sits back in his chair. “One: your new case.” With a single tap of his right middle finger on the chair’s hand rest, a case appears onscreen in the form of thousands of digital thumbnails. Crime scene photos, autopsy and police reports unzip across the far wall before a case code emerges. One code, large as life, or, in this case, death: 6-D.

Before Curtis can respond, Moss taps his finger again, twice. “And two, meet your new partner.”

Ryan Lowe knocks once and walks into Moss’s office.

“Lieutenant”

“Ryan Lowe,” Moss says. He cocks his chin by way of introduction. “Detective John Curtis.”

Curtis looks at Lowe. Moss looks at Curtis. Lowe just stares straight ahead, standing at attention. Classic: early twenties, new bad suit, head still shaved, eyes half-dead, like they all are, fresh off the warship. One look, Curtis gives him a year, tops.

“A minute,” Moss says to Lowe.

Lowe nods and heads for the door. “Detective.”

Curtis nods back, nothing more. The door closes. Curtis stares at Moss.

“What’s on your mind?” Moss says.

“Two things. One: fuck no. And two: no fucking way.”

Moss looks him in his bloodshot eyes, shaking his head.

“Five weeks to go til my twenty, and you throw me 6-D?”

“You’re the best man for the job.”

Curtis considers the backhanded compliment. “At least let me work it alone. No more rookies, we talked about this”

“Talk is cheap,” Moss says.

Curtis has no choice. Without Moss’s signature, no pension. He stands up from his chair and grabs the flask.

“I’ll take that drink.” Curtis swigs it. He twists the cap back on, about to return the flask. He looks over at the wall again and then changes his mind. He slips the flask into his pocket.

“At least tell me how long he’s been back?”

“Lowe’s been here for ten days.”

It keeps getting worse for Curtis. “In the Pool or out of quarantine for ten days?”

“He’s your new partner, Curtis. And 6-D is coming from the top: Reichmann and Kirkland, both.”

“Day fucking one.” Curtis shakes his head. “Plus 6-D.”

“His scores are off the chart,” Moss says.

“So were the last kid’s, and look where the chart got him.”

Curtis heads for the door. “Spare me the scores.” He walks out.

“Way off the chart,” Moss says to himself.

Every wall screen on the floor is projecting the breaking story with dozens of reporters swarming the southbound entrance of Delancey Tunnel’s lower deck like flies to dogshit. Curtis pauses, listening to one reporter talk over tunnel security footage of the shooter engaging in rapid fire.

“PACT is yet to confirm whether they have taken the suspect into custody, nor comment on his identity. We continue to seek out independent sources who can identify the gunman and welcome any information to that effect.”

Pathetic, Curtis thinks. Asking the public for help. He’s never had any time for the media. He walks back to his desk. Lowe is waiting for him.

“Detective.” Lowe crosses his arms and legs, leaning his ass against Curtis’s desk.

Curtis jars Lowe, pulling out the top drawer. He grabs his keys and slams the drawer shut before turning away and heading to the elevator.

“Let’s go. Lowe.”

The elevator extends ten floors below ground and thirty floors above. A red light indicates that they are below ground and turning green when above. The Pool, their PACT unit, is on red 8. An awkward moment passes before Curtis punches 29, wanting nothing to do with his new case or partner.

Curtis savors the lost look on Lowe’s face when the elevator opens unto the garage on 29, not the flot lots. Aeros, flots, flying autos are always delegated to the top floor, 30, due to the clearance required. Takes him a moment, but Lowe steps out, surprised.

“We’re driving?”

Curtis pulls out the keys, walking around the side of a jet-black Porsche 1066, fifty years old but mint.

“I am.”

The garage is full of antiques. The last generation of four-wheel cars produced before the invention of the aero, before Lowe was born. Lowe does a double take, approaching the Porsche. It might as well be a horse and buggy. They get in. Curtis turns over the engine and revs it, drowning out anything Lowe might think to say before he has a chance.

Chinatown

On their way out of the garage, they pass a Lotus heading through what looks like an old car wash. All cars have to be fumigated by laser purification upon returning to PACT. Curtis pulls onto the street. Lowe stares straight ahead, taking in the city around him. Waste disposal crews have been out cleaning since before dawn, but only the upper decks. The closer to the surface, street level, the worse it looks.

The streets are patrolled, but unless the upper decks are threatened the law of the land is that there is none. Which explains why Curtis loves driving, especially on the surface.

With one hand confidently on the wheel, the other on the shifter, Curtis studies Lowe out of the corner of his eye. He expected to be bombarded with a host of over-eager questions like all the other rookies he’s been assigned, but there’s something different about this one already.

Curtis aggressively shifts into second, fucking with Lowe a bit by racing toward an intersection, thinking this will get a rise out of him. Nothing. Lowe keeps his eye on a stop sign ahead counting down from 10; 4, 3, 2, 1; as Curtis crosses a second late, just squeezing through traffic.

Lowe is then enticed by a five-story 3-D billboard displaying an ad for the upcoming Vortex game, “Combs.” The first image is the fire of a flamethrower spraying into the intersection right over their car. Promising verifiable film footage from Combs, the game is one of Vortex’s most anticipated releases complete with a Combs gang initiation. Known as Furies, the ad begins:

“Fury Initiation. Rule #1: Win or Die.”

The message is reinforced by a montage of a young challenger standing side by side with a much larger, far more experienced member. The two are then released, sprinting side by side, heading into a treacherous urban obstacle course. The ad ends:

“Welcome to Combs. Playing August 2089.”

Scooters with all-terrain wheels, hauling sometimes as many as six people, entire families, whiz by. Impoverished mobs hop the barricades between lights, smashing their children against the car windows, begging for money. Trash is piled so high orphans climb the heaps fighting for territory, king of the toxic mountain. Even in the car, Curtis and Lowe can smell raw sewage.

“Colonies don’t look so bad anymore, do they?”

“Colonies?” Lowe says. “The wise old vet routine is already wearing thin, by the way.”

Curtis smiles, humored, but stares straight ahead. “By the way.” He punches it, all eleven-hundred horsepower. He is at one with the wheel, feels what’s left of the real world by way of it. Hunger and violence, death and disease surround them as Curtis continues to navigate the city streets before moving on to the Braid.

The Braid is a giant elevated freeway made up of three individual highways, ten lanes each, which weave side to side high above ground. Curtis eventually pulls off the Braid once a massive wall appears next to it.

They arrive in front of a huge ornate gate, an entrance inside the wall, where Curtis stops and flashes his badge.

“Behold, the Great Wall of Chinatown,” Curtis says to Lowe.

They park just inside the wall, which doubles as a guard tower and stands six-stories high, extending for kilometers around the periphery of Chinatown, airspace fortified by laser spotlights. Chinatown’s passageways are a maze, but even more congested than usual following a week of rain.

Lowe takes it all in, scanning the neon signs of a tiny strip of side-street bordellos. The girls in the bullet-proof-glass windows are motionless as mannequins while waiting for the next customer. Lowe can’t believe the quality of their paint jobs before he realizes they are truly naked. Real skin. He reaches out, wanting to touch. How can it be?

Curtis looks over his shoulder. “Lowe!” He leads Lowe down a noxious alley overflowing with full-body prophylactics. Lowe trips over one. “Body bags,” Curtis says as Lowe takes a closer look. “Watch your step.”

The alley is filled with identical storage units designed as miniature Chinese pagodas with bright red tiled roofs. Curtis stops, removing a camera card from his wallet. He presses a corner of the card, displaying a video in 3-D of recent bodies found piled on top of each other.

Approaching the bodies, Curtis kneels down to get a closer look. A boy and two girls lie tossed out like trash beside his feet: naked, dirty, smeared, limbs tangled together, staring at the sky. Lowe stands behind him. Tragic, but they’ve got a job to do.

Curtis stands. “Two hundred bodies dumped in one alley and no one’s seen anything.” He puts the camera card back in his wallet. Lowe looks up at signs hanging from every window on each side of the street. This part of Chinatown is home to all manner of pirated entertainment, gaming, primarily.

“People see what they want to,” Lowe says.

Finally, Curtis thinks. Something to work with. “That’s good, Lowe. They teach you that on your warship?”

Lowe smiles right through Curtis. “Why don’t you tell me something useful about 6-D.”

Curtis continues down the alley another few blocks and then into a warehouse. Lowe is following behind when he hears something. He sees a man open the back of a van, before a group of men roll out a caged panther and push it down into the building.

The Ark is a black market emporium for exotic animals. Every breed known to man is bought and sold here. Lowe stops again, passing a stall with a baby elephant. The elephant is blindfolded and chained by each foot and the neck. A man standing on a stool measures its tusks. The elephant bolts, knocking the man back on the ground. He stumbles to his feet, furious, as onlookers laugh. The man grabs a bamboo cane and begins blindly whipping the creature, the reed’s violent swish silencing the crowd.

Lowe steps forward, grabbing the man’s hand, pulling him away. He glares at the man ready for a fight then freezes, sensing the three red dots lining his forehead in the sights of the man’s bodyguards. Lowe see his reflection in the man’s sunglasses as the man pulls at his shirt, collecting himself. Lowe is poised to take them all on when Curtis suddenly steps forward.

Curtis holds up his badge as he pulls Lowe away. “Move.”

Lowe doesn’t take his eyes off the man, doesn’t say a word, but tells him loud and clear: lucky you.

Curtis doesn’t speak until they get outside. “Stay close. I have to repeat myself one more time, we’re done. Clear?”

“Clear,” Lowe says.,

Curtis turns another corner and stops. He buzzes the door to Triple Happiness, an inconspicuous massage parlor. Located next to a fishmonger, difficult to say which business leads Lowe to cover his nose for a second.

Curtis leads Lowe down a staircase, walls decorated with an array of posters on foot reflexology and human anatomy. They walk through a room packed with at least fifty young women dressed in head-to-finger-to-toe latex catsuits, every inch of their skin covered, save their faces. They move about with a feline sway of their bodies.

Lowe checks his watch: 09:30.

Curtis opens the door. “Never too early for a happy ending.”

They enter the main floor of the parlor. It’s an open space filled with cubicles, vacuum-sealed and sterilized after every use, but not soundproofed enough to muffle gargled climaxes erupting from all quarters. Curtis doesn’t miss a beat, arriving at the back door, walking through and reaching a steel wall with a security camera and touchpad.

He walks straight to the scan, leans forward and then steps back so Lowe can approach. Lowe follows suit, allowing his retina to be scanned. Something that sounds like a shot of air, a glaucoma test of the finger, hisses, and then Curtis receives a green light. He steps aside again, waiting for Lowe.

“Time to take the gloves off.”

“What?” Lowe says.

“Do it. Now.”

Lowe removes his right glove, holding his bare hand to the sensor like a flame before being shot with a dart. DNA sample for comparison. Security check. With that, there is a gong and the steel door opens. Curtis pulls Lowe through the door just before it seals.

“They still use blood?”

“You’re in Chinatown,” Curtis says.

They reach the end of the hall and walk through another door, finding themselves in a Chinese restaurant. The maitre d’ stands at the podium.

“Good morning, gentleman.”

“Good morning,” Curtis says.

“Table for two?”

“Tell Mr. Chan it’s Curtis.”

“Mr. Chan knows who it is.”

The maitre d’ leads them into a bar where a barman stands drying a glass. The maitre d’ says a few words to the barman and then leads them through the door into the kitchen, where dozens of line cooks are dicing, slicing, handling woks. They circle the kitchen and walk back out through the same door. They are not in the bar, but now a huge banquet hall. Lowe is confused, but doesn’t ask. The kitchen is on a revolving platform, rotating and allowing the exits entrance into different corners of the building.

Waiting for the maitre d’ to return, Lowe can still feel Curtis’s simmering anger about the incident at The Ark.

“You don’t like animals?”

“We’re here about the bodies.”

The maitre d’ returns and extends his hand, ushering them forward. “Mr. Chan will see you now.”

Tommy Chan sits alone at a booth. There is a pot of tea in front of him, one cup and an ashtray with a lit cigarette. Two technicolored parakeets fly about in a birdcage behind the booth. Spectacular birds bred with zebra stripes; a male and a female, the male easily identified by his hot pink throat. Lowe has never seen one before and watches the birds closely. Curtis bows his head.

“Mr. Chan.”

“Detective Curtis.” Chan’s eyes lock on Lowe’s and don’t let go.

“Lowe, Mr. Chan.”

“Please have a seat,” Chan says.

Curtis slides into the booth, one-body deep, forcing Lowe to remain standing. Chan keeps his eyes on Lowe while addressing Curtis. Lowe is still dazzled by the birds behind Chan.

“You’ve come about the children.”

“What can you tell me?” Curtis says.

Chan considers the question. He takes a drag off his cigarette and then sets it back in the ashtray, still studying Lowe.

“Nothing.”

“Mr. Chan,” Curtis slides back out of the booth.

“Detective.”

‘Let’s go,” Curtis says to Lowe.

Lowe is confused to discover they’ve exited through the alley, not the façade. The iron door shuts behind them. Curtis starts walking. Lowe stops. A pickup soccer game is going on in a minor clearing not far in front of them down the otherwise crowded alley.

One side includes Chinese boys, not unusual considering the environment. It’s their opponents that look strangely out of place. They are a group of tough young African boys who could pass for child soldiers, absent any guns.

“Curtis, hold up.”

Lowe becomes engrossed in the game. The two sides call out for the ball and shout instructions to each other. The confined space amplifies their voices, adding a sense of violence. Curtis pauses to watch, listening to the kids, looking up and down the alley. Three African boys have trapped one of the Chinese boys up against a brick wall in the alley and are kicking his shins to gain control of the ball. It is a vicious assault, prompting the other Chinese boys to run to his aide. The game devolves into a full blown brawl during which the ball is forgotten and slowly rolls down the alley towards Curtis. Curtis watches it the entire way until it stops right in front of him as if it has a mind of its own.

“The murders didn’t happen here,” Curtis says.

PACT

Forensics is four-walling the comp from the Delancey carnage by the time they get back to PACT. A four-wall is a three-dimensional composite of the footage captured by each surveillance camera that is then projected on the four walls of the conference room. Curtis and Lowe slip into the room. They take seats in the back beside Moss.

A forensics detective has just started briefing the ten Pool officers assembled.

“We’ve identified almost all the drivers, but drivers 11, 14, and 17 appear to have been illegals.”

An officer in the corner chimes in. “That’ll teach them.”

Cynical laughter spreads through the room.

Another officer, Donnelly, raises his hand. The forensics detective points at him.

“Donnelly.”

“Any more on the assailant? Motive?”

The forensics detective looks at Moss. All eyes in the room follow. Moss remains seated, shakes his head. “Need to know.”

Moss’s secretary slips into the room and dodges between the cars projected on the walls. She flicks her finger at Curtis, needing to speak to him immediately. He shoots her a look, now? She nods forcefully. He slides out of his chair, walking over to her.

“You’ve got a call.”

“Who is it?”

“A woman. She says it’s important.”

“Did she give a name?”

“No.”

Curtis balks. “Never do.”

“It sounds like something you should take.”

Curtis ducks through the last wave of cars, passing directly through the killer’s projection. Lowe watches him. It appears Lowe is looking at Curtis, but once Curtis walks away Lowe holds his focus on the killer. He knows who it is, unlike the others, and is struggling not to show it.

Curtis takes the call at his desk. He puts in an earpiece, but doesn’t use his monitor in case someone is eavesdropping.

“Curtis.” Hearing her voice softens him. It’s the last person he would have ever expected on the line. “Cece.”

Lowe is still studying the comp when he sees the elevator close on Curtis out of the corner of his eye. “Shit.”

Then Moss sees the same thing. “Stay with him,” he says to Lowe.

Lowe bolts across the conference room right through the final wave of traffic and fatalities. He takes the stairs, sprinting up the twelve flight before punching the elevator on the second floor.

The door opens. Curtis is standing inside and staring out. Lowe gives him a look, getting on. Curtis simply checks his watch like he’d just timed the kid.

“Off the chart.”

Hills

The checkpoint is at the top of the Hills, perched on Mulholland Drive, overlooking the city, old and new. The Hills are strictly off limits to cops like Curtis and Lowe, and there is no love lost between their private security and public law enforcement. Despite expecting Curtis, the Porsche is surrounded by armed guards as soon as they reach the gate.

“Violators will be violated,” Curtis says.

He raises both hands and carefully gets out of the car. Lowe does the same. They lace both their hands behind their necks, slowly turning in a full circle, being scanned.

A guard looks at Lowe. “Escort’s here. Must be your lucky day.” The guard releases his trigger finger.

“My lucky day?” Lowe says, dryly. He sees four black assault vehicles approaching. They are Stunners, distant relative of the original Hummer but with added security features and horsepower. Sleek mini-tanks.

“Let’s go,” Curtis says.

He gets back in the car. Lowe slides in his seat. Escorted by Stunners, they approach a mansion. The home is a twenty-acre estate built on a former National Forest. They move up the long drive. It is lined by poplar trees, through which the grounds extend beyond vast stretches of perfect green grass and meticulous English-style gardens. Red gravel crunches beneath the car tires.

Lowe is in awe. “Another world.”

“An old one,” Curtis says. He communes with the crushed rock by caressing the wheel, as they reach a fountain in front of the main house. “Keep anything said inside off the record.”

“Need to know?”

Curtis lets the sound of the gravel punctuate his request as he comes to a stop. “No.” He kills the engine. “No record.”

Curtis rings the bell. A servant lets them in. The foyer is fantastically elaborate with its expansive glass ceiling and stairwell three stories high.

Curtis and Lowe follow the sound of heels on the stairwell, which wraps around a glass chandelier the size of an aero. Cecelia Gale finally appears in front of them. She is a gorgeous, elegant woman of forty. A child of the streets turned celebrity socialite, the ultimate survivor.

“Hello, John.”

“Cece,” Curtis says.

She’s smiling, now close enough to take a good look at him. He sees it in her eyes, looking at the state he is in, thinking, What the hell happened to you?

“Same old Curtis. You haven’t changed a bit.”

He looks her over. She certainly has. Cece knows that look.

“Minor upgrades. Only three percent.”

“That all?”

“At my age, anything under ten percent is negligible.”

She turns to Lowe. “Cecelia Gale. And you are?”

“Ryan Lowe.”

Cece takes his measure as they shake hands. “Did they give you any problems at the gate?”

“No problems.”

“Thank you for coming. Why don’t we talk in the sitting room.” She leads them into an adjacent room the size of a basketball court.

“Tell me everything you can,” Curtis says.

Cece hands him a picture frame. She watches him look at her daughter.

“She left the house this morning at six and I got a call when she didn’t arrive at the airport.”

“Where was she going?”

“She has a show in Tokyo tomorrow night.”

“A show?”

“My daughter is Miss XXX. Miss Tripp.”

The name doesn’t mean much to Curtis. Lowe leans forward in his chair.

“Miss Tripp?”

Lowe looks at Curtis like he’s an idiot. “The singer.”

“Ava,” Cece says to Curtis.

“Ava?”

“Ava Stark. For security reasons we keep her real identity secret. For fear of moments like this.”

Lowe listens intently. “She must have had security?”

Curtis stares at Lowe to let him know who is in charge, who is asking the questions here. Especially here.

“Around the clock,” Cece says. “But when I tried her at 6:30 she didn’t answer. I left a message, and then, when her manager reached me, ten minutes later, asking me if I knew where she was, I tried her driver and he didn’t answer either.”

Cece pauses to make sure they’re following along.

“So I contacted the head of our security, Mr. Barker. While we were speaking he got news that Ava’s caravan had been found, and all her guards had been shot.”

“But no one’s contacted you?” Curtis says.

“No. Mr. Barker said he has to assume she’s being held for ransom. They’re working on it.”

Curtis doesn’t like it already. “Where’s Barker now?”

“With Felix. My husband.”

“I know who Felix is. Where is he?”

“Traveling.”

“How convenient.”

“I’d hardly call the colonies convenient.” Cece exchanges a look with Lowe.

“Husband number two, or is it three?” Curtis checks himself, realizing his comment is out of line.

Cece directs her answer to Lowe. “Felix Gale is my second husband.” She and Lowe now stare at Curtis, wondering how far he’s going to take this.

Curtis backs off. “When you said daughter I thought you meant a little girl.” Curtis lowers his right hand, palming the air of an invisible knee-high child. “How old is she?”

“Nineteen.”

Curtis freezes. He then turns to Lowe. “Would you excuse us?” Curtis keeps it together until Lowe exits the room.

“Who is she?”

“She’s Ava Stark. My daughter.”

Cece reaches for a cigarette on the table. She lights it. There’s a knock on the door. She looks over at the same servant that let her guests in. “Come in.”

“Mr. Gale for you, ma’am.”

“I have to take this call,” Cece says to Curtis. “It’s my second husband.”

“In that case, he’s used to waiting.”

They lock eyes.

“Please tell him I’ll try him back in two minutes, soon as I show Detective Curtis out,” Cece says to the servant. She puts out her cigarette and stands.

Curtis is still holding the picture of Ava, still processing it. He remains seated.

“Keep it.” Cece sits back down.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You didn’t want to know.”

“That’s beside the point.”

“I was going to,” Cece says. “I was. But then you never got in touch.”

“Only because the last time we spoke you told me to go fuck myself.”

“So now you listen.”

Curtis looks back at the picture in his hands.

“She doesn’t have my eyes,” Cece says.

“Does she know?”

“She knows Felix Gale is not her father.” Cece sighs. “And that I’m leaving him.”

Curtis doesn’t get it. “Why are you telling me this?”

“It’s gone too far.”

“What’s gone too far?”

“How much do you know about the colonies, John?”

Curtis goes blank. Cece shakes her head at him. She stands back up.

“Same old Curtis. Salt of the earth.”

Curtis sets the picture down and stands up. They walk back into the main hall. Lowe looks up from the bench where he’s been waiting. Curtis cocks his chin at him, signaling to go ahead. He’ll be right behind. Stepping into the afternoon sunlight, Curtis marvels at the beauty of the scene. The garden, the birds, the trees, how hard to believe these places still exist. He finds himself at a loss for words, turning to say goodbye.

Cece grabs his arm. “We don’t have time to relive the last twenty years now. Just find her.” She walks back inside, disappearing in the shadow of the front hall. The enormous front doors seal shut behind her.

Curtis feels it coming as soon as he gets back in the car. He sees the tell-tell signs. Auras illuminating every leaf in the trees as they head back down the driveway. He just wants to get back to the office before it hits.

A guard waves them through the same checkpoint. The mood remains tense, but their Stunners escort falls back, letting them proceed alone. Once they get on the other side of the gate, there’s a sharp crackling sound coming from the horizon: a skymine is set off in the distance. Curtis winces, deafened by the blast, though Lowe doesn’t seem to notice, still watching the horizon.

Curtis presses his fingers against his temple. “Skymine. Over Old Downtown.”

A second blast follows, prompting Curtis to pull over. He knows there is no escaping it. No choice but to get out of the car while he can still walk. There’s something else. He’s listening to the road, but it’s silent. Just the wind. He turns, looking out, over the cliff, the panorama turning into one vast aura, as well.

“Call for back up.”

“What’s wrong?” Lowe says.

“I said call for back up.”

Lowe calls it in. “Air Control, AC back up requested, Mulholland Drive.” He watches Curtis standing in the middle of the road, but still nothing. They have to move.

“Get out,” Curtis says.

Lowe gets out.

“Other side. Can you drive?”

“Is that a question?”

As they switch sides, Curtis tosses the keys at Lowe. Lowe catches them, effortlessly.

They get back in the car.

“Get us out of here.” Curtis grabs his head, feeling it coming for him like a freight train.

He turns on the split-screen, a two-way view of Mulholland Drive, live feed from PACT’s satellite.

He is conscious for the next mile, heading downhill, trying to control the urge to vomit.

Then, sure enough, Lowe looks in the rearview, sees they are being tailed. Two Stunners, taking up both lanes, picking up speed.

“Hospital,” Curtis says.

Lowe doesn’t know what’s going on. He thinks Curtis is dying. He repeats his request for back up. “K’Dub. We’re being tailed.” K’Dub is short for Killer Whales, given their incredible size. Able to haul several tons in their bellies, K’Dubs are used in emergency evacuations and are the workhorses of the airborne defense units.

“On our way,” a K’Dub pilot says over the radio.

“How long?” Lowe says.

“Three minutes.”

“You got visual?”

“Yes,” the pilot says. “Sending it now.”

Three more Stunners are now heading straight for them, moving up the canyon from the opposite direction.

“Make it two minutes.” Lowe’s now taking the curves as fast he can. Curtis is doubled over in his seat.

“Curtis?”

No answer.

“Curtis?”

Curtis passes out.

The oncoming Stunners are winding their way straight for them. The Stunners behind them are not letting up any either. Lowe is strangely calm. Years of game training and simulators. Muscle memories. His body knows what to do. Lowe can see the K’Dub three kilometers away. He takes two more bends until he’s staring at the drivers in what’s sizing up to be a game of chicken to end all.

A hundred meters from impact, Lowe floors it, turning the wheel as hard and fast as he can, sailing over the cliff, gunning toward the ship. Mid-air, the K’Dub lowers its loading dock, diving, scooping up the Porsche. The car crashes into the dock wall. The mass of cars collide behind them, barreling off the cliff in flames. In the distance, the Killer Whale glides over the surface of a private lake and pulls up, flying off.

Hospital

“He’s awake,” a nurse says.

Curtis opens his eyes. White figures move about the room. A nurse slowly comes into focus. Then a doctor leans over him.

“Detective Curtis, you sustained a concussion, and those cuts on your forehead need a few hours to set.”

“Thank you, Doc.”

“Your liver is another matter.” The doctor leaves the room, passing Lowe. Lowe steps forward, beside the bed.

“I thought only women got migraines.”

Curtis swings his legs around on the bed. Lowe watches him try to stand, then fall back.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Didn’t think I’d have to if you got us both killed.” Now Lowe knows why Curtis never enlisted, never served, never got promoted beyond detective-grade. Curtis tries standing again.

“You aren’t supposed to get out of bed yet.”

“I’m not supposed to be alive either.”

Lowe’s impressed. Back to work. “Moss called.”

“What’s he want?”

“They found eight more bodies.”

“Any ID?”

“That’s it,” Lowe says. “And Moss said he wants you back as soon as you’re released. Curtis looks around the room for his clothes. He sees a small closet near the door.

“What else did he say?”

“Said something about an informant”.

“What informant?”

“Mc-somebody.”

“Fucking McManus. Who else.” Curtis stands up and walks toward the closet.

“Curtis?”

Curtis opens the closet. His clothes are inside. “I’m released.”

PACT

Beeping, lights flashing as a waste disposal unit unloads the Porsche. Lowe and Curtis arrive on the 30th floor by aero. Curtis is still looking at the Porsche being pulled into the lot when he hits the elevator button, heading down.

“I loved that car.”

The elevator opens. There’s a crowd gathered. Everyone on the floor begins cheering. It’s a standing ovation. Moss steps out of his office, grinning.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Ryan Lowe. The newest inductee to the Pool Totaled Vehicle Hall of Fame.”

The cheering goes on for a minute or so. Every wall screen on the floor is projecting footage of Lowe’s escape, scooped into the K’Dub’s cage, where the Porsche then crashes into the belly of the whale.

“Curtis.” Moss looks him over.

“Lieutenant.”

“Kid saved your life.”

“That’s what partners do,” Curtis says. “More bodies?”

“The Butcher’s waiting for you downstairs.”

Curtis turns to Lowe. “Let’s go.”

“One other thing,” Moss says.

“McManus. I heard.”

“Brought him in a few hours ago.”

“For what?”

“Chan’s people caught him filming the new bodies,” Moss says.

“McManus is connected to the bodies?”

“Denies it, but he gave us a name.”

“What name?”

“Ava Stark.” Moss studies Curtis’s face “Name mean anything to you?”

Lowe and Curtis look at each other.

“Where is he?” Curtis says.

“Lockdown,” Moss says, “But the Butcher is waiting.”

“Then the Butcher can wait.”

Curtis and Moss get on the elevator, waiting for Lowe to join them. Moss holds the door.

“And Curtis. I don’t know what the hell you two were doing up in the Hills, but what I do know is that someone wants you dead.”

“More things change, Lieutenant.”

Curtis throws open the interrogation room door. He smiles, watching a startled James McManus jump out of his skin.

“James McManus.” Curtis turns to Lowe. “Jimmy and I go back to the days when he made a name for himself as a martial lawyer getting various sociopaths off the hook halfway through the Blackout.” Curtis turns to McManus. Smiles. “Ain’t that right, counselor?”

“The glory days, Curtis.”

“Graduated on to become bagman-in-chief to Felix Gale.” Curtis takes a seat at the table.

“Mr. Gale is merely one of many valued clients.” McManus gives Lowe a careful once over. Lowe returns the intensity of his stare.

“So how you been, Jim?” Curtis offers McManus a cigarette.

“Full immunity is how I’ve been, and I want it signed, sealed and delivered into these very gloves.” McManus raises all ten fingers, typing the air. He lights up the cigarette.

Curtis takes out a cigarette of his own.

“Full immunity for what?”

“6-D. That’s what.” McManus blows smoke at Lowe. “Where’s my release?”

Moss looks at McManus through the glass. An intercom buzzes in a separate observation room where Police Chief Kirkland and Police Commissioner Reichmann are also watching. Reichmann speaks into an intercom.

“Announce the deal.”

Moss speaks into another intercom they can hear in the interrogation room. “Full immunity, McManus. Keep talking.”

“That’s better,” McManus says.

Curtis is disgusted, but it’s not his call. “Six-dimensional gaming is a fucking myth.”

“Tell it to all those dead kids you’re investigating.”

“And you were filming?”

“Your Chinese ain’t so great.” McManus grinds his cigarette out. “6-D replication. The synthesis of 4-D gaming code and the human genome. Talk about fucking trippy.”

Curtis and McManus lock eyes. McManus knows where Miss Tripp is. And Curtis knows McManus know. And McManus knows Curtis knows he knows. Classic.

McManus signals Curtis to come closer, like he wants to tell him a secret.

“Believe it, Curtis.”

Curtis shoves McManus off his chair. He then picks him up and throws him against the wall, choking him with both hands, until McManus’s face turns red, veins popping. Moss barges into the room.

“Detective!” Moss pulls Curtis away, while Lowe holds on to McManus. It takes Curtis a moment to realize that Moss did not enter the room alone. Captain Kirkland and Commissioner Reichmann are standing just inside the door. Curtis is no fan of either, but has an especially bad history with Reichmann.

“What the hell’s going on?” Reichmann says.

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“Find another way.”

“Outside, Detective,” Moss says. Lowe follows Moss and Curtis out, leaving Kirkland and Reichmann alone with McManus.

Moss is fuming when he closes the door. Curtis is, too.

“Do not.” Curtis points his finger at Moss. “Do not tell me you’re letting McManus walk.” Curtis is appalled. Hates Moss for assigning him the case.

“I’m telling you to get your ass downstairs to the Butcher.”

Curtis and Lowe walk toward the elevator.

Reichmann and Kirkland have McManus cornered against the wall.

“Gale fucked up,” Reichmann says.

“Fucked us up,” Kirkland says.

McManus knows as much. That’s why he’s here. “The kidnapping is evidence Esan is not acting rationally, nor in his own interest. Mr. Gale is already on his way back and has asked me to intervene in his absence.

“Kidnapping?” Reichmann says.

“Who cares about the fucking girl?” Kirkland says. “That’s a private matter. We’ve got a tunnel shot to shit.”

“Delancey and two hundred bodies! His downloads dumped on Tommy Chan. You think we have time to wait for Gale to clean up his own mess?” Reichmann says.

“Mr. Gale fully understands the sensitivity of the situation.”

“You better fucking hope so.” Kirkland shoves McManus against the wall and drops his release on the floor as he and Reichmann exit the room.

Lowe follows Curtis into the elevator. They lean back, silent, looking at their grainy reflections in the stainless steel doors.

“One question?”

“One,” Curtis says.

“Felix Gale? Cecelia Gale?”

“That’s two questions.”

“Gale’s behind 6-D?”

“That makes three.”

The elevator stops. The doors open. Curtis steps out.

Curtis and Lowe enter a huge morgue overflowing with some two hundred blue-tarp-covered gurneys. It’s freezing inside.

Curtis waits for the Butcher, PACT’s Coroner. It takes him a minute to register what is so wrong about the scene, beyond the number of bodies. And then it hits him. Most of the cadavers are half the length of the gurney.

The Butcher steps forward. “Curtis.”

“Doc. Lowe.”

“Lowe,” the Butcher says. “You new?”

“First day,” Lowe says.

“Hell of a start to a career.” The Butcher surveys the room. “Never seen anything like it.”

“What do you got?” Curtis says.

The Butcher shakes his head. “Something between not a lot and nothing at all. Normally, in cases of human trafficking, sex workers, runaways, the bodies we see are far more traumatized than any of these. These bodies, they’re all Series 2 and they’re healthy–aside from being dead, I mean. In all these cases, the one thing I can tell you is that they were all fed intravenously and they have a cauterized hole in the back of their neck.”

“How long have they been here?” Curtis says.

“A week, some less. And the skin, too. Look at this: look how white they are. They were all this white when they came in.”

Lowe looks at the two faces the Butcher uncovers. Young, really young. Eight, maybe.

He also inspects the back of their necks.

“Like ghosts,” Lowe says to the Butcher.

“As close as I’ve ever seen. And nothing to go on. No DNA, nothing. For all practical purposes, they’ve been erased.”

“Cause of death?” Curtis says.

“Hard to categorize specifically, but some sort of shock on a cellular level. System failure likely linked to the erasure.”

“Erasure?” Curtis looks at Lowe.

“Like I said, I’ve never seen or heard of anything like it. I don’t know what else to call it but that.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

Curtis walks down the rows of gurneys slowly by himself. Lowe remains standing next to the Butcher. Curtis stops every few gurneys, sometimes lifting up a sheet. Sometimes not. When he finally heads for the door, Lowe follows behind him. Curtis pauses. He and Lowe both turn back around, watching, as block by block of the room goes dark. Lights out.

A knock on Moss’s door. Moss sits back, nodding his head. “Come in.”

Curtis walks in.

“Take a seat,” Moss says.

“Prefer to stand.”

“Then by all means, take a stand, Detective.” Moss swivels in his chair. Curtis approaches his desk, grabbing its sides, leaning forward.

“6-D? Don’t tell me you actually believe this shit.”

Moss responds by leaning forward. “Playing is believing, Curtis. And they want Lowe to check it out, see if the rumors are true.”

“Hell of a coincidence.”

“Isn’t it, just?”

It’s not only McManus getting a pass, it’s the fact Curtis knows he’s being set up. He feels it in his gut, but doesn’t know how or who or how many are behind it.

“What the fuck is all this, Moss?”

Moss slowly shakes his head. Same message Curtis has received his entire career.

“The official need to know salute. Can’t tell you how much I’ll miss it.” Curtis sizes Moss up as he’s getting ready to leave. His commanding officer doesn’t know the half of it either. Moss looks away.

“Like a trip to the Butcher.” Curtis gives Moss a standard salute as he walks out.

Curtis, Lowe and McManus ride up in the elevator. Once the doors open to the 30th floor, Curtis shoves McManus off the elevator.

“Who took her?” Curtis grabs McManus by the arm and swings him around.

“The Priest,” McManus says.

Curtis is taken aback. Can’t quite believe it. “Why?”

McManus hesitates long enough for Curtis to twist his arm behind his back.

“Why?” Curtis says again.

“Cut out of 6-D. He wants back in.”

“Felix Gale is working with the Priest?”

“They shared certain interests.”

Curtis eases up on McManus’s arm. “Kidnapping Cecelia Gale’s daughter is more like a death wish.”

“A fair characterization of Mr. Gale’s present position.”

Snake that McManus is, Curtis isn’t so sure. He’s still trying to get his head around it.

“Who’s the Priest?” Lowe says.

“Some cop,” McManus says to Curtis. Then to Lowe, “Abah Esan is a former Lord’s Resistance Army Leader and darling of U.S. Intelligence. Resettled here with members of his private militia during the Blackout and become king of the snuff gaming underworld, which he now uses to finance a variety of African resistance movements against the Chinese.”

“Making yourself hard, Jimmy?” Curtis says.

“I’m just here to help.”

Curtis shakes his head at McManus. Rubs his eyes.” Taking the girl doesn’t make sense.”

“He’s a zealot with no other play. 6-D will render all rival games instantly obsolete, even the shit he traffics in.”

“Where is she now?”

“I don’t know,” McManus says. Curtis grabs his arm again. “I don’t know for certain, Curtis. But there’s only one place to start looking.”

Curtis knows. “Eden. Perfect: you can get us in.”

“You don’t just show up unannounced on Esan. There’s a way these things are arranged.”

“Make the arrangements, Jim.” Curtis loosens his grip on McManus’s arm after turning him back around. As the flight deck opens, the entire floor turns blinding orange-pink.

Curtis and Lowe put on their PACT-issue sunglasses. McManus shields his eyes with his hand.

Confession

Curtis, Lowe and McManus walk to the end of the bar inside a sex club called Confession. S/M gear combined with Christian and African imagery lines the walls.

An African bartender looks up at them. Curtis holds up three fingers and nods. The bartender delivers three beers. Curtis raises his beer to his lips, downing half of it as soon as it arrives. He leans in closer to McManus.

“Set it up.”

Curtis takes his beer to a table in front of a stripper across the room. She’s live. Lowe follows him. At Confession, you have your choice, live or recorded. Live girls cost more, and considering how little bare skin you actually see, Curtis is not a big fan. Liquidskins on live girls are still a paint job. They cover everything, head to toe, their bodies, faces, hair. NeuSkin: reflective nano gels that can project any image, any body–any tits, ass, cunt, face–you program. Curtis looks up, watching the stripper shape shifting on a set of ropes, unimpressed. An old-fashioned pair of leather go-go boots, a couple silver tassels, that’s more his style. Lowe doesn’t speak, looking over at McManus talking to the bartender, but Curtis senses he wants to know more about Cece. Curtis smiles, waiting for the question.

“I’m not asking.” Lowe stares at the stripper.

Curtis lightens up, feeling nostalgic. “Met Cece before the Blackout. After the earthquake in ‘75, after they imposed martial law, first year, you could live in the safest neighborhoods in the city and still have to take shifts, someone always keeping guard. It was a different time.”

Lowe is all ears as Curtis remembers back during a long pause. “She was a runaway, survived on her wits, a sewer rat back when rats were hunted and killed, or worse, rounded up and sold in lots. The only pureblood I’ve ever known. This was before New Legionnaires Disease, before the first troops returned from the colonies. When you could still touch bare skin without risking your life.”

“Before her husband.” Lowe takes a drink.,

“Felix Gale,” Curtis says. “Real estate magnate turned captain of colonial industry. It was his idea to use real war footage from the colonies in games.”

“Mines.”

“Same mines you were sent to protect. He amassed a fortune from them alone before patenting viruses and other deadly forms of life from the colonies. Gale Industries, Gale Labs, Gale Pharmaceuticals and, as luck would have it, he has a controlling share of Vortex thanks to Farhad Manewitz.”

“The same Farhad Manewitz who developed 4-D? He’s a genius.”

“Was,” Curtis says. “Cece’s first husband. Deceased.”

“Still surviving on her wits.” Lowe raises his drink.

Curtis does the same. “She’s very witty.”

Overhead, the video for Miss Tripp’s new single, “Laser Lover,” comes on. It’s a production to rival any Olympic opening ceremony; a Busby Berkeley movie crossed with a skin flick.

“A hundred and fifty million they spent on this video,” Lowe says.

Curtis watches the video of Miss Tripp singing on the monitor.

“I wanna be your. . .” Miss Tripp dances in the nude. She is accompanied by five hundred thousand Chinese dancers. “Laser lover.”

Curtis is trying not to look at Miss Tripp’s face, or rather, trying not to look for himself in her face.

“She’s the biggest star in the world. Because everything she does is real.”

“What world is that?” Curtis turns to the stripper, turning his back to Lowe. She’s currently a brunette wearing black bondage gear, topped with an old SS-style hat. She strikes the air with a bullwhip and cartwheels over; morphing into a redhead with double-D breasts and ginger landing strip. She’s a contortionist who does a back bend that turns into a wheel, placing her toes in her mouth. The wheel lights on fire, her hair in flames, circling round and round. She turns into a tomboyish Asian with black pinstripes. Her body strung like a racquet, she pulls the string that’s tied across her nipples, and then, turning sideways, she pulls the string running down her sternum, somersaulting forward. Changing shape again, she becomes a six-foot blonde with her hair in a tight bun with a thick braid. She pulls the braid out of her head like a rope, twisting it between her crotch, swinging forward, and climbing the braid like a pole.

She’s pulled out all her tricks, but still no takers. No private room requests. No tips.

She shifts one last time, morphing into Miss Tripp, dancing and lip synching to the Laser Lover video. Curtis knows none of this is real, and yet it is. He can’t help but look, and then he turns away, repulsed.

McManus walks over to their table. “Eden. But we’ll have to wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“Don’t be insane, Curtis. It’s dinnertime. It’s Combs.”

“Perfect time for a trade.”

“A trade for what?” McManus says.

“6-D.”

“You don’t have 6-D.”

“I have you, and the Priest knows that much now.”

Combs

Their aero flies through the Double Helix, a twisting multi-lined public transit system that divides NuDo, New Downtown, like a neon river cutting through a canyon. The endless plane of housing projects, given the geometric patterns, is like flying between two sunsets, passing over the reflective solar panels covering skyscraper rooftops. Then, approaching ODo, Old Downtown, Lowe looks down, surveying the surface level from above.

“What are all those black and white crossmarks?”

“Cops,” McManus says. “That’s what the ODs think of outside interference.”

Lowe studies the scene below. ODo is home to all walks of societal rejects. And Combs is the worst part of ODo. The skeletal ruins of hundreds of demolished skyscrapers are connected by an intricate web of skypaths that look like catacombs, sixty-stories high. Schools of stolen OD aeros fly together like fish, forty floors above ground level. They dart and weave, flowing in each other’s wind streams, careful to use their florescent beams as little as possible after dark. If the landmines and skymines aren’t enough to ward off outsiders, Combs is also a Leper Colony. Leps is a term for deformed children of the first wave of colony vets who returned to Earth before the authorities realized how long a quarantine period was required. Their genetic mutations are similar to leprosy except these children are born without noses, ears, fingers and toes. Their skin has that shiny, hairless texture of burn victims.

They land in an abandon flot lot on top of on old building, several floors above surface level. Curtis gets out of the aero first, directing Lowe and McManus to stay close with hand signals. They are highly vulnerable to Furies, packs of young Leps who attack in mass, jumping from building to building, floor to floor, ground to ceiling, with balletic grace.

“When the Leps come, and they will, shoot first ask questions later,” Curtis says.

As they move away from the aero, giant video monitors in the background are playing graphic scenes of police being killed by brick attacks from forty stories above. The same black and white crosses Lowe noticed flying in. They hear movement, see the scurrying of shadow dancers, laughter echoing, jeering. There must be hundreds.

“Here they come.” Curtis draws his weapon, followed by Lowe. McManus is unarmed.

Then, suddenly, the roar of a motorcycle. A headlight approaches, seemingly scaling up the side of the building. Lowe looks to Curtis, waiting for the signal. Curtis’s trigger finger itches, but he doesn’t shoot. The bike pulls up. It’s a vintage Ducati hypermotard from before the flying bikes, a classic not unlike Curtis’s Porsche. The rider dismounts, raising both hands, stepping forward.

“You gonna shoot?” Cece says. Curtis lowers his gun. Holding her hands in the air, Cece presses her right thumb and the helmet opens. She’s in a lambskin catsuit with an industrial two-way zipper that extends from chin to crotch, and crotch to the back of her neck. Like all her clothes, like the Ducati, the catsuit is one of a kind and custom made.

“What are you doing here?” Curtis says.

“She’s my daughter.”

“Three percent? You haven’t changed one bit.”

“Give or take a few trillion,” Cece says. “But don’t forget this is home.”

“I didn’t forget. Can take the girl out of the sewer, but you can’t take the sewer out of the girl.”

“Don’t take it personally.”

A sphincter-constricting sound, neither shriek nor howl. Lowe looks at Cece, unafraid but highly curious.

“Hybulls,” Cece says.

“Hybulls?”

“A hybrid of pit bull and hyena originally bred as Fury guard dogs.”

“We need to move now,” Curtis says. The sound is getting louder, closer. “How long?”

“One minute. Tops.” Cece turns in a circle, deciding which exit is safest down to the surface level. She zigzags toward the north exist. They see figures approaching through crater-size holes in the scaffolding, an entire gang of Leps and hybulls, still several stories above, but cascading downward in synchronized formation, gripping electrical wires, the entrails of skyscrapers like tree branches in the shadows above. Cece stops at the end of the lot. They are cornered in, the hybulls leaping one after another.

“Jump!” Cece does exactly that, landing two floors below, the imprint of both her motorcycle boots clearly visible. “Go! Go!” Cece waves McManus down, but he’s panicked, frozen.

“Go, or I’m going to shoot you in the head on the count of three,” Curtis says to McManus.

“Three!” Lowe pushes McManus with both hands, hurling him forward.

Curtis fires at several hybulls, hitting at least two by the sound of it. Then he jumps, last man down. They reach the surface level. Cece leads them around the corner of the building, as bricks begin falling, a few at a time, and then in dozens, and then in hundreds. She sprints, eyes peeled for landmines, a few set off by the rain of cement and mortar. At least twenty Leps reach the surface right behind them, along with a dozen hybulls. Cece waits for Curtis to catch up and then waves him onward toward the end of the block.

“There’s another entrance, the back way,” Cece says. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Curtis hesitates, forcing her to remove a gun and load it. She stares at him, waiting. She’d shoot him before letting the Leps catch him and he knows it. He takes off running.

The first few hybulls are coming straight for her, as she aims and shoots at a crossbeam half a block down, hitting the target dead center, causing debris to fall, setting off a landmine, distracting the hybulls. Curtis, Lowe, and McManus reach the elevator inside the building.

On the street, Cece runs followed by a mass of Leps and beasts seconds behind her.

Curtis shoots again as Cece runs into the building followed by three hybulls just inches from her heels. She barely makes it into the elevator before one hybull’s head is crushed in the doors right behind her. The snapped head falls right in front of them, its mouth still wide open. Blood soaks the elevator floor. Everyone remains still, looking down at the mess.

Curtis is the first to speak. “James McManus, Cecilia Gale. I assume you two are well acquainted.”

McManus is pulling himself together. “You’re catching up, Curtis.”

Cece is openly disgusted. Standing almost eye to eye with McManus, she grabs him by both shoulders and knees him full force, dropping him to the ground next to the bloody head.

“If anything happens to my daughter, I’ll do the same to you.”

Eden

The elevator opens. White light temporarily blinds them until it is scaled back and they are greeted by an African girl.

“This way, please,” she says.

Curtis turns to Lowe. “Eden.”

They walk across one of Eden’s viewing decks. An entire floor overlooking hundreds of individual glass gaming chambers. Every sexual act imaginable is on display. Men and women, women and women, men and men, men and women and women, men and boys and girls, and many beyond imagination. They keep moving, reaching a centerpoint from which a dozen different reflective-glass halls extend in every direction.

Everyone keeps in step, taking in the bizarre environment. It’s kaleidoscopic, as they make their way down the hall of mirrors, passing hundreds of more people who braved Combs to be safely sealed into their personal fantasies.

Arriving at a gaming chamber, the girl stops, turns, smiles. She moves her bare hand from side to side and the door opens. They enter a lush garden. Spectacular, tropical, trees, plants, animals of every size and shape. A lion is napping in the shade, its tail lazily slapping this way and that, as the girl leads them onto a spacious patio. Abah Esan, the Priest, sits at a table sipping coffee. An African Adonis with a shaved head, the Priest is a regal man with a scar down the side of his face. Four African men and at least a dozen African boys stand guard behind the Priest. The youngest boy is no more than eight. The oldest man is maybe thirty. All are members of the the Priest’s private band of mercenaries. The boys are part of the same group playing soccer in Chinatown, only this time heavily armed.

Two of the men frisk the visitors, disarming them. The Priest smiles at McManus, seeing he’s the only one who isn’t carrying a weapon.

“Mr. McManus.”

“Mr. Esan. Nice place you’ve got here.” McManus looks around, nodding courteously.

“Heaven on earth, you might say.”

“But earth all the same.”

“A shrewd observation,” the Priest says. “It’s no wonder you’ve found yourself in the service of Felix Gale, not to mention the company of his lovely wife.”

Cece steps forward. Several of the boys stop her before she can get in striking distance of the Priest.

“Where’s my daughter?”

“Not to worry, Mrs. Gale. And let me say that I’m very sorry Mr. Gale couldn’t join us, but my thanks to you, Mr. McManus and Detective Curtis for escorting Mr. Lowe here. We didn’t want anything to happen to him along the way. The Priest looks at Lowe with genuine admiration.

“I heard there was some trouble this afternoon in the Hills.”

“No trouble,” Lowe says.

“That’s the spirit.” The Priest turns to Curtis. “Did you know, Detective, in many cultures, when someone saves your life you owe them your life?”

Curtis glances at Cece. “Not much of a savings.”

“So modest. Maybe that’s why you never amounted to anything more than a Pool cop: because you’re simple, Detective Curtis.” The Priest shakes his head at Curtis. “An exceptional officer, perhaps. But tell me this, why is it that good police rarely make good men?”

The Priest pours himself more coffee from the steel pot on the table. “Have you met Miss Tripp?”

Ava is escorted out on to the patio by two more of the Priest’s men. Curtis looks at her, taking in as much as he can of her while trying not to stare. The Priest raises his cup to his lips, addressing Curtis.

“As you can see, Miss Tripp is alive and well, unharmed. Touch her, if you like, she’s real.”

“Ava!” Cece cries.

Curtis pulls his eyes away from Ava. “What do you want?”

“Cut to the chase. I appreciate that, I do. You see, I am a servant of God and a man of peace. A man who believes we all share the right to peace and prosperity. So, Detective, I want a piece of what you were going to offer me, even though it was not yours to offer.”

“You know I have nothing to do with 6-D.”

“That much is true, yes. Apart from the company you keep.”

The Priest turns back to Lowe. “Perhaps your young associate should give us a demonstration of his already legendary skills.”

Lowe looks at Curtis.

“I understand. It’s been a trying day for all of us. In that case, would you care to make a little wager? Sweeten the pot, so to speak,” the Priest says. “Your mark in exchange for the girl?”

Lowe looks at Ava.

“You are a marksmen, aren’t you?”

Lowe looks at Curtis. Curtis nods. Answer him.

“Yes.”

“In that case, Mr. Lowe, I’d like to see what you’re offering.”

Cece, Ava, Curtis and the Priest wait, until Lowe stands, unbuttoning his shirt, exposing his chest. The Priest leans forward for a closer look.

“May I?” The Priest reaches in his inside pocket, removing a jeweler’s loupe. He places the loupe to his eye, inspecting the prize.

“The Dagger. The mark of a Special Ops unit so secretive some say they’re a myth. The most prized of all marks.”The Priest turns to Ava. “Miss Tripp, come here, please.”

Ava looks at Cece. Cece nods. Ava walks to the Priest.

“Have you ever seen a mark up close?”

“No,” Ava says.

“They’re called black diamonds.” The Priest hands Ava his loupe. “Mr. Lowe risked his life for this mark. You should see why.”

Uncertain, Ava takes the loupe.

“There are so many stories about marks, but none more cloaked in secrecy than those surrounding The Dagger. Tell us the truth. What is the custom, Mr. Lowe?”

Curtis eyes Lowe, humor the man.

“A tour of duty in the colonies lasts three years.”

“That much I think we’re all aware of, Mr. Lowe. Please continue.”

Lowe does so only because he thinks it may help Ava. “If you live, on the last night of a tour, every member of your squad circles around, after they place you in a five-point restraint on your back, bare-chested. Your squad leader places a titanium stencil over your solar plexus and then they pour in the lavagus.” Lowe looks at Ava, speaking to her alone. Trying to tell her something about himself that he hasn’t spoken of before.

She hears him, feels him. For an instant, it’s as if they’re the only two people in the room. “Every squadron has their own mark.”

The Priest is delighted by Lowe’s description. ‘As I understand it, lavagus eats the skin; and it burns like acid, only far worse.”

Lowe nods.

“They say most men black out from pain during the ceremony, but when a man can take no more his stretcher is flipped upside down and the lavagus drips to the ground, extinguished with a chalk alkaline from the colony mines.” The Priest points to Lowe’s mark, outlining it with a finger. “Mr. Lowe must have a very high pain threshold to have a mark with such clarity and brilliance. See for yourself, Miss Tripp.”

Ava steps forward, holds the loupe to his chest. Lowe steps back, buttoning his shirt. Humiliated. Ava looks at him, apologetically, in awe, both. She hands the loupe to the Priest and returns to Cece’s side.

“I see you are a man bound by honor, and I assure you, I am a man of my word. If you win, you will ensure Miss Tripp remains alive long enough to participate in a demonstration of 6-D.” The Priest puts the loupe back in his pocket. “If you lose, Miss Tripp’s immediate future is less certain and your mark is mine for the taking.”

The Priest holds out his hand. “Agreed?”

Careful not to blink, Lowe clasps it in his own.

The Priest invites everyone up from the table. “Now, if you would all be so kind to follow me.” He opens the garden gate for his guests, escorting them through it from the patio. The Priest’s men and boys surround them.

The group finds themselves in broad daylight, standing under a corrugated tin roof in the middle of an African shantytown. The Priest holds his finger to his mouth, wait.

A flatbed truck races past them. The driver is fourteen, and in the back there are two boys, ten, shooting massive guns. A jeep full of Chinese troops races past. Curtis, Lowe, Cece, Ava and McManus follow the Priest, stepping into the road, with a clear view of the scene.

The flatbed truck is now being chased by three jeeps full of troops.

“Watch: they’re Series 2,” the Priest says. All three jeeps fire machine guns at the truck. The two boys in the back pop up, aim and fire back. “Ten years old and they’re beating Series 1 kids, twice their age. Series 2 are lightning, their reflexes.”

As one of the truck tires is blown out, the driver swerves, avoiding the likes of mangy dogs, chickens, and several scarf-turbaned women carrying baskets on their heads.

Bodies dive in every direction to avoid being hit.

“Faster, faster!” a troop leader says. Lying flat on their backs, one of the boys lights both Molotov cocktails the second boy is holding, and then, aflame, each boy stands and throws a flaming bottle from each side of the truck, taking out two of the jeeps.

One of the troops stands, leaning out of the truck, and fires a missile launcher. The missile heads straight for the truck. The Priest claps his hands and the game stops, freeze-frame of a whizzing missile. The overhead lights flash and the shantytown is gone, transformed into a grand living room with high ceilings. The same three boys are standing in the center of the room.

“I could’ve taken him out!” one of the boys say. The Priest’s eyes strangle the boy. The boy immediately shuts his mouth, terrified by how quickly the Priest can turn violent.

The others boys stare at their feet.

“Outside, all of you,” the Priest says. The boys do as they’re told, scurrying out. “Personally, I’ve never understood these people who say gaming incites violence. It’s violence that incites gaming.”

One oversized chair sits between two life-size statues Curtis mistakes for porcelain cheetahs, until his eyes adjust, and he sees that the animals are, in fact, real. Or as real as anything can be in Eden.

“Please be seated,” the Priest says. Curtis sits in a leather chair to the left of Cece and Ava, who sit together on a couch at the back of the room. “It’s Mr. Lowe’s turn behind the wheel.”

Lowe stands, alone, in the center of the room so relaxed it’s like he’s going out for an afternoon run.

“Of course this is not 6-D, but rather a little something we threw together this morning.” The Priest sits between the cats. He pets one on the head, and then claps his hands, ordering the game to be loaded. “Are you ready, Mr. Lowe?”

“Anytime.”

Eden’s facilities are light years ahead of those at PACT. Likewise, in Eden, anyone in the gaming chamber experiences the game directly even if they are not playing. Lowe’s ready. It’s 4-D weapons-grade gaming. The same he used in the colonies. The same he’s been training on all his life.

As the game’s establishing shot becomes clear, Lowe recognizes the façade immediately: the Gale mansion. Three Stunners are parked in front of the mansion.

Lowe, now dressed like the seven other bodyguards, stands beside the driver-side door of the second vehicle. The mansion’s front doors open. Ava steps outside, followed by her two personal assistants. Ava is slow moving, not used to being up at this hour. She presses one gloved finger against the bridge of her sunglasses, not paying Lowe any attention as she descends the stairs. Servants load her luggage into the last Stunner. Ava walks straight to the middle car. Lowe opens the door for her.

She climbs in the back with her assistants. Lowe closes the door. All the guards wait until her trunks are loaded in the third vehicle. When the trunk door is shut, the guards get into their respective vehicles.

Lowe is driving the second. The Stunners barrel through the Hills until they turn off Mulholland on to Sepulveda, passing the old Getty and heading for a brick tunnel.

They enter the tunnel cautiously given road conditions due to the recent storms and mudslides. The first vehicle is halfway through when the front of the tunnel goes dark.

Lowe realizes something has just blocked the far entrance. As each gunner activates the passenger-side artillery, the second and third guards activate the Stunner machine guns when a semi blocks the back entrance. At least ten of the Priest’s men and boys armed with everything they can carry take positions inside and on top of the huge truck.

All three Stunners inside the tunnel come to a screeching halt. They quickly get in a zigzag formation, front and back angling themselves at forty-five degree angles, protecting the middle vehicle. The Priest’s voice comes on the radio a moment later.

“You have one minute to release Miss Tripp. Or you will die.”

Everyone listens closely. All three cars are silent. Lowe turns to the back seat where the assistants are panicking. “Get down. And stay down!” Ava looks at Lowe directly for the first time. She is scared to death. “I said get down!” Ava does as she’s told.

Artillery guns fully activated, in each vehicle, moving in fluid precision, the three guards assigned to the gunners strap themselves in. The Priest counts down the final ten seconds. “Nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two. One final second passes, then gunfire begins from both sides. Seeing the last car’s driver and second detail have been killed, Lowe orders the gunner in his car to get out and drive the last vehicle. The guard follows orders, throwing the last vehicle into reverse, firing as he approaches the tunnel entrance, buying Lowe a few more seconds until the two guards in the first car are shot as well, and he has to slam on the breaks. There is only the sound of gunfire and screaming from the backseat as Ava realizes her assistants have been shot dead.

Lowe grabs her arm, trying to speak, but she can’t even hear herself, so he has to shake her with both arms. Lowe turns, speaking to the second guard, sitting in the passenger seat.

“You drive.”

The guard shakes his head. “I’ll drive the first. You follow, stay with her.”

Lowe realizes he cannot argue because this is exactly what happened that morning.

The guard gets out and climbs into the driver’s seat of the front vehicle without getting shot. He and Lowe back up to where the third vehicle was stopped and is now in flames. Lowe waits while the first car revs its engines, getting a running start, prepared to ram straight into the semi at the tunnel exit. When the vehicle is halfway there, Lowe does the same, and then he realizes there is only way out, to sacrifice the front driver. He waits until the driver is a hundred meters from impact, and then he fires a missile at the first vehicle. He looks back for a split second, shouting at Ava.

“Stay down! We’re going to crash. When we do, stay behind me, because we have to run.” No sooner said, the missile strikes the first vehicle, tearing straight through it and the semi blocking the way. “Hold on!” Lowe braces himself as their vehicle breaks through the carnage of the first Stunner and the missile-blown semi, a fireball in the tunnel entrance with dead and burning men and boy strewn about; daylight flooding the tunnel.

And then.

Ava is screaming at the back of the room. She screams until she hears herself, realizes she is in the room, watching the game, and then she covers her mouth with both hands, seeing the scene from this perspective. Both her assistants are dead. Her bodyguards are dead. All three vehicles are engulfed in flames. Cece holds Ava, as the girl begins sobbing, seeing the image of her face covered with their blood. Lowe stands, arms still erect at his sides, making sure it’s over. The game freezes; a freeze-frame of the Stunner reaching the other side of the road because he’s won. Lowe takes a breath, and then, just as he is about to turn and look the Priest in the eye, he hears clapping: two, three, four, five times.

“Bravo. Bravo, Mr. Lowe. Rumors abound you are the best player in the history of PACT and that certainly appears to be true from what we just saw.”

Lowe says nothing.

“Fortunately or unfortunately, you were not guarding Miss Tripp this morning or none of us would be here now.”

Curtis stands up from his chair. “All this for a game, Esan?”

The Priest shakes his head at Curtis. “The next evolutionary step in gaming, fully synthesizing gaming code and human DNA requires far more than same day video, I’m afraid.” The Priest waves his hand toward the door. “Shall we.”

Exiting the gaming chamber, they walk onto another of Eden’s many viewing decks.

This deck is a long open corridor lined with hundreds of steel gurneys; hundreds of bodies lying on their backs. Each body is dressed in a white gauze knit hospital gown and white open-toe slippers. Each head is covered with a white hood. They all have an IV in each arm: a feeding tube and a sedation tube. There’s a hole toward the top of each gurney where the cables are attached, drilled into the skin, at the top of the neck, connecting the computer to the cerebral cortex. There is a long fluorescent lighting strip down the center of the corridor. There’s a black reflective strip running along the wall, behind the gurneys, which reads the vitals and downloads of each body. Curtis reaches out for Ava, seeing her extend her arms, trying to steady herself. He grabs hold of her elbow before she gathers herself, turning away in horror.

Curtis confronts the Priest. “The Lord’s work?”

“As I said, you are a simple man. Because anything we do to each other in this world is part of the divine order of things. You’ve spent your entire career chasing your own tail, pursuing men of action like me, proving only that. So you should thank me, Detective. Thank me that that’s not what brings you here today.”

“Thank you?”

“For showing you the light.”

Cece steps forward, putting her arm around Ava as they reach a main door leading to a wing the size of a sports arena. They walk through the thick steel doors into an open-air luxury box. It overlooks an arena bathed in the same intense white light they encountered when first entering Eden. As they survey the vast space, the white light transforms into a projection of the Delancey Tunnel.

“Mr. Lowe, would you please tell us about the elephant this morning?” the Priest says.

“Tell what?”

“The elephant, if you would?”

Lowe looks at Curtis. Neither has any idea what’s going on.

“I saw a baby elephant.”

“And what else?”

“And a man was measuring his tusks.”

The Delancey Tunnel projected into the arena now includes the Pool footage of the killer shooting one driver after another. There is an emphasis on his shooting skills.

“What man was that?” the Priest says, rhetorically.

Noticing Curtis studying the tunnel footage, the Priest smiles, delighting in Curtis’s confusion. He signals for three boys to lead Ava away. Cece grabs Ava’s hand and steps in front of them.

“We’ll stay together.”

“Miss Tripp will be well attended to, I assure you.”

Cece knows enough not to push, but Ava’s eyes are welling with tears.

“No, I don’t want to go!”

“Look at me.” There is so much Cece wants to say to her daughter, but there’s no time. “Do as he says and everything will be all right.” Ava shakes her head no, refusing, and Cece squeezes her bicep in one hand, grabbing hold of her chin. She leans forward, speaking in her ear. “Remember who you are.”

“Excellent advice, Mrs. Gale.”

The boys take Ava away. Lowe moves to stop them, but there’s no chance.

“What color was the elephant, Mr. Lowe?”

“What?”

“The color.”

“Elephant color.”

“How can you be sure?” the Priest says. “Had you ever seen an elephant before this morning?”

Lowe says nothing. Curtis appears to be the only one who doesn’t know what’s going on.

“Still stuck in the tunnel, Detective?”

“Let the girl go. She has nothing to do with this.”

“Yes and no. But you are getting ahead of yourself.” A projection of Miss Tripp performing in front of a live audience fills the arena. “She’s larger than life.”

Miss Tripp is working the crowd into a frenzy with her hypnotic dancing. She appears naked, but for sunglasses, metallic thigh-high boots, and the designer gloves extending past her elbows, her signature accessory. Cece and Curtis stare at each other, Curtis wincing as the music becomes louder.

“Detective Curtis?”

Curtis turns away from Cece. He focuses his full attention on the Priest.

“Do you believe history repeats itself?”

“Do you think I care about history?” Curtis says.

“We’re all about to find out.” The Priest stands up in the luxury box, looking out onto the floor.

Miss Tripp finishes her performance. “Thank you! I love you!” She exits the stage. The audience screams for more until they are gradually erased, one section of the arena at a time. The spotlight shifts from the stage to the Priest.

“Love, Mr. Lowe.”

Lowe stares straight through him.

“Elephant got your tongue? Fair enough. Unfortunately, like you in some respects, I can only repeat what I’ve been told. So please stop me if I have my facts wrong.” The Priest turns to face McManus, then Cece.”The same applies for the two of you.”

“Ryan Lowe is not the issue here,” Cece says. “He’s merely one of many.”

“My point exactly, Mrs. Gale. But acting in good faith requires we start somewhere.”

“The contract’s been cancelled,” McManus says. “You can kill us all, including Mrs. Gale, but that won’t change.”

“So where does that leave us?” the Priest says.

“The Series 2 downloads were essential in refining the procedure, and it is Mr. Gale’s position that your compensation to date has been more than generous. Beyond this, your services are no longer needed.”

“To bear witness,” the Priest says to footage of Lowe inside The Ark, surrounded by exotic animals, studying the baby elephant is projected into the arena. He’s awestruck.

Curtis is trying to put it together.

“You don’t like animals, Detective?”

“Chan?”

The Priest smiles. “Their lack of originality aside, the Chinese are no less curious than the rest of us.” A montage of more footage from Curtis and Lowe in Chinatown is now projected into the arena. Lowe looking at the Chinatown prostitutes, sitting in the window. Tripping over a body condom. Then an extreme close up on Lowe studying Mr. Chan’s birds. The Priest looks at Curtis. “Did you notice a difference, Detective?”

Curtis still doesn’t understand.

The Priest looks at Cece. “By 2091, Vortex aims to control more than this world; it aims to control the next. Am I correct, Mrs. Gale?”

“I’m telling you my daughter has nothing to do with this.”

“The sins of the mother.” Footage of a warship re-entering the earth’s atmosphere is projected into the arena. “And here I accused Detective Curtis of getting ahead of himself. The footage fades into Cece addressing The Vortex Board of Directors at a dais. Felix Gale sits next to her. He is an impeccably polished man of great wealth in his fifties.

“Six-dimensional gaming is nothing less than a new age,” Cece says. “Call it what you will–spirit, essence, soul? A shared human experience infinitely more powerful than any obtainable by a single life itself. If time is divided between BC and AD, we are at the dawn of A6-D.”

The Priest applauds her mockingly, as well. The footage fades from the Vortex Board standing to applaud Cece back to the warship landing in the desert.

“And like all great games, Mrs. Gale, ours today is based on a true story, the story of a young soldier named Ryan Lowe. A soldier unlike any the colonies has ever seen. And why is that, Mr. Lowe?”

Lowe refuses to respond, readying himself for the fight he senses his coming.

“The reason why, Detective Curtis, since you seem to always be the last to know, is because this soldier was never shipped out.”

“You think there aren’t others just like him already here?” McManus says. “More on the way? The Government has been involved in this from its inception.”

“He was shipped in.” The spotlight shifts from the Priest to Lowe as footage of a colony lavagus mine is projected into the arena. The surface of the planet is entirely white, as is the air, making it almost impossible to tell the difference. Huge machinery excavates a pit that goes on for miles and reveals that the planet is blood red to its very core. It is a world of immeasurable clarity and terror in the contrast of what is above and below the surface. No one speaks for several minutes as they watch more footage of mines, soldiers, settlements, scientists, all the while nearly blinded by white.

The scene shifts to a medical setting in which there’s a single gurney and body dressed in white, similar to those we saw earlier on the viewing deck, though cleaner, more clinical, and surrounded by technicians. The projection is a technical film, documenting the downloading process to every detail from start to finish, but without sound, making it all the more chilling. The body on the gurney is that of a nine-year-old girl. She has been sedated and is losing consciousness as she is placed into the proper downloading position on the gurney. Clear tape is placed over each eye. She’s connected to the computer behind the gurney by neck cables. It’s a numb, bloodless procedure. IV’s are inserted in each arm.

A technician checks the data being extracted before placing a white hood over the girl’s head. A timer set to the hundredth of a second is activated on the computer monitor. As the timer begins to count forward from zero, the projection fades into footage of a giant hospital wing with thousands of downloads taking place exactly like this one. White light pours in the windows.

The Priest resumes. “Did I miss anything, Mr. McManus?”

“Again, you have been richly rewarded for your contribution to 6-D development, so why do you want to impede its progress?”

“You raise an important question, thank you. And since you are so eager to share your thoughts on progress, perhaps you could explain the difference between a Series 2 DNA download and that involving a pure body? I’m not sure even Mrs. Gale fully appreciates the difference.”

“The downloads have not been performed on pure bodies.”

“And why is that?”

“A pure body could never handle the stress of replication that a genetically engineered embryo can. Rapid system failure is guaranteed.”

“How long?”

“It’s never been tried.”

“Humor us?”

McManus thinks about it, unsure where he’s being lead. “The Series 2’s, when properly maintained intravenously, can last the thirty-six hours required to complete the download and preserve the option for organ harvest. The Series 1’s could not. A pure body? Before they go into shock? A pure would be lucky to last thirty-six minutes.”

“But it’s never been tried?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Mrs. Gale?”

“You overestimate my involvement in all of this.”

“I believe we’ve all seen otherwise.”

Cece plays another angle. “Like you, I come from humble beginnings.”

“Humility?”

“Yes.”

“Or is it the sins of the father?” The Priest laughs wickedly while turning to face Curtis. “You really shouldn’t feel so bad, Detective. The only secret Mrs. Gale has held tighter than the identity of her daughter all these years is her own.”

The Priest looks out onto the arena floor to the same area where Miss Tripp was performing. An academic-style documentary is projected into the arena. An unidentified narrator tells the story over archival video and still footage of the man being profiled. The first shot is of a hippie-looking scientist in his thirties, Dr. Randall Scott, doing research in his lab and then the images follow the narration from there.

“Dr. Randall Scott had been a renowned genetic scientist, widely believed to be on track for a Nobel Prize in the study of embryonic technology, when the wars started between the United States and China in the colonies. Dr. Scott was sent there for research purposes, it was said, but after everything he witnessed, he became the most outspoken critic of the administration’s policies in off-planet life sciences. And, though the evidence remains classified, two years after returning to Earth, Scott was tried and convicted of selling state secrets concerning the existence of an undisclosed experimental colony, code name DECCA, to the Chinese, charges he adamantly denied. He was imprisoned for several years in the Chino super-max facility buried beneath the desert wastelands of California. He escaped in September 2056, in the single greatest prison break in United States history. Becoming an intergalactic folk hero, he went into hiding, rejoining his wife and young daughter at a commune in what had once been the Redwood National Forest. The Purists, as they were called for their refusal to abide by genetic regulations and their subsequent guerrilla attacks on genetic test sites, worldwide, were soon labeled a terrorist organization. All their leaders, including Scott, were listed on the Federal Most Wanted List, forcing both their political and military wings into hiding. Government forces eventually raided the Purists compound, burning half the forest along with it. Dr. Scott and his wife were killed, but their nine-year-old daughter is assumed by some to have escaped the raid since her body was never found, adding an even greater sense of mystery to this already iconic figure.”

The documentary ends by holding on an image of Dr. Scott cradling an infant in his arms. Fear and tears of grief have overtaken Cece’s face.

“Those Chinese are nothing but trouble,” the Priest says to Cece.

“How is this helping you?”

The Priest smiles, eying Cece, and then Lowe. “Elephant color.” He looks down on Curtis. “In a sense, Ava Stark and Ryan Lowe are related. Kissing cousins, you might say. The Priest winks at Curtis. “The first complete DECCA series weren’t born until years after Scott’s murder, but he saw them coming. He knew they were in the works, and what they’d be used for. These men were born to war. Born for war, as well. Sent home to infiltrate. Quietly. To blend in, like, say, a new PACT recruit. Or, perhaps, a deranged gunman.”

The killer from the Delancey Tunnel steps out into the arena. He is wearing the same suit from the morning and stands at attention. “Metaphorically, at least, these are the sons of Randall Scott. And to think Scott honestly believed he could just walk away from it all when he returned to Earth. After all the government did for him and his work, how much room they gave him to run and play on the colonies, to pursue his genetic experiments to their conclusion, without any regulation to worry about. But, in the end, it doesn’t matter who you are, everyone’s got to pay to play.”

The brightness of the white light is heightened dramatically over the projection of the gurneys from the viewing deck just outside the arena. The Priest first looks at Lowe, then Curtis. “By Mr. McManus’s gross estimate you haven’t much time. Somewhere among all this progress, Miss Tripp is also being downloaded.”

Cece lunges for the Priest. “No!”

The Priest strikes her down with an open hand before any of his guards can stop her. “Thirty-six minutes, Mr. McManus? For a pure body?”

Cece and McManus are suddenly surrounded by guards in the luxury box. The Priest signals Curtis and Lowe to follow him down a few steps to the arena floor where the killer is standing at the opposite end.

“Playing is believing.”

“Where have I heard that before?” Curtis says.

“Detective Curtis. Mr. Lowe.” The Priest walks back up to the luxury suite.

The game begins with Curtis and Lowe back at Chinatown. Curtis stands with a soccer ball at his feet. He looks down at it, confused. The Chinese and African boys are fighting. Lowe instantly recognizes they are inside of a game. He takes off down the alley.

“Lowe!”

“Stay close,” Lowe says. Curtis tries to catch up.

They race back to thee Porsche parked near the Great Wall through a sea of bodies, the same way they came in. They race through heavy traffic on the Braid.

Back to the original scene inside the Delancey Tunnel where the killer walks a hundred meters, stops, turns to his left, and stands at ease, taking in the immensity of the twenty-lane tunnel. A light wind blows against the killer’s face, signaling the next wave of traffic approaching, as he kneels to open a briefcase.

Lowe braces himself in the passenger seat. A PACT-issue assault weapon is spread across his lap. “One shot.”

Curtis shifts hard and floors the gas as he smacks against two cars in order to cut between and pass them.

The killer assembles a rifle with paramilitary precision.

Curtis exits the Braid, taking an off-ramp that feeds into the Delancey Tunnel. He cannot possibly drive any faster. Lowe readies his gun.

The killer raises the rifle to his eye.

Lowe points his gun out the open window of the car as Curtis speeds off the Braid and heads straight for the mouth of the tunnel.

The head of the driver of a car in the farthest left lane comes into view, still a thousand meters away.

Curtis barrels into the tunnel, chasing a wave of cars. “You knew?”

Lowe is already scanning the field, considering all the potential variables that could effect his ability to shoot the killer. “Just get me the shot.”

The driver is distracted, talking to the woman sitting beside him, and two children in the backseat, oblivious, at a distance of seven hundred meters, six, five, four, three.

Curtis slams into a car next to him, trying to get by. Lowe is jarred into his passenger-side door, but somehow hangs on to his gun and settles back into shooting position. Curtis continues to pass every vehicle in their way.

Another driver honks and hits his breaks at the very moment panic rips across the lane. Curtis honks, hits his breaks and clips the car carrying the man and his family, as he tries to get past. The family’s car spins in a three-sixty, but avoids crashing. The Porsche is now the lead vehicle heading for the killer.

The killer’s target becomes clear.

Lowe has the killer in his scope.

A blink of the eye.

And again.

The killer hesitates. He does not fire.

Lowe hesitates. He does not fire.

The Priest watches the game playing out in the arena with Cece and McManus. He’s childlike in his enthusiasm. “The Dagger!”

“Kill him!” Cece screams.

“The greatest of all marks.”

“Take the shot,” Curtis orders Lowe. Lowe doesn’t flinch, keeps the killer in his sights.

The killer is locked on Lowe in exactly the same position.

“Lowe! Take the shot.” Curtis floors it, getting everything he can from the Porsche, as he heads straight for the killer.

The Priest is in his full glory, witnessing the standoff. “Brothers. But brothers born to war. All the more interesting, Mrs. Gale, this A6-D.”

“You sick fuck.” Cece tries to strike the Priest, but he catches her hand and squeezes her wrist, almost breaking it.

“Pure bodies are so AD.”

The killer shifts his aim from Lowe to Curtis, seeing that Curtis intends to run him down.

Having lost faith in Lowe, Curtis ignores him. He’s either going to take the killer out himself or die trying.

Lowe’s gun is still trained on the killer.

The killer’s gun is trained on Curtis. He squeezes the trigger as Curtis screams out heading straight for him.

McManus can’t believe what he is seeing when he hears Cece repeat: “Kill him!”

The Priest is all but speechless. “DECCA.”

Curtis slams into the killer, smashing him against the hood, and then the windshield. Brakes squeal as Curtis spins the Porsche around in circles, trying not to collide with oncoming traffic. He manages to keep all four wheels on the ground before finally wrestling the car to a complete stop. Curtis and Lowe first stare at the killer crushed against the shattered glass in front of them. Then at each other.

The projection of the tunnel disappears inside Eden, fading back to white.

The killer lies face down on the ground, bleeding from the chest.

Curtis and Lowe stand next to each other, just above him. “Make sure he’s dead.”

“He’s dead.”

“Confirm the kill.”

“He’s dead, Curtis. Direct shot to the heart.”

“You took the shot?” Curtis reaches down to turn the body over. The killer’s suit coat and shirt are torn from the car’s impact. Curtis rips his shirt all the way open to reveal his heart has literally been blown out of his body by Lowe’s gun. His identity is confirmed by a Dagger identical to Lowe’s mark.

“You’re wasting time.” Lowe runs toward the arena exit in search of Miss Tripp. Curtis takes off behind him.

The Priest is smiling at Cece and McManus. “Win some.” A projection of the viewing deck now fills the arena. “Lose some?”

Lowe and Curtis pass through a set of steel doors. There are now two soccer goals at each end of the viewing deck where they first saw the downloads. A group of heavily armed boys are kicking a soccer ball back and forth over the gurneys at them. With every shot on goal one of the boys not involved in the play shoots at the ball. After each direct hit another ball appears and the game is repeated. Before Curtis or Lowe can think of what to say to the other, where to possibly begin in navigating the path saving Ava facing them, another ball suffers a direct hit. Boys laugh excitedly at the clearest shot yet.

“We have to get that girl out of here. You understand?”

Lowe is way ahead of Curtis, running into the maze of gurneys, pulling sheets off each body, removing each hood. Curtis pauses, watching the focus with which Lowe works.

Lowe is oblivious to the boys and the bullets spraying overhead. Curtis follows suit, imitating Lowe’s actions if not his pace. After moving through an entire row of gurneys, one young child after another, Curtis stops. Lowe continues to search like the super soldier he is.

Curtis walks instead of runs down rows of gurneys. He no longer lifts up the sheet over each body he passes by. He walks. He stops. He listens and changes directions.

“Curtis!” Lowe thinks he’s given up or gone into shock. But something is guiding him. He hears the laughter of the boys, not guns, but the sound of children. He wanders the rows, listening to the laughter. A ball whizzes past his head. A boy shoots and misses.

Curtis watches it hit the back of the net. Boys scream wildly and jump up and down.

Curtis stops. He pulls open the sheet on the gurney in front of him and removes the hood. It’s Ava.

She is heavily sedated, unconscious. He removes the IV’s and the cable connected to the back of her neck. The timer on the computer behind her receiving the data reads: 18:08.41. The celebrating of the boys stops. There is a brief moment of silence. And then.

Rapid fire.

Curtis hits the floor, covering Ava. Bullets rip through bodies on the gurneys all around them. And then a voice.

“Curtis?”

“Here!” Curtis carries Ava, shielding her and keeping her down as best he can, dodging bullets. Boys run towards them. Lowe takes out one closer to him with a single head lock and snap of the neck. He grabs the dead boy’s gun and provides cover against those chasing Curtis and Ava. They reach Lowe, and follow him toward the green light of an emergency exit, a stairwell.

“Flot lot,” Curtis says. “The aero.”

Two men are now running straight for them. Lowe throws Curtis his gun. “Get her out of here.”

“Lowe.”

“Go!”

Curtis carries Ava into the stairwell. Gunfire pelts the doors as they close. Lowe hits the floor, dodging bullets, and takes out the first man with his legs, snapping the man’s tibia in half. The second man trips over them, allowing Lowe to deliver a vicious blow to his face, killing him instantly. He takes the man’s gun and shoots the first man in the head before running back to the exit.

Curtis races up the stairs as fast as he can with Ava in his arms. Only dim emergency lights afford him any ability to see where he’s going. Lowe is several flights behind them when he hears footsteps below. More men. He calls ahead to Curtis.

“Curtis!”

“We’re here!”

“More coming up the stairs. Don’t stop. I’ll slow them down.”

“We have to go.”

Fighting on the stairs. Gunfire. Lowe is taking on three more men. Curtis lifts Ava over his shoulder to climb the stairs faster. Lowe takes out all three men, having the advantage of being above them. He then sprints up the stairwell, meeting Curtis and Ava at the top.

Lowe hands Curtis his gun. “Take this. And wait for my signal.”

Lowe weaves across the lot to their aero. He opens the door, slips inside, making sure it’s secure. He turns and balks: there is a gun pressed against his temple.

“Mr. Lowe, given your pedigree, I trusted you would be the one to find a way out,” the Priest says. “Now get out. Slowly.” The Priest steps back, allowing Lowe to slide out of the aero. The flash of light from a skymine distracts the Priest long enough for Lowe to punch his wrist, knocking the gun out of his hand.

“A move worthy of your mark, Mr–

Lowe makes a roundhouse kick, which the Priest catches, grabbing him by the ankle, taking him down. Lowe doubles over, taking a knee strike to the abdomen.

“And a move your makers seem to have overlooked.” The Priest unloads, picking Lowe up and throwing him against the wall, choking the life out of him. “So shortsighted.” The Priest refuses to let go. Arms flailing, Lowe grabs a loose electrical wire, and manages to twist it around the Priest’s neck. The Priest releases him just as the wire snaps in two, but in that final second, Lowe gets the Priest in a flying guillotine.

Lowe squeezes the Priest’s windpipe between his legs, until his body goes limp.

Lowe grabs his gun. He falls back, trying to catch his breath, and then he looks up to find Curtis and Ava standing a few feet away, Curtis having seen the end of the fight and raced over to help him. Curtis offers Lowe his hand, Ava still over one shoulder. He helps him stand.

“Can you still fly?”

Lowe nods, steadying himself.

“Let’s move.” Curtis turns toward the aero, securing Ava inside before returning to the fight. “Get her out of here.”

“Curtis.”

“That’s an order!”

Lowe is pointing at dozens of Leps running toward them from an adjacent building, accompanied by the sound of hybulls. Chains being released.

“Go!”

Lowe opens the aero doors when a voice shouts. “Stop!”

They stop, hearing a gunshot, and turn to see a man. Lowe’s been shot in the shoulder, but he shoots back. The man falls.

“Get her to the hospital.”

Lowe takes off with Ava. As Curtis watches them clear the building, he feels a hand around his leg. The Priest is alive, but lacks the energy to bring him down. Curtis could kill him with a single kick and almost does.

“A modest and simple man.”

It is only his urgency to save Cece that restrains Curtis. “Get up, asshole.” Curtis pulls the Priest to his feet and puts a gun to his head. The Priest gasps for air and cannot walk under his own power. Curtis drags him across the roof to the stairs.

They enter the stairwell, making their way down through pools of blood and dead men at their feet when he hears more men racing up the stairs.

“Stop or he’s dead!”

The first man sees them and points his gun inches away from Curtis’s face. Curtis knows if he removes his gun from the Priest in order to shoot the man, he’ll be shot by the next. He keeps his gun pressed against the Priest and walks straight into the man, pushing him aside with the Priest’s body as the others behind him move out of the way. He repeats the move until they are back inside the arena.

The viewing deck is still the image being projected, though it now looks like a war zone.

Curtis drags the Priest through it to the luxury box, where Cece and McManus are still surrounded by guards. Men and boys tail them with their guns drawn.

“Tell them to let her go.”

The Priest’s eyes are glazing over. Curtis isn’t sure he has the energy left to understand him, let alone speak. He looks back out on all the gurneys and bodies, many soaked in blood. He then turns to the man closest to him, still heavily armed.

“Let her go.”

The Priest hasn’t the life left in him to say another word. Curtis addresses the same man, pressing his gun even harder into the the Priest head.

“I said release her!”

“Where’s Ava?” Cece says.

“Lowe got her out.”

“Curtis,” McManus says. “You-

“You got your release.”

“She’s safe?”

“You can’t leave me here!”

Curtis nods as the man signals the others to let Cece go. As soon as her hands are free, she strikes McManus across the face.

“Fucking lawyers.”

“Let’s go.” Curtis continues to hang on to the Priest, his only insurance of making it back up to the roof with Cece alive.

“Stay beside me,” he tells her. “And stay back,” he says to the guards. “Stay back!”

They move as fast they can with the Priest in tow, back through the arena to the stairs. Cece steps over bodies and picks up two guns, as Curtis drags the Priest up the stairs.

They race out of the stairwell and onto the roof. Several Leps and hybulls are on the far side of the flot lot where Lowe took off in the aero.

“Go! Over there!” Cece points to her Ducati in the corner of the lot. Curtis lets go of the Priest, who falls to the ground. Both run to the bike.

Cece gives Curtis the guns she slung over her shoulder in the stairwell. “You shoot. I drive.” She mounts the bike, and surveys the lot, hearing the roar of The Fury and watching them approaching two hundred meters away on the bike’s rear monitor.

“Get on!”

Curtis climbs on the back. Cece has no choice but jump to the next building, and seeing a dozen hybulls running for them, she revs the engine. She circles the lot to pick up speed, then accelerates full throttle and jumps the building separated by a street below.

Combs

Lowe managed to take off and get free of the building, but a school of fish, nine OD aeros are now tailing him in tight formation. Ava is unconscious. An onscreen computer flares an alert. Lowe sees two RPGs–relics but deadly–fired simultaneously, heading straight for them.

Cece and Curtis barely make it across the street and over to the next building, landing out of control for a few seconds. The Fury is behind them, assembling into attack formation. They circle the periphery of the adjoining lot, searching for a point of egress, but there is only one. Straight ahead. Curtis shoots at everything he sees moving toward them. The entire façade of the eighteen-story building is covered with the haphazard latticework made of recycled I-beams and zigzagging emergency stairwells, welded together. It’s a training wall, a giant slalom course. Leps are expert at sliding rails and thirty are right behind him, along with twice as many hybulls, casting a net around them. It’s the only way, but if they try it without the bike, they’ll never outrun the pack.

They enter the course on the bike. They have none of the grace or the agility of the Fury, but make it down, one story at a time, navigating the course’s sixty-five-degree angle on two-foot-wide metal beams. On the ninth floor, they hear a strange whistle, as the Fury moves into a formation known as the Chinese Dragon. A pack of the fastest hybulls lead the charge, creating the head of the dragon, followed in a winding motion by Leps, who form body and tail, traversing the I-beams. With the dragon on their tail, Curtis firing as fast as he can, they reach the third floor before hearing a second whistle, signaling the dragon is about to breathe fire. It’s a lethal maneuver in which the hybulls form a ring, running in circles, through which Leps will then jettison, before attacking their prey.

They turn off the course, reaching the bombed out third floor, seeing an open shoot at the far corner. It’s a half-pipe luge run constructed out of an old iron ventilation shaft, and they take it straight down before being launched, one story above ground level to the street. Again, they manage to stay on the bike, but their monitors go black. They’ll have to ride without computer navigation.

Watching the display count down, Lowe has to control his desire to fire, fighting himself. The screen reads 3, 2, 1, and then he flips a 180, jinking the aero sideways, flying vertically, as the missiles fly past both wings, before he flips back, righting the aero. He focuses on each target, aims, shoots. It takes a second for missile to overtake missile, but he hits both, bulls eyes. He reaches out, bracing Ava, as they’re thrown, flying through the firewall of four missiles before pulling up the wheel as hard as he can. He completes a full loop, ambushing the school of aeros from behind. The school separates into two groups, weaving through skywalks, steel cobwebs of abandoned buildings. A second later, each of the OD aeros releases a smoke bomb, clouding Lowe’s view, so he has no choice but to dive, flying just above the surface. The air clears, but he has to swerve, narrowly missing a metal crosswalk, flying straight into oncoming aero traffic. He turns wildly, just clearing the entrance of an old lot, straight for a cement wall, when he fires at the wall: the building is so porous the aero flies through it like sand. Undamaged, the aero reaches the outside, and then the building collapses, trapping the fish inside. But this time it’s real. Ava might not live. About to call it in, he checks the monitors, checks the rearviews, and sees it then: his own blood on his face.

The Fury regroups, gaining speed and numbers, now on the surface level, right behind Cece and Curtis. They can’t see it, and it’s all they can do to stay on the bike. Weaving to avoid potholes and mines, racing down the center of a bombed-out street, the mob gives chase. There’s only one way out of Combs, through a minefield a mile-wide, littered with the carcasses of old vehicles. Seeing them enter, the Leps stop, leaving them to their fate. They’re only option is to randomly fire, spraying bullets, setting off as many mines as they can, and then swerving between blasts, until they are in clear sight of the barrier. Cece turns her head around to Curtis to tell him as much.

“Shoot! Just fucking shoot!”

Possessed, Cece pushes the bike to its limits while Curtis grips her by his legs only, firing both guns as fast and furiously as he can. Somehow they make it to the barrier and come to a stop. Several spotlights appear from MP (Military Patrol) aeros high overhead. Cece turns around to face him again. She briefly holds his eye, before gesturing that he dismount the bike. Curtis gets off. They both look up at the spotlights. Cece revs the engine.

“I’ve got to disappear to save her, back to where I came from.”

“No,” Curtis says.

Cece sighs. “History repeats.”

“Forget history.”

“We tried that.”

“Cece.”

“Felix will come after me for this. They all will. Sending in McManus was merely a warning. I know too much about DECCA.”

“PACT can protect you.”

Cece sighs again. Poor Curtis. Still no clue. “PACT is in bed with the military, the military and the government are in bed with the gaming companies, the gaming companies control the financial markets. Without them, the world economy collapses.”

More spotlights are shining down on them while additional MP aeros race toward Eden.

Cece knows she doesn’t have much time.

“Wait,” Curtis says.

“Wait for what, John? For me to explain everything while you piece it all together like some crime scene. You’re into something way over your head, a world that’s passed you by but you’ve still got a stake in. I’m sorry you had to find out about Ava like this, but now you know you’re connected to something beyond your own misery. And right now she needs you to trust me. So do I.”

“I took your call. I came to your house. I–

“Trust me.”

MP aeros are now firing missiles into Eden from high above. Cece kicks the bike back into gear. “Just make sure you do the right thing this time.” Cece revs the engine hard. “You still remember what the right thing is?” She speeds away as Eden explodes in the distance.

Hospital

White light. White walls. White floors. Lowe sits on a bench, his right shoulder in a sling. He then looks up, hearing the swoosh of doors at the end of the hall. Curtis enters and approaches Lowe.

“How is she?”

“She’s stable.”

“Stable?” Curtis says.

“The download had started. They’re not sure yet of the effects.”

Kirkland and Reichmann come around the corner surrounded by uniformed cops. Curtis is not someone they want to see.

“Detective,” Kirkland says.

Then Reichmann. “You’re not authorized to be here, Curtis. You’re to report back–

“Who says?” Curtis is confused.

“I do. And her family does. You are ordered to stay away from Ava Stark.”

“Her family?”

“Felix Gale is returning as we speak,” Reichmann says.

Lowe can sense Curtis is about to blow. “It’ll be weeks until he’s back, out of quarantine.”

“What about her mother?” Curtis says.

“That’s an order.” Reichmann angrily turns to leave, followed by Kirkland, as they pass more uniformed cops posted in front of Ava’s hospital room.

Lowe looks at Curtis. “I’ll stay right here.”

Curtis raises a finger. “You’ll stay with her?”

“Yes.”

“Who the fuck are you, Lowe?” Lowe meets him with both hands up: save it. Curtis doesn’t budge. He looks across the hall, wanting to check on Ava himself. “What are you?”

There is life in Lowe’s eyes. A sadness. The familiar sterility of the hospital has given way to something else. Something he can’t control. Something real. “I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Of what they may have done to her.”

Curtis, of course, even more so. They both look away. Scanning their environment, knowing there is nothing either of them can do but wait. Curtis turns back to Lowe.

“One more question?”

“What is it?”

“You knew he couldn’t kill you.”

“That’s not a question.”

“Only me.”

Lowe buys himself a few seconds, tilting his head to see around Curtis, making sure Reichmann and Kirkland are out of earshot. He then leans forward so the guards can’t hear him either.

“No record, Curtis.”

Curtis looks at the doors Reichmann and Kirkland left through. “See you tomorrow.”

“You sure?”

“People see what they want to.” Curtis walks away. White light surrounds him as he continues down the hall.

Home

Curtis steps through his front door. He drops his keys, throws off his coat, moves into his bedroom. Five weeks shy of twenty years on the force, and what’s he have to show for it? Shithole apartment. Shithole life. He sits on the side of his unmade bed, the place in the same condition he had left it the day before.

Curtis doesn’t know what to do with himself, then knows exactly what to do. He opens the drawer of his night stand and removes a bottle. He pours a double shot into the dirty glass still there from last time, downs it. At least one thing never changes. The satisfying sound of an empty glass on wood.

Outside, daybreak is being pushed aside by fresh storm clouds, darker than night, ready to burst, and in the distance the timpani of thunder approaches. Staring at the skylight, Curtis has the strangest feeling. Raising his hand, touching fingertips to his eyes, it takes him a moment to realize what it is: tears.

He can’t help smiling at his own forgetfulness, the final blow of the day, while overhead, black rain, the first drop falls, and then another, and another. As it begins to pour, John Curtis closes his eyes, to sleep.