0x00: Memories
For a second, the poor guy can't even remember who he is.
The world is the color of sewer water, but his sense of smell has been suspended, forcibly stripped from his arsenal of tactical weapons for coping with reality. Something tickles his skin, drawing his drugged attention to his right where his arm floats effortlessly, lightly caressed by a steady flow of air bubbles. His breathing is slow, rhythmic, and not entirely under his control, dictated to him by the tube jammed in his mouth. For a few minutes, he just floats there, his mind swimming in meaningless directions, recalling childhood memories and reliving them in brief dream-like flashes. Slowly bits and pieces of reality flicker back, like lights from windows turning on as someone moves through a dark house. A female's voice says in a soothing tone, "Clone activated. Revival process initiated."
He just floats there in the tank, green with this endless stream of bubbles and a piece of plastic jammed in his mouth, making him breathe slowly. The words are meaningless in his head, just so many vowels and consonants strung together by a voice that could have been anyone's mother.
The calm voice is whispering, "It's currently ten o'clock PM, on Wednesday, November twenty-eight, twenty ninety-four. Thank you for choosing Genetek Revival," and the green drains out of the tank, leaving him to squat on the floor. The plastic in his mouth turns soft, and it's tugged away, leaving his jaw stiff and sore but usable. A small fan whirs from hidden vents, and warm, dry air flows over his unusually sensitive skin. A white line forms on the wall and the two halves of the tank retract slowly, folding into hidden recesses and exposing a small sterile room filled with near-blinding white light. An automated technician rolls over on treaded wheels and holds out a small tray with a canary yellow jumpsuit on it, the Genetek Revival logo visible on the left breast.
The auto-tech says quietly, "Here you are, Mr. Johnson. Can I bring you anything else? Water perhaps?" and extends the tray with the jumpsuit on it a little further.
Mr. Johnson just sits in the tank, his head reeling, as the auto-tech patiently holds the tray out. Finally, he convinces his rusted-shut jaw to work, and croaks, "What... what happened?"
"You exercised your life insurance policy, Mr. Johnson. Genetek Revival received notification of your untimely demise and began the clone revival process on your behalf, as per the details of your life insurance policy. A little disorientation is quite normal and should clear away soon," says the auto-tech in a rehearsed allocution, still holding out the tray.
"What do you mean by my life insurance policy? The last thing I remember is coming to Genetek. Did something go wrong with the cloning process? What the fuck is going on here?" he demands, standing up unsteadily and bracing himself against the sides of the tank. He slowly climbs out, leaning on the ice-cold handrails for support, and takes the jumpsuit off the tray.
The auto-tech, relieved of its burden, lowers the tray and wheels a few feet back to give the man some room. "No, sir, the cloning process was a complete success. Your last memories are of updating your clone at the Genetek Revival Clone Recording Studio two weeks ago. We made a copy of your memories, which we have implanted into your new body. Since it has been approximately two weeks since you last updated your clone, you would have no recollection of the intervening time. All I can tell you is per your life insurance policy, we activated your clone because of your untimely demise at eight forty-seven on Wednesday..."
"Wait, my what? Untimely demise?" he snaps at the auto-tech, pausing in pulling the jumpsuit over his legs to glare at it angrily. "What do you mean, untimely demise? I'm fucking dead?"
"Technically, sir, you were dead. Through the miracles of modern technology, we have recreated your body from your DNA and implanted your memories..."
Johnson snaps like a brittle twig, "Yeah, I got all that. I remember the lab and the pod and the whole fucking works. What I want to know is what happened that I ended up here in this fucking tank, asking a machine if I'm alive or dead." He fights back the urge to punctuate his demand with a swift kick to the machine and pulls the rest of the jumpsuit on with a violent yank.
The auto-tech mocks his anger with its calm tone. "You have exercised your life insurance policy, which you last updated just two weeks ago, Mr. Johnson. Genetek Revival received notification of your untimely demise and began the clone revival process," but the canned speech is lost on him. Pulling the only door in the room open, he pushes his way through the crowds of families hoping to see their dead again, crowded in the Genetek Revival lobby, shoving past wilting flower bouquets and stepping over candle-ringed offerings, finally emerging into the cold and rain-soaked night. He pulls the arms of his jumpsuit a little closer and bolts across the street, diving into a waiting taxi, but it's a wasted endeavor as the torrential downpour soaks the flimsy material instantly, leaving him shivering in the back seat. "The Shitcan, corner of Crimson and eighty-fourth," he yaps at the driver. "I need a fucking drink."
0x01: Payment
Horizon Justice Force Judge Scott Esquire Preston really hates his job right now.
A burst of automatic gunfire rips through the narrow alley, ricocheting off the street, tearing small holes in the cruiser's hood, blocking the entrance, and digging into the armored breastplate of Preston's uniform, forcing a grunt through his clenched teeth. The visor on his helmet identifies the caliber of the bullets as nine millimeter, informs him of "Imminent Danger" and highlights the warm body crouched behind the dumpster responsible for the discharge. He brings his Horizon Justice Force Enforcer out of his thigh holster, props it on the hood in one swift, practiced motion, and mumbles under his breath, "armor-piercing rounds."
The Enforcer replies in the same quiet tone, "Seven point six two millimeter armor-piercing rounds loaded," and the little number display on the back lights up to show he has twelve shots remaining.
Preston shifts the gun into his line of sight and the visor on his helmet projects a little targeting reticle onto the dumpster into his line of vision. Lining up the crosshairs on the head of the orange heat signature, he shouts, "STOP OR I'LL SHOOT!" his amplified voice projecting from hidden speakers in his helmet and echoing down the alley. Without waiting for a reply, Preston squeezes the trigger, and the Enforcer bucks in his hand, the muzzle flash casting long shadows down the alley for an instant. The orange heat signature slumps to the ground, his neck ending in a stump that fountains blood a half foot from the body. Preston slots the gun back into his holster, closing the clasp, and mumbles, "Guess he didn't want to stop," before glancing over at his partner, who is holstering his own weapon.
Judge James Alexander, Jim to those who know him, shakes his helmed head back and says, "They never do. You want to radio it in?" His quiet voice is barely audible over the noise of the city, but Preston can hear him clear as day; a voice whispering directly in his ears.
Mentally keying his radio, he says, "Ten fifteen Ops. Send a cleanup crew to the alley by Knife and Fuller. Chinese Takeout. We're headed back."
The reply comes a second later in his head, "Ten four, Judge Preston. Chop suey again? That's the second one this week, you know. See you when you get here."
Preston stares at the body and blood-covered uzi still clutched in its hand a moment longer, then walks back over to the Cruiser, climbs into the driver's seat, and thumbs the ignition panel. He waits for his partner to get in and backs the cruiser out of the alley and into traffic.
The acidic drizzle makes the ground slick, but the Cruiser has fat tires that grip the street like velcro as Judge Preston punches it up the express tube to the Gold Level. "That was a live one!" He glances over at his partner.
"They keep making them..." Jim grins like a cat who gets let loose in a bird sanctuary.
"And we'll keep breaking them." Preston finishes.
A moment of satisfied silence passes as the cruiser speeds along its path. After a minute, Jim speaks up, "You get what you need down there?"
"Yep. Sorry for the delay." Preston smiles over at his partner. "Doesn't want to pay the entire amount. Here." He gets out a platinum credchip, and the interface glows slightly a quarter foot above it, a convenient illusion courtesy of his WJF helmet visor. He dials up three hundred thousand yen and authorizes payment. Jim gets out an identical chip and swipes his own in range of Preston's, who presses the confirmation button. "Just remember the story."
Jim nods and pockets his pay. "Whiz."
Pulling into the Hall of Justice parking garage, the gate senses his approach and raises itself obligingly, while two auto-turrets carefully track his path. Pulling slowly down the ramp and around the corner, the parking stall lights flicker to life. He pulls the cruiser into the stall and thumbs the ignition panel, causing the dashboard to go dim and the interior light to come on. As Preston opens the door, robotic arms in the bay's roof spring to life and repair the damage on the hood. He steps out of the car, slams the door, and the pair head down the lighted path to the Hall of Justice staff entrance. Preston reaches up, pulls his helmet off, and fingers the nub concealed on one side of it. The helmet beeps softly and collapses its shell, folding in on itself like a piece of electric origami until it's a small box that easily fits in his hand, which he slips into the specially designed holder on the belt of his uniform. Pushing through the door marked "Staff Only," they head for the locker room. Preston strips himself of his uniform and changes into his street clothes, depositing the soiled uniform in the bin marked "Recycle," keeping only his belt and holster, which he hangs in his locker. At the opposite locker, Jim undergoes a similar procedure.
Mentally keying his radio again, he subvocalizes, "Ops, I'm going ten twenty-two. Have a good night." He turns to Jim, says, "See ya tomorrow!" and heads for the elevators.
He's walking out the twenty-foot tall glass doors, and onto the street, when the reply comes in his head. "Ten four Judge Preston. Setting you off duty for the night. Chief Justice Pratt would like to have a word with you before you head out. He's in his office." Preston sighs heavily, pausing in mid-stride, spins on one heel, and heads back to the elevator.
Stepping inside the elevator, he says, "Chief Justice's office," and the elevator smoothly accelerates upward. He tries to keep himself from speculating too heavily on the ride up to the sixty-fifth floor why he's being summoned by the Chief Justice. The elevator softly chimes on each passing floor, and he notes with mild annoyance that the lift seems to be running slowly. It stops at the twenty-eighth floor, and a small, pudgy man in a white lab coat steps inside, mumbling quietly to himself, while poring over his handheld NLM QuickTerm. He doesn't even seem to notice Preston, just says, "Medical Lab," and continues to study his QuickTerm. Preston looks down at the top of the pudgy man's head, and wonders why, in this day and age of cheap beauty, some people still choose to let their appearances go. The lift stops and the elevator quietly announces, "Fifty fourth floor: Medical Lab." The guy in the lab coat steps out, all the while never lifting his eyes from the device in his hand, and Preston silently scowls after him with mild distaste.
"Chum needs to buy a diet," he mouths quietly and shakes his head as the elevator doors slide shut and resumes its upward motion, stopping once again at the sixty-fifth floor.
The elevator says, "Sixty-fifth floor: Executive Lounge and Chief Justice's office," and the doors slide open, revealing a lit path along the floor. Preston follows the lit path down the hallway to a door with the words, "Chief Justice Herman Pratt," projected on it.
Preston stops at the door, takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and raps three times on its synthwood surface.
0x02: Shitcan
"Dat it?" growls the bartender in a scratchy voice, sliding the requested pack of cigarettes across the enormous metal door propped on old plastic crates that serve as a bar top. The Shitcan is one of the cheapest places to get a drink on Red, and probably one of the dirtiest, too. The furniture is makeshift garbage hastily thrown together for customers to squat on, and the dust and dirt have formed a permanent stain on every exposed surface. The lighting is atrocious, with two old construction-lights casting long shadows everywhere, making the walls alive in perpetual motion.
Johnson picks up the pack and shakes his head. "A lighter too." The bartender reaches into a crate supporting the bar, picks a slender tube from a small display crate of them, and slides it across the bar. "Three hundra even." His face is a scrambled mess of scars and pockmarks, and his greasy hair grows out of his head in uneven clumps.
Johnson makes a pawing motion for a wallet that he knows isn't there and says, "Charge it." Hookie brings out a small handheld device with a "ChequeIt" logo stamped on the side and punches a few keys on it. Johnson's vision is tinted red for a moment as the small black dome on the device scans his retinas. The ChequeIt beeps twice, and the display prints, "Johnson, Richard B. Approved for three hundred yen. Please press thumbprint for approval," on its little display screen. Johnson rips the top off the pack of cigarettes, throwing the scrap cellophane and paper on the counter, shakes a slender tube loose from the careful organization, and rips it in half, discarding the filter on the floor. He jams the unbroken end in his mouth, flicks it twice with the lighter, and exhales a long drag. "What's the word on the street?"
Hookie shrugs casually and mumbles, "Nothing since yesterday."
Johnson leans back on the decrepit barstool and takes the cigarette out of his mouth. "Well, tell me what happened yesterday, then."
Hookie studies the logo on the jumpsuit for a second, then says in a quiet tone, "Yanno, da usual drek." His eyes flick across the room for a second before he leans across the bar and mumbles, "Whachu wanna know?"
Johnson says quietly, "Well, let's start with the obvious. Some heat?"
Hookie shrugs and says in a quiet tone, "I may not be able ta say if'n dere is."
Johnson sighs and takes another long drag. "Fine. Let's say I want to purchase that lovely piece of artwork over on the wall there." He flicks the ashes of his cigarette at the graffiti on the corrugated steel wall of the shack.
Hookie grins, exposing a webwork of plastic and decay that serve for teeth. "I'z say ya got funny taste in artwork, but mebbe it's fer sale."
Johnson takes the ChequeIt from the bartender and adds a new line item, "Urban Artwork, twenty thousand yen," before pushing it back into his hand. "That enough?"
Hookie grins and nods at the number, and Johnson pushes his thumb on the approval. Hookie tucks the device in his back pocket and says, "So mebbe I hear someone talkin' the other night, sez dey lookin' for you."
Johnson looks up from the bar, meeting Hookie's cool gaze. "Yeah? What about?"
Hookie grabs a glass and wipes the inside with a dirty rag. "Sez it's 'bout some unpaid debt."
Johnson scowls, "Debt? To who?" flicking ashes on the floor.
Hookie shakes his head, and shrugs. "Didn' say."
Johnson frowns at Hookie. "So what does he say?"
Hookie quips, "Made it real clear dis debt is a big one an' he is gonna get it paid," looking off in the distance.
Johnson just frowns. "Fuckery." He puffs anxiously on his cigarette; after a moment's pause, he asks, "What does he look like?"
Hookie stares back at him blankly. "You playin dumb today?"
Johnson leans over the bar and mumbles, "Pretend I am, and humor me. I bought yer fuckin shitwork, now pony up."
Hookie leans in close and says, "It is yer golden boy."
Johnson spits, "My boy? Details, shit for brains. Who?"
The bartender laughs quietly and says, "It yer mate. It's Hammer. Dun you remember yet?"
Johnson snaps back angrily, "Hammer's locked up, asshole. Don't fuck around!"
Hookie frowns back and stares at Johnson cooly, "You get creased in the head chum? He whizzed last week. Said he is lookin fer work. Said him'n you's dun run after da last time. Said dis is just biz, ya scan?" and laughs loudly.
Johnson stares daggers at Hookie and growls under his breath, "What's so fucking funny, Hookie? Spit it out before I make you spit it out with my fist."
Hookie says between chuckles, "Cuz you wuz in here just last night talkin' bout this, fool! Ya bought the fuckin door for six kay, 'cept you weren't wearin da stupid threads den! You dun rememba?" and breaks out into a new fit of laughter, pounding the large slab of metal between them.
Johnson mutters through clenched teeth, "You're a real fucking piece of work, you know that, Hookie?"
0x03: Control
"So is it true?" Chief Justice Pratt snaps, towering over his subordinate with a lean that defies gravity. "Is there really a pool on how many mixers you can waste in a week?" The atmosphere in the office is stale cigar-smoke saturated air, endlessly recirculating in the building's circulation system.
Preston is almost caught off guard by the question, but replies quickly, "Of course not, Chief. You hearing rumors on the feeds again?"
Pratt lessens his stance and says, "No, from the lower staff. But they're..."
Preston finishes the sentence for him, looking up from his chair. "...a bunch of jokers. You've said it yourself many times, Chief. Come on now, you called me up here for that?" He flashes a plastic smile at the Chief, hoping he can get away with it.
He can. The Chief softens, and takes a step back, admitting, "No... no it isn't." He sits back down in his overstuffed pleather chair, addressing Preston directly with his gaze. "My, we're all business lately, aren't we? You want a drink?"
Preston relaxes in his chair a little. "Yeah, why not?"
The Chief turns in his chair and waves his hand over the black lacquer cabinet. An inner tray slowly rises from the cabinet, revealing a crystal decanter and two matching crystal barrels with ice in them. Pratt removes the stopper and pours four fingers into each glass. He slides a glass to Preston across the red synthogany desk and props the other on the armrest of his padded pleather chair. Preston catches the barrel and brings it up to his nose before taking a sip.
"These rumors..." the Chief begins a little unsteadily, "they're hard to ignore when I've got two-thirds of the population involved in regular riots."
Preston's gaze is target locked and tracking effortlessly on the Chief's face.
The Chief pauses for a sip. "Riots often caused by some mixer getting panned by a Judge. All I'm trying to figure out here is if they're causing the problem or if we are."
Preston shrugs. "Chief, you know what it's like out there. The goddamned sewer rats keep crawling out of every orifice. Soon as we clean one den out, another gang pops up fifty new members strong, all of them waving hand cannons. They're all out for blood, and all of it is ours. What are we supposed to do? Ask them politely to frag off?" Pratt waves his hand. "Look, I'm not talking about the chromes or the thrashers here. That kinda ilk deserves to get zeroed. It's when I got a board of blue faces shitting downhill at me, and they want to know how we pinched over three thousand mixers in a single evening..."
Preston sits up in his chair, slightly annoyed, "You read my report on that. Signed off on it yourself."
Pratt leans forward and growls, "Because I fucking had to. What am I supposed to do, throw you under the bus with the rest of them?"
Preston shakes his head angrily. "I made the right call. They were rioting, danger was imminent, I took measures to ensure the safety of the population at large..."
The Chief interrupts in an angry tone, "They were rioting because they didn't have any food!"
Preston shoots right back, "Because they had barricaded the supply tubes and were taking pop shots at the drivers!"
The Chief narrows his eyes. "So you decided to mow them down with a fragging chatterbox?"
Preston says quietly, "The Hover didn't have any other crowd control armaments, and a machine gun was the only thing with enough stopping power..."
Pratt explodes with anger, bolting up from his chair, and shouts, "They were unarmed! They were innocent people!"
Preston just meets the Chief's dangerous gaze with a cool one of his own, and says quietly, "They wouldn't have been there if they were innocent." He stares the Chief down.
Pratt stares back at Preston for a moment, the vein in his head pulsing rhythmically, then sits back down and looks down into his drink. "I'm sorry. You are just doing your job, and I know that. It's just I'm getting a lot of pressure from higher up to fix this situation." He takes a long swig from the barrel, downing half the drink in one swallow. "Sometimes I feel like I've lost control of this shithole..." He trails off and downs the rest of his drink.
After a pause, the Chief looks up again, "Listen, I got a situation I need you to investigate."
Preston relaxes in his seat a little and looks at the Chief inquisitively. "Investigate, Chief?"
The Chief nods gravely, "Yeah. Double homicide. A bird, and her beau. Might have been a domestic dee, but nothing solid from the call."
Preston frowns and says, "A domestic dispute? Can't you send a greenie?"
Pratt nods and says, "Normally I would. Except this happened on Green."
Preston perks up visibly, "Green sector? Who was it?"
Pratt says quietly, "Guy's name is Richard Johnson. Heard of him?"
Preston shakes his head, "No... should I have?"
Pratt shrugs and says, "I hadn't. Turns out he's the Director of Operations for Vatgrown International."
Preston quips, "Sounds like you know what happened already. What's with the pussyfooting Chief?"
Pratt glares at Preston, "Stow that shit. The guy has friends in high-up places who would love to see this get vaporized, but I got a button pushed right now that says this has all gotta go down by the rules. That's why you're here."
Preston calmly sips from his glass, "Alright Chief, you know I'm your man for the job. What's going on though?"
The Chief shakes his head. "Not important. What is important is this guy is not new to Horizon. His resume is supposedly quite impressive. Someone wants him made an example of is my guess, and that's how he ended up this way. I need you to find out who."
Preston downs the last of his drink in one swig and nods, "And the girl?"
Pratt says, "His wife. Happened at their home, apparently. I know you were headed off duty, but I need this taken care of right. Scan me?"
Preston nods and stands up, "Yeah, I scan Chief. I'll grab an EverUp from the Doc and double time it over. You want me to call Jim back too?"
Pratt shakes his head and says, "I don't want him involved in this."
Preston frowns, and says, "Why, chief?"
Pratt shakes his head again and says, "Got my reasons."
Preston stands, sets the glass down on the table, and nods curtly before turning towards the door.
Pratt says severely, "And don't go starting another riot either. By the numbers, right?" and slams his own drink down on the desk.
Preston looks over his shoulder and says without breaking stride, "By the numbers, Chief."
0x04: Karaoke
"I need a heater, Shin." The rain outside beats a steady tattoo on the tin roof of the old Chinese man's shack. The old man reaches over with his gnarled cane and lifts the lid on a rain-soaked cardboard box, revealing a revolver inside.
"Juice for it too," Johnson says, eyeing the piece. "And that Sintergel vest." He points to an armored vest propped up against the back wall with the circular Sintergel logo stamped into one of the gelpacks. "The trench too," motioning to a black pleather long coat hanging on a rack of mismatched clothing.
Shin reaches into another box and produces a handful of loose bullets, which he jingles in his hand.
"I'll give ya twenty-kay, yeah?" Johnson holds up two fingers on one hand and makes an O shape with the other.
Shin shakes his head, and holds up four fingers of his own, jingling the bullets again in his other hand.
Johnson scowls and says, "No way, chum. The vest has seen action, and that piece is probably rusty. Thirty is as high as I go." He holds up three fingers and frowns at Shin.
Shin just shrugs, still holding up four fingers, and jingles the bullets in his hand again.
Johnson sighs loudly and looks around at the rest of the dilapidated wares for a second before replying, "Thirty-five, and you buy it back from me when I'm done with it," again holding up his fingers to clarify the amount.
Shin thinks for a second, then nods and punches a few keys on the ChequeIt resting on the makeshift countertop. Johnson thumbs the approval for "Designer Clothing and Accessories, thirty five thousand yen," slips the vest over his head, tucks the revolver into the space between his chest and the vest, and snatches the bullets out of Shin's hand. He dumps them into the trench pocket before putting it on, wrapping the belt around his waist, and securing it with a loose knot. Checking his appearance briefly in the fragment of mirror mounted on the wall, he then turns and marches out into the rain while mumbling under his breath, "Fucking bleeder needs to lower his rates before he gets pancaked."
Shin gives Johnson back the finger.
The cool rain feels good on his hot face as Johnson pushes through the crowded streets of Gold towards the Sing-A-Rong. Muffled voices belting out pop lyrics intermixed with a thudding bass line assault him as he pulls the door open and steps inside. He gives his eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness of the smoke-filled room.
The crowd is lively tonight, not even noticing another wet figure joining the fray. Johnson just stands in the doorway for a second, scanning the faces in the room. After a moment, he pushes his way over to the bar and signals to the bartender.
The bartender nods in his direction and says, "Hey, long time, no scan. The usual?" and polishes the bar in front of him with a rag.
Johnson says quietly, "Nah. I'm looking for Hammer. You seen him tonight?"
The bartender looks over at one of the curtained booths in the back and says, "Yeah, totally. Been in there for half an hour maxing some input."
Johnson raises an eyebrow, "Kat?"
The bartender shakes his head. "Never seen 'er before tonight. Didn't catch 'er name. Looked like your typical joytoy."
Johnson nods and says, "Thanks. Stay wiz." He pushes through the crowd towards the curtained booth.
The bartender calls after him, "Hey, you wanna drink or what?" but the words are drowned out by an especially loud drunken chorus of "GO ORBITAL, GO LEO" as performed by half the patrons in the room.
Johnson yanks open the curtain, slips behind it and closes it in one smooth motion, soliciting a startled "Hey!" from the entangled couple in the booth as they hastily disengage. "You can't come- Oh, it's you! Fragging drek, you scared me half to..." the guy starts, but the words trail off as Johnson yanks the revolver out of the inside of his trench coat and levels it at the guy's right eye.
The girl reaches for her purse, but Johnson swivels the gun to train it on her and says, "Skip it, lassie. You don't need to be here." He motions with the gun at the curtain and she disappears obediently to the other side. Johnson turns back and sneers at his prey, "Bet you weren't expecting to see me again, were ya, Hammer?"
Hammer, visibly startled, blinks a few times before responding nervously, "See you? Here? Shit, man, you used to come here twice a week. What the fuck is this about?"
Johnson cocks the weapon with an audible series of clicks and jams the end against Hammer's forehead, "Quit fucking around. Why did you have me offed?"
Hammer gasps in horror and spurts, "No-no-no-no! What the fuck, man. You're standing right here! I didn't off you, man, you're alive! What the fuck!"
Johnson pushes Hammer back in the booth, drilling the barrel of the gun into his forehead, and says, "You tell me what I want to know now, or I'll turn this booth into a bucket for your brains."
Hammer scrambles backwards and sputters, "I don't know what the fuck you are on about, man! We squared earlier today! We're square man! I didn't try to kill you, don't fucking shoot me man!" as tears form in his eyes.
Johnson backs off from Hammer, keeping the gun pointed squarely at his chest, and intones, "Refresh my memory. Tell me exactly what happened earlier."
Hammer stammers, "You were there, man! I found a buyer for that shipment, and you made good on your promise."
Johnson snaps, "What shipment? What promise? Tell me now!"
Hammer cringes and whimpers, "The shipment, man! You know, the one I helped you find the buyer for? I got my cut! One hundred kay! We're fucking square, man! Why the frag would I try to off you?" Johnson shoots an angry look at Hammer and says in a sarcastic tone, "Oh, I don't fucking know. How about the past three months of you doin' hard time?"
Hammer shakes his head erratically and says, "Did you get dented when I wasn't looking, man? You were the one who spoke at my parole hearing last week! Said you had work for me, paid in full now. We're whiz man! What the fuck is going on?"
Johnson shakes his head and says, "Where was this? What time?"
Hammer says, "What, when you paid me? I told you man, this morning. At the Port, by the lockers. There's a public term there."
Johnson jabs the gun at Hammer again, and Hammer flinches a little. Johnson demands, "What happened next?"
Hammer cries, "Nothing man! You gave me my cut and left. Said you were going home, and you'll see me around." He looks questioningly at Johnson. "You don't remember?"
Johnson frowns and growls, "Home? Why was I going home?"
Hammer says, "I don't fucking know, man. You got in your Honda-Mitsu and left after that."
Johnson stares at Hammer, a calculating look in his eyes, then tucks the gun inside his long coat. "Shit. Someone aced me between then and now, and I'm gonna find out who. You know anything?"
Hammer blinks at Johnson with a stupid look on his face, and says, "Have you just totally lost it, man? You're standing right here, aren't you?"
Johnson barks, "I woke up in a vat this evening, shit for brains. Someone killed me. Come on, I need your help. Quit cowering in the fucking booth and come with me."
Hammer stares blankly at Johnson and says, "You're a... a clone?"
Johnson sighs loudly and says, "Yeah, now fucking stand up. Come on."
Hammer looks down at the table and says quietly, "I can't."
Johnson reaches inside his jacket and pulls out the revolver again. "What the frag do you mean you can't?"
Hammer jumps a little in his seat and says, "No, man, I mean I can't! I pissed myself, ok?"
0x05: Identity
"Ops, I'm ten ninety seven at the ten fifty four dee. Do you copy?" Preston hears the reply almost immediately in his head, "Ten four Judge Preston. Do you need ten twenty-eight?"
Mentally keying the radio again, he mumbles, "Negative. According to the sitrep, the maid found them alone." He presses a stub on his helmet and mumbles, "Simstim on" and a little blinking light with the word "record" next to it flashes in the corner of his visor. Keying the radio again, he says, "You getting my feed?"
Ops replies instantly again in his head, "Roger that, we're live on five. Just keep your helmet on this time."
A block and a half before the address, Preston pulls the WJF Cruiser over to the side of the road and thumbs the ignition panel. He steps out of the Cruiser, slamming the door behind him, and starts walking slowly down the quiet street, visually scanning the houses on either side, wondering how much places like this go for, and who can afford them. "Fraggers live better than the Chief!" he mumbles quietly to himself. As he arrives at the designated address, a black roadster is partially blocking the driveway, its make and model identified by Preston's helmet visor as a 2085 Honda-Mitsu Dash, registered to one Richard M. Johnson.
Preston walks up the steps to the door, takes out his Horizon Justice Force Tactical Computer from a holster on his belt, and holds it up to the door. The tac-comp's display lights up and presents Preston with a menu of options, from which he selects, "Manual Lock Override," and the door gives a slight click. He pushes open the door and stands in the doorway for a moment. His helmet automatically detects the poor lighting conditions and switches his visor to night vision mode.
The long hallway of the entryway appears to be in order, but Preston carefully scans the area with his tac-comp. The tac-comp reports nothing out of the ordinary, including no vital signs in the immediate area. Preston selects the "Auto-Map" option on the tac-comp, and an overhead view of the floor plan appears, colored in green and red to denote areas already covered and still needing to be checked. After studying the floor plan for a second, he advances down the dim hallway and begins exploring the darkened house. "Odd, power must be out," he thinks to himself, and keys his radio, "Ops, you getting this? Any idea why the power is out?" The reply comes back after a second. "Ten two, Judge Preston. Nothing to report about the power. Is your helmet malfunctioning?"
Preston replies, "Negative, Ops. I can see fine," and continues his exploration. Two rooms reveal a library and a bedroom of no interest, but when he reaches the kitchen, the tac-comp vibrates in his hand, and a small warning flickers in the corner of his vision. "Weapon recently discharged." He waves the tac-comp around the room, holding down the Auto-Scan button, but no other warnings are issued, so he proceeds into the kitchen.
Rounding the island countertop, Preston can smell the blood before he sees it. A pool of thick red liquid surrounds two bodies, slumped unceremoniously on the tile floor. Preston waves the tac-comp over the bodies, and a flood of information pours across his screen. "Johnson, Richard M. and Mary K.," followed by age, place of residence, SIC ID number, and arrest records. Preston waits for the last line and reads it with interest, "Johnson, Richard M.: Probable cause of death: Multiple gunshot wounds, nine millimeter, close range. Johnson, Mary K.: Probable cause of death: Multiple gunshot wounds, nine millimeter, close range."
Preston keys his radio and sub-vocalizes, "Ops, send a clean-up crew. We got two fresh ones here. Continuing my investigation." He leans over to examine the bodies closer, when his tac-comp vibrates in his hand again, and an alert flashes in the corner of his vision. "Life signs detected. Motion detected."
Preston stands up startled and eyes the tac-comp carefully, which is alerting him to the fact that someone is approaching from the hallway.
Preston quickly holsters the tac-comp and draws his WJF Enforcer, mumbling quietly to it, "Pistol."
The weapon replies in the same quiet tone, "10mm pistol rounds loaded," and the display lights up with a small "30."
A tall dark figure appears in the doorway, and Preston says loudly, "Freeze!" bringing the weapon to bear and lining the targeting reticle on the dark figure's head.
The dark figure brings his weapon up and lets off two rounds in rapid succession with a blinding double flash. Preston's visor flashes, "DANGER IMMINENT!" as he squeezes off a round of his own, and watches as the dark figure crumples to the ground in slow motion a moment later.
Preston stands still for a second, waiting for the warnings on his visor to clear, then keys his radio, "Ops, ten fifteen. Tell the clean-up crew they've got their work cut out for them and let the Chief know I got the chromer."
The reply comes back after a brief pause. "Ten four Judge Preston. Nice work too."
Preston nods, holsters his Enforcer, and gets the tac-comp out again. Walking over to the doorway, he scans the fresh body and waits for the report. After a second, the tac-comp beeps twice, and the name flickers onto Preston's visor: "Johnson, Richard M."