Corpie

Emi's first few months in the dome have been a compression algorithm on her soul. Introduction after introduction, meeting on top of meeting, she barely has time to notice her lovely new home on the green residential level. The list of problems needing to be solved is a light year long, and solutions seem to be in short supply, but the weight of inertia is by far and away the biggest impediment to progress. The tangled web of bureaucracy seems to have evolved with a selection process for capitalism, not innovation, but there is occasional coherency in the sea of decoherence.

Her reputation has largely preceded her, save one distracted pilot, and she intends to make good on it as she plunges herself headlong into her work. Project after project, there are a lot of biologists working on what she likes to think of as delicious recipes that she now needs to manage the development of, but she is well equipped for the task and falls into her usual patterns of success easily enough. Slowly, a grand plan has formed in her head, and she has executed it with the flair of a master chef. By assembling the right set of ingredients, and cooking things together in just the right way, it is possible to create the genetic equivalent of a fine gourmet meal; a symphonic orchestra of DNA manipulation for flavor, just the right set of technology for spice, a dash of her own unique brilliance for seasoning, and into the oven to bake on quantum compute farms now hosted in orbit to help maintain the cryogenic temperatures required for the massive computations for another 6 months, and a masterpiece is born. This is her Opus, the culmination of a lifetime of experience and effort, and it is everything she has hoped it would be.

After almost a year of hard effort, there is just one thing remaining between her and the last leg of success: red tape. While she is one of the highest ranking corporate executives at Genetek Revival, the company is owned by its parent organization, Vatgrown International. As a result, the funding structure for large-scale projects requires approval from the higher-ups in what otherwise operates as businesses with autonomy from one another. The authority structures in these matters are not entirely obvious, and the inter-organization formal processes are basically non-existent, but by carefully navigating the waters, she has beached her ship on the shores before the final destination: a good presentation with the director of operations will ensure her a meeting with the executive team, and ultimately the board of Vatgrown International.

Halfway through said early morning presentation, it occurs to her that like most of their type her audience of one has paid more attention to the curves of her designer suit-dress that covers her shapely thighs than those of her sales projections, but he seems to follow along even through the highly technical parts, or at least he pretends to well enough. The holo finishes with a dramatic flair of music, and the spinning GR logo hanging in the air, which she quickly steps in front of.

The director sits back in his seat and steeples the tips of his pudgy fingers together. His suit is also unique, an Insert Name Here original with thin blue vertical pinstripes on its VapoBlack fabric; described as darker than a black hole and twice as hot, VapoBlack is the latest in a long line of nano colors this season, now absorbing radiation in the microwave spectrum. It also is bulletproof to light arms. His brown hair is slicked neatly back, and his milky smooth face is also a designer color called White Hat, an especially popular trait manufactured exclusively by Vatgrown's trait product division, Pill Life. His lake blue eyes are indecipherable to Emi, not giving away any information on what he is thinking.

Emi tries to be polite, yet assertive. "I trust the presentation was informative. If you have any questions about the sales projections, I'm happy to go over the details with you, Mr. Johnson." She stares from across the room at his unblinking eyes, her feet suddenly uncomfortable in her heeled shoes.

Johnson finally nods after what seems like an eternity, and begins, "So let's say I go LEO and get zeroed there. Powdered right out of the lock. You're saying I would wake up remembering suffocating in space?"

Emi isn't sure which she is more unprepared for, the graphic nature of the hypothetical example, or the unprofessional use of slang, but adamantly refuses to be daunted, and rallies back without hesitation, "Only to the degree that you would remember what had happened, not how it actually felt. Like a simstim where they left in all the relevant bits, just like any other memory. The clone won't experience a lapse in memory at all, except for the actual cloning time, which I think we can drastically improve upon too. Can I show you the projected sales again?"

Johnson nods eagerly, affirming her question, then says, "So what if I go to Mars and get tortured by some alien? Am I gonna wake up in the tanks remembering having my stomach ripped out of my body?" He leans in a bit, his oversized frame straining slightly with the effort.

Emi pauses for a second, realizing that not only is this man not her intellectual peer, but it is possible she has encountered test tube specimens that have better comprehension skills than him. They certainly are better mannered. A different approach would be required. "Well, it has its range limits, but in theory, if you really wanted, you could put up repeater stations to carry the signal, or simply re-home the base station. And it would just feel like a terrible memory with no pain. Have you ever had a feelie where they took out some sensation and heightened others for the... main event? It's like how that works." For the first time, she thinks he can see money flowing as the gears in his head slowly turn. Naturally, he would be into feelies the way he was drooling over her cleavage. Now make him think it's his own idea. Stroke his ego a little, she thinks to herself.

"Good. Good. I like it. So can we sell this internationally?" Johnson says, predictably stepping right into Emi's trap.

Emi smiles broadly and says, "I think that's an excellent idea, Mr. Johnson! International sales would be a force multiplier." Got him.

Johnson grins, the corners of his fat face turning upward. "Yes, yes, I think so." He taps his steepled fingers together rhythmically, deep in contemplation. After a moment, he says, "I believe this is quite the opportunity, Miss Tanaka, but it's going to require additional approval. I believe I can put something on the agenda at the next executive meeting. Let me get back to you with an exact date."

Emi smiles, her mission successful, and suppresses the urge to bow ingrained in her by her very traditional parents before saying, "Thank you, I very much appreciate it," and turns to walk out, when Johnson has one final thought.

"Miss Tanaka, what about the desynchronization problems?" He inquires.

Emi stops and turns back to face him. "It would eliminate the possibility of them because of the continuous nature. That's why it's called..."

Johnson interrupts her, "Constant Cloning. Thanks."

Emi nods and politely walks out, closing the door behind her.

"Ya know the diff between a joytoy an' an un-yun? Ah cry when ah cut an un-yun!" Half the Shitcan erupts in laughter at the bartender's tasteless joke, despite it having been told countless times.

"That's because she wouldn't touch you for all the chrome in Japan, Hookie!" A patron calls over the noise.

"Dat wasn't what ya sed las' night, Hamma!" Hookie shouts back, sending the bar into new fits of raucous laughter.

Hammer shakes his head with a good-natured smile and downs the rest of his beer. Born 8 weeks premature, the small man has spent his whole life craning his neck up to look at people. Now in his mid-thirties, barely reaching five feet tall, his ebony skin and diminutive features are a trait he learns to take full advantage of. As a fence, he's known for his ability to disappear into a crowd, making him the most unusual suspect, and by closing his contracts, he makes enough friends higher up to enjoy some protection for his trade.

He scans the patrons in the room for what feels like the billionth time, then hits his empty plastic can on the makeshift bar's surface a few times and shouts, "Fucking gonk, get me another."

Hookie nods, walks over to the ancient refrigerator, grabs another Headshot, and brings it to the bar, synthetic prosthesis hissing angrily from beneath the arm of his jacket with the effort of holding the can. The mismatch of clothes and barely held together shoes would be garish on anyone else, but Hookie is a lurching experiment in contradictions the fashion police would simply give up on. Sparse patches of oily hair are clumped atop his oblong head, and his brown eyes stare out at the crowd from deep within their non-symmetrical sockets. His frame seems to have been assembled from mismatched spare parts from the reject bin, and the only functional piece seems to be the noisy whirring manipulator that wasn't one of the parts he was born with. His other arm is deformed and dinosaur-like, but functional, and his grease soaked shirt barely covers his overhanging abdomen.

Hammer produces a fistful of plastic notes and flips a few onto the bar. He grabs the new canister, cracks it open, takes a large swing, and says to Hookie, "Fly tie, Hookie. You get that from the Midnight Market?"

Hookie glances down at the filthy, tattered piece of purple with pink polka dot fabric hanging in a loose knot around his neck and grumbles, "Half a doz fer two Yen. I figured it goes wif da suit." He motions to the grimy tatters of what once must have been someone's cornflower blue wedding night tuxedo jacket.

Hammer chuckles and says, "Well, they don't clash, Hookie." Hookie stares on in silence, knowing the thought wasn't done. "They look like they've declared war on each other!" The large hammer-shaped scar running the length of Hammer's face through his right eye and across his cheek is emboldened when he laughs.

Hookie shakes his head and rubs at an oily spot on the makeshift bar, only covering more of the metal door surface with oil. He leans in closer to Hammer, the pockmarks and pustules littering his pink and sunburned mug, like the map of the surface of the moon, looms inches from Hammer's face. He says, "So? Ya survive da clink?"

Hammer quips back, "Neg Hookie. Yer looking at a ghost."

Hammer winks and cocks a grin at Hookie, who mumbles "Figured.," and goes back to scrubbing at the bar.

Hammer looks around for someone again, then says to Hookie, "Got a scan on Johnson?

Hookie shrugs and says, "Not inna cycle. Just the usual bridge 'n tunnel crowd."

Hammer frowns and says, "That potato brain needs to show up soon.," still looking around at the lively crowd.

Hookie grumbles, "Sumthin' charged?"

Hammer nods after taking a big chug of his beer, and says, "Yep, and it's gonna arc soon if he doesn't get back to me in time. Went to all this trouble only to miss the spark? I need the fluid, you know? And don't worry, I haven't forgotten about my debt."

Hookie nods and says quietly, "Gettin' some action then?"

Hammer nods, his brow furled, and mumbles quietly to Hookie, "Shiny. It's just... Well, you know him. Hard to puzzle him out, neg?"

Hookie scans the room with his sunken eyes, then says quietly back, "'Taint the usual type. Corpies are always a little sketchy. Never sure why he lets ya operate here. Not like you's da only movin' man on Red."

Hammer shakes his head and twists his lips to the side, lost in thought, the rapidly warming beer forgotten. After a second, his face brightens, and he says, "Least I'll get chipped in."

Hookie looks up and inquires, "Yeh? What're ya gettin'?"

Hammer pulls back the short sleeve of his t-shirt on his right arm and flexes his extremely unimpressive muscles, "Getting the guns loaded, wired reflexes, kevlar dermalweave, and a pain editor."

Hookie whistles appreciatively, "Alla dat? Wassat run? Twenty bil?"

Hammer shrugs, remembering his beer, and says, "Maybe for your typical straphanger on the maglev. Do I look like I'm bridge and tunnel Hookie?"

The bartender grunts throatily, and intones dramatically, "Intraducin' the Sewer Weight Champin ah Red Sector, Hamma!"

Hammer laughs and says, "Fuck you, asshole! Nah, I ain't saying I'm a street sam overnight or nothing, just enough to make the typical klepto think twice before taking a swing at me."

Hookie nods, only half paying attention by now, and says, "Still goin' from cold storage ta' hot chromed, an on Johnson's flow? Must be overcharged ta' get that kinda action."

Hammer pounds his beer, crushing the plastic can on the makeshift bar, and says, "Yeah, well, let's just say he owes me big after what happened, and now it's my time to come up."

The bartender motions to the fridge, "'Nother?"

Hammer nods. He pulls some more Yen out of his pocket and flips it on the bar in exchange for the fresh beer. Hookie eyes the tip, and asks, "Somethin' ya want me to say if'n I scan'em?"

Hammer nods and says, "Yeap, tell'em to kick the tires and light the fires because it's go time if he wants to make good. I'm heading to the docks after this one, so if you see him, tell him to double time it over." He cracks the lid on the new can and downs the first quarter in one go. "Hey, Hookie?"

The bartender looks up, mildly interested. Hammer continues in an unnecessarily loud voice, "How the actual fuck did you get so fucking ugly? Clone tanks do that to ya?"

Hookie just shakes his head and growls, "Shit razors, ya fucking Wilson."

The moment the door closes with Emi on the other side of it, Johnson's phone rings. Reaching into his suit pocket, he thumbs the nub built into the coat lining, and says quietly, "Yeah?"

Jenelle's voice, his secretary, is on the other end. "Your car is downstairs for your nine o'clock, Mr. Johnson."

"I didn't know I had a nine o'clock, Jenelle." He doesn't bother to hide the surprise and distaste for the mere suggestion in his voice.

"Yes Mr. Johnson, at the Hard Wipe with Mr. Sato."

The Hard Wipe is a decently maintained decker bar on the north side of Gold sector. Its HoloSign has the Kanji logo pixilating away bit by bit, as if being systematically erased, and the Kirin is always cold. Having changed ownership a few times in its past, it is currently being occupied by a largely Japanese crowd, but English is still the language of business in Horizon City, so the occasional gaijin is not entirely out of place. As Johnson climbs out of his Honda-Mitsu, his designer suit notices the changing weather, and pulls an internal layer of weave tighter together, reducing circulation, and trapping the warmth inside. Johnson pushes his way inside the cyber bar, and makes his way over to the round standing table in the back corner where he is told to go by his secretary, but stops just short when he doesn't see who he is expecting to see.

"Konichiwa, Mr. Johnson." A soft voice says. It belongs to a tall woman with paper white skin, almond eyes, a pert nose, and a tiny mouth. She is wearing an elaborate kimono with what appears to be a beautiful koi pond with tiny golden fish that lackadaisically swim around her thin body. "I am Akiko. Mr. Sato sent me."

Johnson frowns and says matter-of-factly, "No, you weren't. Sato wouldn't send a low level perfunctory to do biz. Clearly, we have wasted each other's time." He turns around with a grunt, and steps directly into two dark-suited men with builds that fill out their jackets, both with katanas hanging from sheaths at their waist. He turns back around slowly to face the woman.

"Please excuse my guards.," she continues. "They are for your protection. My employer anticipated your misapprehension and wanted to make sure the meeting went smoothly. You are, of course correct, I was lying when I said Mr. Sato sent me. Consider it a test. Someone else might not have noticed the detail."

Johnson's brow develops an impressive number of furred lines as his anger grows. "My protection, huh? A test? Get creased. What is it you want?"

Akiko responds quietly, "You are free to leave, Mr. Johnson, however my employer rather insisted that you first see this." She reaches under the fold of her kimono, and produces a small clear plastic case containing an even smaller sliver of metal, sets it down, and slides it across the surface of the table to Johnson. Johnson, realizing he's in eyeball deep, slowly picks up the case, pinches the tiny sliver between his obese fingers, and carefully slots it behind his ear.

For the next minute, everyone just breathes slowly, not saying anything. Another minute passes in silence, then a third and a fourth. Finally, Johnson takes a deep breath in, and exhales very slowly, taking the chip from behind his ear and replacing it in the case. He starts slowly, "I'm not...," then glances behind him to see if the two hired blades are still standing within earshot. They seem to have retreated for now. He continues, carefully choosing his words, "I'm not sure I entirely understand."

Akiko nods appreciatively, and says without a hint of expression on her face, "My employer anticipated this response from you as well. Which is why we are having this meeting, Mr. Johnson."

Johnson frowns, the lines in his pudgy pink face deepening around his eyes and the corners of his mouth to match the lines on his forehead. He grunts through clenched teeth, "I'm listening."

Akiko nods and says, "Good. My employer will appreciate that. I'll be brief with your time, Mr. Johnson. You will not go through with your present plan with Miss Tanaka's technology."

Johnson forgets his anger in a heartbeat, a chuckle rising in his barrel-shaped chest, "Like hell I'm not. You must be out of your stimmed mind if you think I'm not. Her tech represents the biggest opportunity of my career! Do you understand the ramifications?"

Akiko nods slowly, listening intently, then says, "My employer very much understands the ramifications, which is why we are prepared to make it worth your time to cooperate. Tell me, Mr. Johnson, have you ever considered moving to Japan?"

Johnson bursts through the dilapidated door of the Shitcan and rudely pushes his way through the crowd to the bar. He waves down the bartender and demands, "Horizon Car Bomb. Make it a double. Tengus too."

Hookie eyes Johnson's suit, noticing it stands out like a massive spike on the flat plot of drab and recycled streetwear employed by the rest of the crowd, then grabs some bottles and a glass from the crate space beneath the bar and begins mixing the requested drink, his arm protesting and jerking erratically. He slides the drink and a pack of cigarettes with the gold foil dragon across the bar and says, "Some threads ya got 'der, Mr. Suit."

Johnson greedily downs half the drink with a loud gulping noise and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. Nano fibers in the material orient themselves at the molecular scale to wick the liquid away before a stain can form. He leans over the metal door that serves as a bar and says, "Just make it quick, Hookie. Tell me what I need to know."

Hookie picks up a glass and examines an imaginary stain in it, rubbing idly at it with a rag. Unhappy with the result, he spits in the glass and continues rubbing, oblivious to the world around him.

Johnson shakes his head angrily and barks, "What is it, Hookie?"

Hookie looks up as if noticing him for the first time and says, "Seems this place kin use some remodeling. Mebbie an actual bar, 'stead of dis shit one." He leans in, setting the glass down loudly, and whispers, "Ya still owe me fer the last two times."

Johnson sighs and says, "Fine dirt bag. Just make it quick. I paid 60k for this." He removes his watch from his wrist. "What's it worth to you?" He flicks it onto the bar.

Hookie picks up the designer timepiece and eyes the holographic display closely before pocketing it, and saying, "Mebbie 20k at the Midnight. Mebbie less."

Johnson rolls his eyes and demands, "Cope. And do it while talking."

Hookie nods and says, "Yer wing 'n a prayer boy Hamma's bent up pretty good about something. Got to do with what you did 3 months ago 'ta him. Said he's expectin' 'ta be paid this time."

Johnson gulps the rest of his drink as he listens, and asks, "Hammer? He came through? Damn, that was photonic. Guys got a gift, I'll give the chummer that. He say when and where?"

Hookie nods and says, "Docks. Left half an hour ago."

Johnson shoots up and growls, "I oughta wax you for this Hookie! How the fuck are you playing money games at a time like this?," and turns to shove his way back out into the streets.

Hookie just grunts and says to no one in particular, "As if 'taint what yer chasin', ya fuckin suit."

There is a Withmorian urban legend of a guy who came to Horizon from some backwaters portion of the planet having won a lottery or inherited some life-changing hunk of cash, and thought highly enough of himself to dump most of it into a top-of-the-line Intellivent deck with all the accessories and enough chrome and wet wear to make a deck jockey beg for mercy. On his first time jacking in, he tried interfacing with a military grade datasilo, and smacked directly into some black ICE. They say it cooked his brain for a week straight, and when they finally found him and tried to pull the plug, the whole data socket and a chunk of his spinal column tore out instead, still dangling from the datacord attached to the smoking deck.

This particular move of spectacular stupidity is now commonly referred to as "Pulling a Wilson."

The insult sticks in Hammer's craw the entire ride up the maglev to the docks. "I ain't no damn Wilson." He keeps thinking to himself. "I put in the time. Soon enough, they won't be laughing at me."

"SUCK HOT URANIUM ASSHOLE!" Hammer shouts to the assembled crowd of spectators. "EAT MY SHIT!" Dogfight is a spectator's sport as much as it is a player's, with the holographic Hyperjets being projected three hundred feet high in the air above the massive loading area. The docks are at the east most wall of the dome on the gold level next to the NeoTrans port, where the shipments entering and leaving Horizon are loaded. The area has a different configuration than the rest of the dome, with the green level above not extending all the way to the wall here, making vertical space for the massive cranes, landing pad elevators, and tall stacks of shipping containers. The holo projectors are angled such that you could only see the game if you are standing in the nearby parking area, so it looks real to those in the crowd, but anyone in the loading area is oblivious. The game is easy enough to understand, shoot down the enemy Hyperjets without being shot down or crashing into one of the cranes or container stacks, but difficult to master, and betting at the casinos and in the streets on favorite players is a very popular pastime. It is also Hammer's favorite way to blow off some steam.

The tap on his shoulder startles him, and he exclaims loudly, "HEY! CAN'T YOU SEE I'M... oh it's you." As he twists his neck around to see Johnson standing next to his cockpit seat. "Hold on, I'm almost..."

"Now shit stain." Johnson intones.

"Alright, alright! No need to get pushy!" As Hammer steps out of his cockpit, his virtual Hyperjet nose dives, and slams into the red tarmac with a twenty-foot-tall holographic mushroom cloud, eliciting cheers and groans from the crowd as they walk through the parking lot together. "I assume you got your part?"

Johnson nods and says, "Yeah, and let's be crystalline about this. Either this goes down like a joygirl on her knees or you will never work in this town again."

Hammer smiles broadly, his namesake scar creasing with the effort. "Relax! Hammer always makes things shiny. Let's not forget..."

"I know. You've been solid. It's only because you like working, though." Johnson shoots back. "Where are we going?"

Hammer says, "My office. This way."

Johnson asks incredulously, "You have an office?"

At the edge of the parking lot lies a maze of smaller shipping containers of various sizes and colors in all different conditions. Hammer navigates his way through the twists and turns, finally arriving at a small ten foot cubed corrugated steel one, which he unlocks with a retina scan, and pulls open. All that is inside the container is a dirty blanket near the back, and a small duffel bag against one side. Hammer steps inside and walks over to the blanket in the back corner. Reaching inside a small slit in the blanket, he produces a small cube of carbon fiber and epoxy half an inch thick on any side. He brings it to the threshold, and says, "This is it. I'm going to need my pay in full, too."

"You keep your paydata in a nasty blanket?" Johnson asks, the nervous laughter in his voice audible.

Hammer shrugs and says, "You want it or not?"

Johnson is visibly unimpressed, but relents and digs into the pocket of his pants, fingering open the secure pouch, and retrieving an unmarked credchip, and a small case containing a datachip with the VI logo on it, and the words "Const Clo" written in hasty hand lettering on the case label. He hands over the datachip case, and says, "Alright, but it's your clone if this doesn't work as expected." Hammer pockets the case, takes out his own credchip and swipes it next to Johnson's credchip, who authorizes the transaction. He hands the black cube to Johnson, who puts it inside the lapel pocket of his jacket. Johnson says, "Do I even bother asking?"

Hammer says, "Rev 20:10 to 22:14, KJV. I was told you would need that. Said you would understand. Is that what you are asking?" and looks at Johnson inquisitively.

Johnson shakes his head while getting out his phone and tapping a note into it. "No, what I was wondering was how a total Wilson like you could put together something as whiz as this."

Emi is feeling good about things. She feels her meeting with Mr. Johnson has gone well, and intends to continue to keep herself busy with mostly cosmetic tweaks to her Constant Cloning project, as well as formulating the basis for some new ideas, but for today is working from home after her meeting with Johnson because she wants a break from the office. Horizon is decidedly different from Japan in that it just seems to operate at a more breakneck pace, but in the past month, it has felt like home. Even her home-cooked meals, which desperately remind her of her dear mother's recent passing, seem a fitting tribute. She is devastated to learn she hadn't been there to say goodbye in person, but has kept in contact with her brother, and together they find shelter from the storm in the shared memories of growing up together with mom.

Tonight she is making one of her mother's favorite recipes: cold soba noodles in hot dashi broth with a side of Bok Choi. She dials up the noodles and broth on the Matter Maker, gets the Bok Choi from the fridge, and chops it up. "Let's see the screamfeeds." She mumbles, and the wall opposite her lights up with the latest news...".. massive hack resulting in the loss of mission-critical data. Are they the target of corporate espionage? More on this rapidly developing story as it becomes available. In other news, the rad levels are waaaay up..." the HoloVid drones on as Emi chops away and prepares her meal. She takes the assembled dish over to her table, fetches a pair of chopsticks and a napkin from the kitchen, and sets about enjoying her noodles and crunchy greens while watching the HoloVid. "Porn puppets! Porn puppets! They're better than nothing! Porn puppets! Porn puppets! They're your best friend! Porn puppets!" The TV sings, as anatomically exaggerated puppets hump each other an inch from the glowing wall. Emi hums the tune unconsciously, having heard the commercial a thousand times before, as she rinses her empty dishes and utensils and places them briefly in the dishwasher before returning them to the cupboard.

She walks over to the bedroom door and slips out of her dress and into her robe, replacing the robe hanging on the door with the dress, and grabs the Razordeck from the chair. She sits down on the couch, puts the Razordeck in her lap, pulls the retractable cord from its side, and jacks in.

Cyberspace in Horizon City, the natural evolution of the now defunct internet, hosts a virtual world constructed by countless teams of artists and programmers. A massively interconnected digital game-like space, the world's data is stored and organized here, often behind countless walls of intrusion countermeasures, or ICE for short. It is illegal to write or possess software that could cause physical harm to people, and just about anywhere you might go in cyberspace simply possessing such routines in your databank will get you brain banned, requiring a surgical procedure to change the unique signature of your brain to get around the ban. That doesn't stop them from being employed, and it is basically impossible to prove their use, since the wrong encounter with one can ruin your day, making enforcement all but impossible.

Emi is protected well enough within the walls of the Genetek Revival datasilo, as the white hats employed are of the highest caliber. She well knows the outer walls are literally deadly to the touch of an intruder, and many a deck jockey has activated their clone playing buzz the GR tower.

Her virtual office is a perfect setup for relaxation or focus, with soft lighting, a desk, whiteboard, plants, and a small fountain in one corner trickling away. Emi has written the privacy code for it herself out of an abundance of caution. She walks over to her whiteboard, pulls up her files, and begins sifting through them to see what sparks her imagination, when she realizes that there is a project missing. She does a double take, then counts them all. Nineteen. Nineteen projects. There were twenty this morning, she is sure of it. She holds her breath as she studies each project code name in alphabetical order: Ablenow, Afterglow, Cantina, DCD, Helix, PetPet... it isn't there. Where the hell is it? Why isn't it here?

She pulls up her movement menu in a panic and smacks the archive shortcut angrily, and that's the last thing she sees.

The cryogenically frozen slug enters the top of her window at a sharp angle, and impacts her head, sending blood, bone, and gray matter throughout her apartment living room. Akiko watches carefully in her millimeter wave radar scope as Emi's brain paints the inside of her apartment, then disassembles her rifle. The gallium alloy bullet fragments will melt into the carpet as they warm, leaving no traces at all.

As Emi's body oozes blood on her couch, her cat lazily walks out of the bedroom, stretches, and nonchalantly begins licking and chewing at one of Emi's emerald green eyes. On the TV, a commercial for the city plays loudly, "Horizon City! Horizon City! It's all you hoped for and twice as pretty! Horizon City! Horizon City! It's all you hoped for and twice as pretty!"