Ghost of the Neon God (eBook)
128 Seiten
TITAN BOOKS (Verlag)
978-1-80336-814-6 (ISBN)
T. R. Napper is an award-winning author whose stories have appeared in Asimov's, Interzone, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, and others, and been translated into Hebrew, German, French, and Vietnamese. His first novel was the acclaimed 36 Streets. Before turning to writing, Napper was a diplomat and aid worker in Southeast Asia. Back in Australia, he works as a dungeon master running campaigns for young people with autism.
Cigarette dangling from his lips, Jack Nguyen jimmied the panel at the back of the glimmer bike. Col Charles stood in the shadows at the head of the alley on lookout, softly whistling an aria. The bike was a wide-bellied easy rider belonging to one of the wide-bellied, handlebar-moustached Rebels bikers playing pool in the dive bar backed by the alley.
Sweat rolled down Jack’s temple as he took a long drag on his cigarette, orange point the only light visible in the dark. His cheap infra-goggles good enough to show the outlines of the shimmer-smooth control panel; that, and the crude scar cut into the back of his hand – 4007.
The security on the bike was above average, but unimaginative. A hundred panels waited, just like this, in the labyrinthine alleys, the multilevel underground car parks, in the back lots and back streets of the city.
Jack popped it, pulled the drive card, fried the GPS node, and slipped it into his pocket. Any petty crim who wanted their spinal cord intact was smart enough to leave Rebels’ glimmers alone. True. But it was also true that Col and Jack valued a full stomach over a spinal column, right at that moment. And anyway, Jack was young enough to feel eternal. Col was a nihilist, which was the same thing, more or less.
Jack pinged Col through their neural link; Col left his post, ghosted back along the alley. They walked side by side down in the darkness, quickly, through left and right turns towards the tram lines. Sweat prickling the backs of their necks, stomachs bunching into knots as they rounded each corner, waiting for a steel-toothed outlaw to take to them with a baseball bat.
Eternal, sure, but the Rebels were still the Rebels.
One turn from the tram stop, under the neon glow of an EE-Z-CREDIT sign, they heard the footsteps. Jack drew the double-edged blade strapped to the small of his back, Col his snub-nosed revolver.
A shadow flitted around the corner, footfalls pounding. Jack pulled back his weapon, too late, the body colliding with his. He lost balance, fell, his knife skittering on the concrete.
When he got to his knees, Col was pointing his gun at a Chinese woman while she spoke rapid-fire in Mandarin, palms open in surrender, also on her knees.
Jack’s neural implant translated the words, two seconds after they left her mouth.
“[…soon. Money, I can give you money if you help me. I work for bleeeep. I came here to–to meet a man from The Age. Reveal the truth about the next-generation bleeeep bleep.]”
Col’s face was side-lit by neon, his half ear and scarred cheekbone visible. He licked his lips, uncharacteristically lost for words, glancing back towards the street, the people bustling past in the light. No-one saw the trio ten feet in, or at least they all pretended not to.
“Who’s after you?” Col asked.
She replied: “[bleeeep bleep.]”
Col said: “Hmm. Bleep. Sounds serious.”
She looked confused. She also looked, well, beautiful. Even in the dim alley, Jack couldn’t help but notice her short, shimmer-healthy black hair. The woman had the kind of skin you kept after twenty-five years of good nutrition, little sun, and no cigarettes. Slightly upturned nose, long neck, lips wet. She held her shoulders straight, regal somehow, even as she was on her knees, even as she faced off two thugs in a dark back alley on a steaming city night.
It was beauty of a kind Jack wasn’t used to seeing in the flesh. Marred only a little by the fear that tightened her jaw.
Col continued: “If it’s serious enough for my translator to censor it, then you have a problem no amount of lucre can fix, especially by two petty crooks.” Col was now haloed by the neon glare, so Jack couldn’t see his expression. But he caught the intent in his words easy enough. “We got no time for the conspiracies of the red aristocracy, or their scions. But I have time for those shoes—” he pointed at them with the nose of the revolver “—Fujian original, I’d wager – good for two ounces of weed, box of untracked bullets, couple of real meat burgers in Fitzroy.”
“Shit,” said Jack.
“Exactly,” said Col.
Jack looked at the woman. “Give him your shoes, lady.”
She looked between the two, perfect eyes wet with terror. Jack’s breath caught, at those eyes. He swallowed, tried to maintain the bravado.
She said: “[You must help me. You must do what is right, and restore harmony. The fate of your country rests on this.]” She held out her hands to Jack. Knowing, somehow, he was the weak link. Slid her fingers over his hand, fearless, her other brushing his neck, behind his ear.
Jack batted her hand away. He felt a tingling sensation at her touch, surprise at her courage.
“We don’t have a country,” said Col, “and restoring harmony – well, that’s a bit above our station. Now,” he pointed the handgun at her head, “yer fucken shoes.”
She did as she was ordered – jerkily, a robot in need of an oil change – and got unsteadily to her feet. She dropped the shoes, eyes already elsewhere, then stutter-stepped into a run, into the darkness.
Col raised his eyebrows at Jack, smiling, and scooped up the prize.
Jack, still on one knee, looked for his blade. His lip bled. Probably bit it when he collided with the woman. He wiped the sweat from under his eyes, fingertips shaking, just a little. “My knife,” he said.
Col waved the gleaming black leather shoes at him. “I’ll get you a better one. Let’s get out of here.”
Jack took one look back down where the woman had run. Already gone, without a trace. He sighed, and followed Col.
* * *
They waited at the tram stop, watching the traffic go by. Glimmer bikes and hydrocars and autobuses, frenetic and frightened in the steaming, sizzling, Melbourne night air. Fifty years past relevance. Even fifty years ago it was the peripheral: to Asia, the oceans, the Earth. Now it may as well not have even existed.
Past midnight, shirts soaked with sweat, they hopped off the tram at the end of the line and walked on aching legs into the construction zone, an unfinished second CBD for the city.
Col’s cochlear-glyph implant gleamed behind his left ear. The cool circle of steel everyone over the age of twelve had embedded. Each with its control jack and a memory pin. Theoretically removable pins, that almost never were. Recording their memories and connecting their minds to freewave, forever.
Not Jack and not Col, though. Theirs were long gone. It sucked being disconnected, but better than having a record of their illegal activities for easy viewing by the authorities. Col said their minds needed time to breathe anyway. That constant interface with the freewave made them more malleable for the megacorps, stunted their individuality.
Jack didn’t know about all that. He just wanted to watch the cricket, and a few yuan gave him a PoV grandstand seat right behind the bowler’s arm at the Members’ End.
Through half-completed office blocks, past complete but empty restaurant strips. Through shadows cast by the future. Col whistled Vivaldi, Winter, pitch perfect. Light came from the pale moon, from the neon company signs on the towering yellow cranes, high above; from twenty-gallon drums, where groups of sallow-faced transients stared into the flames and made no conversation.
The young men eased themselves through a hole in a chain link fence, over the dusty ground, and through an exit they’d hacked. Forty-eight bare plascrete flights. First part of their security system; cardio wasn’t big among the malnourished homeless or the street thugs. Second part was a security swipe Jack had coded to their thumbs. The third part Jack hoped they’d never have to use.
Puffing, they walked through the huge office space, bare hard floors, wiring dangling from the walls. Col paused, looked around the dark, cavernous space, doing his thing: seeing things Jack would never see. “These labyrinthine and endless rooms, doors, and stairways, they lead nowhere.”
Jack pointed at the engraving next to the door. “Nah, mate, this leads to the kitchen, see?”
Col blinked, then pressed his lips together. Jack walked into the next room, smiling.
Jack flicked the lights. The room was in the centre of the structure, windowless. Surveillance drones shouldn’t be able to pick up the light. If they were rigged with thermo-optics they were kind of fucked, but the only citizens who could afford the high-end stuff didn’t live in these parts.
The meeting room was long, white walled, even carpeted. The kitchenette in the next room, like the lights, functioned after Jack had connected up the wiring to the glimmer glass that coated the building in solar particles. Cooling, too, when they wanted it. Best accommodation either’d had in years.
Jack dumped the drive card and goggles on the long plasteel meeting table that dominated the room. It was strewn with instant noodle packs, stripped copper, a baggie of black-market tobacco, and a flexiscreen he still hadn’t managed to hack. He grabbed his comic from the table edge, went through the kitchenette – salvaged toaster, three-day old bread, gas camping stove on narrow benchtop – and into the bathrooms.
Jack ran his fingertips reverently over the dark cover of the comic. A man with a briefcase, casting blue shadows on a wall. Shadows filled with the faces of people. Faded, just the name 100 Bullets legible on the front cover. Stolen from some wealthy bastard’s Tesla Europa. A real book, comic book anyway, just sitting...
| Erscheint lt. Verlag | 25.6.2024 |
|---|---|
| Verlagsort | London |
| Sprache | englisch |
| Themenwelt | Literatur ► Fantasy / Science Fiction ► Science Fiction |
| Schlagworte | ai books • A.I. Books • A.I. novels • AI novels • Artificial Intelligence • Books about computer games • Books about transhuman • Cybernetics • Cyberpunk • Cyber Punk • Cyber punk novels • Cyberpunk novels • Cyborg • Detective stories • Dystopia • Dystopian Fiction • Gritty science fiction • Hardboiled • locked room mysteries • murder mysteries • Neo-Noir • Noir • Novels about AI • Novels About A.I. • PI novels • Reality is a simulation • Science fiction crime • Science fiction noit • SF crime • SF noir • Simulated realities • simulated reality • Transhumanism • Transhuman novel • Trippy books • Virtual Reality • Vyborg science fiction |
| ISBN-10 | 1-80336-814-4 / 1803368144 |
| ISBN-13 | 978-1-80336-814-6 / 9781803368146 |
| Informationen gemäß Produktsicherheitsverordnung (GPSR) | |
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