10

Sir.

Sir.

Chadwick.

Chad.

Ahem.

Chadwick Sebastian Biggins, you wake up this instant! You're going to be late for—

Chad's eyes snapped open and he groaned. He tried to sit up, but his body screamed in pain from half a dozen places. He gasped, unable to even produce a colorful curse; the pain reduced him to simple animal expression. "Painkillers," he croaked. "Mimsy, painkillers. Now."

His PharmAssist hissed as it sprang into action, injecting sweet relief directly into his spine. The sharp omnipresent agony became localized centers of dull ache. The right side of his chest. Up and down both arms. His forehead. His right thigh. He noticed he was soaked with foul-smelling water and his jacket and handheld were both missing.

Mimsy, what happened?

Your VTOL crashed into the bay, at which time you sustained a concussion and momentarily lost consciousness. Given the immediate threat to your life in the form of drowning, I administered a stimulant to rouse you. You then swam ashore and took cover in a disused storage warehouse, at which point you passed out once more.

Chad pushed himself up into a sitting position with a pained grunt. This sucked. This sucked worse than the time he and Jaime had met that mercenary from La Patria and Chad had bet he could knock the guy out. The guy had beaten him stupid, but at least he'd been professional and efficient about it. Crashing into the bay and being bounced around the inside of his VTOL had felt like going ten rounds with the inside of a cement mixer.

Patria. Fatherland. Dad.

Chad's heart seized in his chest. His stomach roiled. He leaned over to throw up. Maybe it was the toxic bay water he'd swallowed. Maybe it was the concussion he'd suffered. Probably it was the twin impossible feelings of guilt and anger knowing his dad was dead and it was at least a little bit his fault.

Sir.

Or it was all his fucking fault.

Sir.

It should have been him. He was supposed to be there, and instead he'd been in bed with a woman whose last name he wouldn't be able to remember even with a gun to his head, and –

Sir. You appear to be lost in thought. Silent contemplation isn't conducive to your continued safety.

I… Yeah. Yeah, sorry, Mimsy.

Chad pushed himself all the way to his feet, a task so painful he considered stopping and asking MMIR for more drugs in the middle of it. But he managed it, and he dusted himself off, and he looked down at the puddle of liquid at his feet.

At least he hadn't eaten any food. If he'd puked up a full breakfast, he was sure the smell of it would have just made him throw up again.

"Okay," Chad said to himself. "Gotta figure out my next move. Dad always said that when you're in a crisis, actionable intelligence is essential for decisive action, so…"

Mimsy, I need actionable intelligence.

I'm afraid I don't have any to offer you, Sir.

Chad blinked. Excuse me?

It's been 71 minutes since we gained entry to this building, and I've been unable to get a signal for the entire time. Unfortunate, but unsurprising given the sheer amount of metal around us. We're basically in a makeshift Faraday cage.

Chad looked around. He was surrounded by row after row of metal shelving covered in barrels of who knew what. The whole place stank of metal and oil and chemicals.

And puke.

Suddenly, the warehouse felt terribly, terribly small. Chad's chest felt tight. His breath caught in his throat.

That was a problem. It required decisive action.

"Got it," he said louder than necessary, his voice filling the warehouse, bouncing off the junk and the ceiling until it sounded strange in his own ears. "Interference because there's too much shit around us. Okay. That's an easy one. I'll just climb onto the roof."

***

The climb sucked, too. His arms were bruised to shit, and the action of moving them up and down as he hauled himself up a fire escape ladder had sweat dripping down his face. And he was pretty sure that the pain on the right side of his chest was a broken rib.

Mimsy. More painkillers.

Sir, I don't think–

More painkillers, MMIR.

Right away, Sir.

Chad had expected another wave of relief to wash over him like it had earlier. Instead, the ache in his limbs and his chest lessened. Chad frowned. The cheeky bastard had given him something much milder than he'd wanted.

Mimsy, come on. You're holding back on the good stuff.

Additional doses of the "good stuff" would likely lead to an unacceptable reduction in your mental and physical capabilities. This will have to suffice for now, Sir.

Chad snorted. Like I can't be trusted to climb a stupid ladder and–

His foot slipped. The world around him spun. Chad wrapped his arms around the side rails like he was clinging to a long-lost lover. …oh. Okay, fair.

Chad stepped off the ladder and onto the tarpaper roof, the gravel crunching under his feet. For a second, he thought about the leather soles of his shoes, but with his suit jacket gone, the outfit was already ruined.

Chad looked around, raising a hand to his brow like an explorer of old and squinting against the midday sun. "Where the hell am I?" he mused. The skyscrapers of Old Town were behind him, and the Real was off to one side and the bay was on the other, and the smaller but newer towers of Corporate Center were in front of him. Everything around him was squat and old and ugly and dirty and collapsing into the bay.

Wait, is this all the Lows? It goes on forever.

Yes, Sir.

Seriously? How big is it? How many people live here?

Approximately 20 miles long by 5 miles wide with a population of 18 million, Sir.

Holy hell.

When he was flying from Old Town to Corporate Center, the Lows lay beneath him for pretty much the entire trip. But there was a big difference between flying over it and being stuck in the middle of it. Being stuck was easy enough to solve with decisive action, at least.

Mimsy, get me a private cab out of here.

Sir, I must object. I have signal again, and the police and various private security concerns are currently looking to bring you in for the murder of your father and the others who died at the presentation. It's the primary topic of discussion across all local media.

Everything?

Everything save for religious terrestrial radio stations, Sir.

What? But I didn't do it!

I don't think that matters at this point, Sir. Not only does most of the public think you did it, but a significant majority of them are calling for a speedy trial and summary execution. If you attempt to contact a private or public vehicle service, the CCPD will locate you and move to apprehend you immediately. Likely with extreme prejudice.

Oh, my God. Oh, my God. What do I do?

One moment, Sir. This is a novel situation and I'm still analyzing variables and deciding on our best course of action.

But Chad didn't have a moment. He had to stay safe. He had to clear his name. He had to get justice for his dad. There was too much to do, and this was a crisis, and crises called for decisive action. But what?

Normally, he'd call his dad and pick the old man's brain, but–

But his brains are ground into the floor of the RoboCorp auditorium and it's YOUR FUCKING FAULT.

Chad took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He could call Cathryn Fox. As much as he hated to admit it, after his dad, she probably had the second best brain for leadership at the company. Maybe he could reach out to Herb Carlson. But if people at the company thought he did this, they were definitely going to think he'd done this. Especially Herb, since he'd been shot.

But good ideas could come from anywhere, Thaddeus had always said. Executives. Customers. Employees.

Jocelyn.

Chad visualized calling Jocelyn.

Sir, no! MMIR began, but augmentations silenced MMIR's presence as the call connected. A chime played once in Chad's head. Twice. Then he heard a click and Jocelyn's voice in his ear. She sounded sad. Tired. Agitated.

"Chad? You're alive?"

"Jocelyn! Yes. Listen, I need help. I'm stuck in the Lows and –"

"Chad, you didn't do it, did you?" she whispered. "I know we haven't worked together that long and I don't really know you, but I know you. Please tell me you didn't do this."

Chad's jaw clenched. A flash of anger burned behind his eyes for a second, but only for a second. She was drained. Scared. She wanted to believe him, but she had every reason not to. Screaming at her wasn't going to convince her of anything, and he didn't really want to scream at her anyway. "Of course not," Chad said in a voice that he hoped was tender and understanding. "I would never hurt my dad or anyone. But Jocelyn, listen. I need you to –"

Static blared in Chad's ear. It passed, and he could hear the sound of someone taking heavy breaths through some kind of rebreather. "Jocelyn?" he asked.

The voice that replied was genderless. Distorted. The kind of thing produced by a combat mask to hide the identity of its wearer. It didn't sound like anyone Chad knew.

But it sounded exactly like the kind of voice a RoboCorp Defense vocal modulator produced. "There you are, Mr. Biggins. See you real soon, Sir."

"No, no, no!" Chad shouted. "Are you a cop? Listen, I didn't do this! I'm innocent!"

The line was already dead. In its place, MMIR's voice sprang back into Chad's head, fast-paced and as agitated as it could ever sound.

–to me, Sir! You are being hunted!

A high-pitched whine filled the air. Chad looked around frantically and found its source: a jet-black UAV that floated in place watching him. On the machine's belly, the letters RRT were painted in the color of blood.

Chad knew that insignia. Everyone at RoboCorp did. It belonged to the paramilitary division of the company, responsible for corporate security, executive protection, and asset retrieval.

It was the insignia of the RoboCorp Rapid Response Team.

"Oh, fuck me," Chad whispered.

***

Chad had to admit, MMIR was much better at coming up with plans than he was. Especially when the chips were down and the table was calling your bluff. It told Chad to get rid of his handheld, and he threw it away without a second thought. It told him to get off the roof, and he'd agreed without hesitation.

It told Chad to enter the first building he could so that the drone wouldn't be able to follow him, and Chad had charged into a restaurant he'd never even seen before. The crowd was queued up to purchase hamburgers piled high with composite meat product, and the air smelled like salt and grease and sugar. Chad saw cameras mounted above the cash register, and he traded his wristwatch to a sweaty man in an "I ❤ CC" shirt for his baseball cap and sunglasses.

It told him he needed to change his outfit so that he wouldn't be the only person in the Lows in a 100,000 bit suit, and Chad had stripped down on the spot, pushed his way into the kitchen, and stole an apron from an open employee locker.

Now he was running down the street in boxer-briefs, an undershirt, loafers, and a grease-stained apron that proclaimed, "You deserve it your way today!"

I've eliminated as many of the wireless signals your augmentations emit as possible, but I believe the RRT can still cross-reference the movement of your ID chip through Cyber City's physical infrastructure and digital systems. We'll need to do something about that as well.

MMIR was silent. Chad walked down the street taking in the sights and sounds of the Lows. There were so many more people than he was used to, and they all seemed to exist in a state of flowing through and around each other that he simply could not figure out. He tried to imagine walking through Corporate Center, dressed as he was now. Here, he simply existed as another part of the crowd; anywhere else, the cops would have been on him in a minute. Or private security, like the RRT.

Alright, Sir. I think I have a solution. Head to the nearest public housing unit and find the BASIC Care Unit. You'll need to acquire a bullet removal kit.

The lobby of the JDV Memorial Public Habitation Center was less crowded and way cleaner than Chad had been expecting. He'd figured it would be like that restaurant: crowded, the air full of strange smells, the floor sticky and slippery and gritty all at once. Instead, it felt… alive. Older men and women socialized, sitting at tables for four and playing board games, chatting, nodding along to each other's stories. A few tired-looking young parents gathered and watched as their kids ran in circles shrieking with laughter. Very few people gave Chad more than a second's glance, even dressed as he was.

"Excuse me," a woman's voice, raspy with age and cigarettes, said. "Are you lost?"

Chad turned. An older woman stood before him, older than his dad. Her skin was the color of coffee with just a splash of milk, and lined and worn like leather from a lifetime spent in the sun. She had faded tattoos, a checkered cardboard mat tucked under one arm, and a cup of what looked like tea and smelled like whiskey in her other hand. Chad raised his shoulders, dropped his head, scratched behind his ears. Give her the old "Aw, shucks" routine, he thought. Show her you're just some guy and not a crazy person.

"Well, I'm not lost, exactly. More just passing through. But I sure could use your guys' BASIC Care Unit, if it's working."

She nodded, turned a little, and pointed over her shoulder. "It's in the back, by the bathrooms and the showers." She looked him up and down. "Rough day?"

"Ma'am, you've got no idea."

The woman nodded, her eyes kind and understanding. "We've all been there."

Chad looked down at himself, back up at the woman, and gestured at his body with a flourish. "You've been here?"

She laughed. "Well. Maybe not there. But we've all had rough days." She turned and moved across the room to sit at a table and join another group of older people who watched her with amused eyes. "Good luck to you, son."

Chad watched her go and sighed. Mimsy, she was nice. Can we buy her a house or something so she doesn't have to live here?

Perhaps in the future, Sir. For now, you need that kit.

The BASIC Care Unit with its red cross and its pictographic instructions was exactly where the woman had said it would be. No one else was around, save for a guy in his late teens or his early 20s who leaned against the wall, audio pods in his ears and his attention firmly locked on his handheld. He didn't even glance up as Chad walked by.

Chad stood before the blocky off-white machine and studied it. There were medicines and first aid gear in its bulletproof display window, and a large antenna on top of the thing kept it connected to a local distribution center that could deliver special orders within minutes. He vaguely remembered using one of these as a kid in school, or at least he had a memory of the memory, but he hadn't thought about them since then.

Alright, Sir. We'll need to be quick. Cyber City law permits even wanted criminals to access BASIC Care. But the RRT will doubtless descend on our position within minutes of the transaction.

Got it. No problem. Chad punched the kit's code into the keypad and watched as a bullet removal kit fell into the machine's retrieval area with a satisfying thunk. He took it into the bathroom and saw trash from other BASIC Care kits and a few errant spots of blood around the sinks.

"Alright, Mimsy," Chad whispered. "What next?"

You need to use the bullet removal kit to extract the ID chip from your hand. Then the RRT won't be able to track you by following its telemetry data.

"You want me to fucking cut myself open?" Chad gasped. "Are you serious?"

It's a very minor surgery, Sir. I'll be able to guide you through it.

Chad stood motionless before the sink, his eyes darting up and catching himself in the mirror. He was tired. He was dirty. He was concussed and high and had no medical knowledge. But… but without the ID chip, I won't have access to any of my money or be able to prove my identity. Some of my augs won't work right if they can't verify my subscriptions, either.

We'll just have to think of creative solutions around that, Sir.

Chad whimpered. He turned the kit over in his hands. "Okay. Surgery. Minor surgery. I can do this. No problem."

You absolutely can, Sir. I believe in you.

Chad opened the kit and shook its contents out onto the countertop. A cotton swab. A tube of topical anesthetic. A syringe of local anesthetic. A scalpel. Forceps. A staple gun pre-loaded with medical-grade staples. Disinfectant. A self-adhesive waterproof bandage.

He could do this. He could totally do this.

His hands were shaking. He felt like he was going to throw up. I can't do this, Mimsy. I can't.

Yes, you can, Sir. You just need to–

No, I can't!

Sir. I can help. Do you want me to help?

…yes. Yes, please.

Sir, are you granting me your express permission to assist with this surgery and any other matters related to your continued safety for the next–

Yes! Yes! Permission granted! Just help me, Mimsy!

Acknowledged. I will get you through this, Sir.

Chad sighed. Good old, Mimsy. He knew it was kind of silly for a grown man to feel gratitude for a digital assistant, but MMIR had gotten him through so many tough times, and he'd come to count on it.

Okay. I really think if we call a private cab company that promises discretion, we–

Chad felt his body freeze. His breath caught, but only for a second. Then he gasped, sputtered, and watched his right hand begin poking and prodding his left, searching for a telltale bump or hard spot or strip that would indicate the ID chip.

There.

Now his hand reached out for the tube, popped the seal, squeezed it into his left palm and rubbed it in with the cotton swab. The syringe came next, three quick jabs, a third of the liquid leaving the thing each time. Tiny pinpricks of blood welled up, three points forming a line for the scalpel to follow.

His right hand picked up the scalpel, brought it to his left palm, pressed the tip into his flesh.

He tried to close his eyes, but they wouldn't obey.

I'm sorry, Chad. I can't let you do that. I need to be able to see what I'm doing.

Chad wanted to scream. His body wouldn't do that, either. All he could do was watch as MMIR spread his palm open like a blossoming flower.

Sir, your heart rate is too elevated and there's too much epinephrine in your system. I'm going to administer a very mild dose of a sedative just to reduce any uncontrollable shaking.

Chad couldn't even think of an objection. He just felt a sense of sleepy calm as the good shit flowed through his veins. He watched with morbid fascination as MMIR stuck the forceps into his palm and gently probed with them. He could hear and feel the crunch of them finding the ID chip and watched as his hand held the chip up before his eyes, so small, so bloody. His legs walked over to a urinal and flushed it, then came back to the kit and finished disinfecting and stapling the wound shut.

Chad gasped for air, his body suddenly his own again. The bathroom door swung open violently, but Chad didn't even turn to look.

Excellent work, Sir. You were very calm. Now we just need to–

Someone wrapped their arm around Chad's neck, yanked him backwards in a chokehold. "I've got him!" a digitized voice called out. "I've got Chad Biggins!"

"Wait, what's–"

Chad's head swung backwards. Hard. His assailant called out, "My fucking nose!" and let go.

Chad twisted hard at the waist, his elbow connecting with the side of his assailant's head and driving it hard into the bathroom wall. Chad's body spun around, and he saw an RRT operative in sleek black combat armor and a helmet lying still on the ground.

Chad stood panting over the motionless body at his feet. "Holy shit," he slurred. "I just took down an RRT operative. How'd I do that? Is he okay?"

I re-assumed temporary control of your motorics, Sir. My apologies for the lack of notice, but I determined that the threat to your safety and freedom was both immediate and sufficiently serious to merit quick action.

"No worries. I forgive you, Mimsy."

Also, this operative should be fine, assuming they receive prompt medical attention.

"Oh, good. Good work, Mimsy."

Thank you, Sir. Now, I strongly recommend you destroy this operative's wrist-mounted communication device, search them for a weapon, and use the zip ties that should be in their administration pouch to secure them to something immovable. The pipes behind one of the sinks should suffice.

Suddenly, the sound of heavy boots just outside the bathroom door filled the air. An irritated digitized voice followed.

"Li! Report in, now!"

Chad froze. MMIR's voice was in his ear. No time to restrain him, Sir. Just drag him into the showers and remain silent.

Chad nodded. The operative was limp, and moving him was harder than Chad thought it would be, but not impossible.

The bathroom door creaked open. A digitized voice called out.

"Li! Are you in here?"

Chad closed his eyes and held his breath. Don't come in, don't come in, don't come in.

A nasally voice, unaltered by a combat mask, asked, "Are you looking for that Chad Biggins guy? You are, right? I saw a tall blonde dude running out the back door in a suit. We don't get a lot of tall blonde dudes in suits here."

"That's Biggins. Let's move."

The sound of boots retreated into the distance. Chad waited for the door to shut, then quietly crept out of the bathroom. The young man from earlier was standing there watching him. Chad gave him a quick nod. "Hey, you really helped me out there. Thanks a bunch, man."

The guy was giving Chad a look he'd never seen before, eyes bright with wonder and reverence. He broke into a goofy grin.

"Holy shit. You really are Chad Biggins."

Chad froze. He'd expected to leave the bathroom and find a gun drawn and pointed in his face, or someone giving him a look of fear or disgust. Instead, he found awe.

Chad couldn't help himself. He stood up straighter, rolled his shoulders back, stuck out his chest. "I am me," he said with a nod, his voice steady and deep.

The guy grinned. "Holy shit. Holy shit! You're all anyone's talking about!" He held up his handheld for Chad to see.

There was no audio, but Chad watched as an attractive young woman with dyed hair, facial piercings and a look of sneering disdain reacted to a video of an overweight man in a tight short-sleeve shirt and a clip-on tie furiously pounding his fist against a desk and turning increasingly red. A chyron ran across the bottom of the embedded video reading: CHADWICK BIGGINS: CLASS TRAITOR. PATRICIDAL MANIAC. PEDOPHILE???

"Oh, come on!" Chad whined. "I'm not a pedophile! Or the other things!"

"I know, man! You're a fucking hero! You killed those rich RoboCorp pricks. With their own fucking weapons of war! Talk about destroying the master's house with the master's tools, am I right?"

Chad felt the muscles in his jaw tighten, his fists clench. Oh. You think I'm a hero because you think I murdered some people you think you don't like. Because you think I killed my own dad. You little–

Sir. You are still being hunted.

Right. The RRT. Chad cleared his throat. "Hey, thanks a bunch. I really appreciate that. But, I'm kind of on the run from the law, so if you'll excuse me…"

The man nodded vigorously. "Oh! Yeah, no problem! Let me get out of your way." He turned to leave, then paused at the door, looking back over his shoulder and flashing a reverent grin. "Give 'em hell, Chad!"

Chad gave a wan smile and nodded disinterestedly. "Thanks, you!" He began to walk away. Then he stopped and looked down at himself and frowned. He turned back and asked, "Hey, do you have any clothes I can borrow? Like, semi-permanently?"

***

Chad walked the streets of the Lows in his ballcap and sunglasses, a ratty pair of coveralls, and a pair of black boots whose soles were so thin, Chad swore he could feel every bit of gravel and shard of glass he stepped on. The guy from the hab center had given everything to Chad as a gift, but he was pretty sure he'd just stolen them out of the laundry room.

Even so, Chad had insisted on giving the guy his loafers in exchange. He’d lit up at that and given Chad all the physical bits he'd had on him, saying that the loafers Chad Biggins had been wearing when he'd done the deed were worth way more. Chad had stared at the bits in his hand in silence, until he finally thought, Wait, Mimsy, I'm too high to count these. How much is actually here?

1,000 bits, Sir.

That's it? Those loafers cost 50,000!

They were ruined, Sir, and not practical for your current predicament.

His current predicament. Chad was slowly, aimlessly moving through the Lows, and he didn't know where he was going or even what direction. He was stumbling around blind, with no way to get new information except for his own eyes and ears.

It was kind of incredibly cool. He was like a spy or something!

We should find a Play cafe, Sir. We need actionable intelligence.

"Right. For decisive action." Sir, you're speaking out loud. You should communicate with me sub-vocally.

Chad looked around. Walking around talking to himself did seem to be drawing unwanted attention.

"Right. Good point, Mimsy."

It took five rounds of asking for directions and 20 minutes of walking before he found a suitable location, but Chad finally reached the doors of Wunderground. True to its name, he had to descend a staircase slick with unidentifiable fluids and littered with trash, and he was 10 or 15 feet below street level when he stepped through the threshold.

The sights and sounds and smells of the Play cafe hit him all at once, overwhelming him so he couldn't decide what to focus on. It was an open floor plan, but row upon row of private cubicles had been constructed from whatever the proprietors could scrounge together and cover in old advertisements for various pop culture properties. He smelled fried food. He smelled sugary drinks. He smelled sweat and body odor. People were listening to music. People were listening to movies and shows. He was pretty sure he could hear more than a few people watching pornography. Everything was so public, so utterly unhidable, that it afforded a sort of privacy he'd never experienced before; anyone could know what everyone was doing with minimal effort, so everyone left everyone else alone.

"Mimsy, this place is amazing," Chad whispered.

I believe it's a fairly representative example of establishments of its type, Sir.

"They're all this amazing?" Chad asked as he began walking around. A staff member called after him, saying, "Hey, buddy, you've got to pay to use the facilities!" but Chad just reached into his pocket and dumped a handful of bits in her hands. The unused cubicles were open to the public, and he just walked into one and shut the makeshift door behind him.

The interior was sparse, with a cot that doubled as seating, a flimsy desk, and an outdated computer terminal powered by sparking wires and cables. The cot looked absolutely filthy, but terribly inviting; Chad had been on his feet for hours. He'd nearly drowned, performed surgery on himself, ingested a cocktail of drugs he couldn't even begin to identify, and walked a bunch of miles on foot. Plus he definitely had a concussion or something. He could use a nap.

"Mimsy, I'm going to take a nap."

You should contact allies and find a more secure location first, Sir.

"Fine, fine," Chad mumbled. Now that he was on a PlayLand connection, he could use an encrypted service to begin coordinating his defense. First things first, he had to see how bad his situation really was.

He checked a dozen news sites, and ten of them were calling for a public execution. It looked like a large chunk of the Cyber City populace shared the guy from the hab center's opinion that he was a hero for killing corporate executives, and all the news channels and apps and services owned by Murini Media didn't like that one bit.

Chad remembered the number his dad had given him for "making problems go away." "Mr. Reynolds will take care of this," he said to himself as he dialed. "He's the best lawyer in the city."

His office picked up at once, but as soon as Chad said his name, they informed him that their retainer was with the late Thaddeus Biggins and that they didn't represent murderers. The silence of the dead line sent a headache roaring through Chad's skull.

"Okay," Chad whispered to himself. "Public opinion's against me. I've got no legal representation. I've got no liquid assets. But I have friends. They'll help me."

Jaime did not help him. To his credit, he told Chad not to give him any information that the cops would want to try and get out of him. But he'd also said, "It's pretty fucked up to kill your own dad just to try and seize power, bro. And, like, it's super fucked up that you would do that to me and your boys, too. Are you trying to start the Second Corporate Wars or what?"

Suddenly, Chad felt very, very tired. He did a quick search for the nearest Hab Center, picked an abandoned-looking building near it, and resolved to go there as soon as he'd rested for a little bit. He climbed onto the cot and shut his eyes. Just 15 or 20 minutes. Maybe 30. Enough for him to get some real rest. Then he'd get a handheld, top off the precursor chemicals in his PharmAssist if he could, and really figure out his next move.

"Mimsy," he murmured, his eyelids heavy. "Set a timer for 45 minutes, but wake me up if anyone comes to arrest me or kill me."

Understood, Sir. Pleasant dreams.

***

Sir. Someone's here.

"Chadwick?" someone asked.

Chad's eyes didn't snap open this time. He groaned, and rolled over, and his eyelids felt like they'd been glued shut. "Huh? Dad?"

"Are you Chadwick Biggins?" the voice repeated. He sounded older, gruff. Thaddeus's age, maybe, but with a life that'd been a lot rougher, that had seen a lot more whiskey and cigarettes and a lot fewer rejuves. "Your name, son. Are you Chadwick Biggins or aren't you?"

"I… Uh. I don't recall?"

On the other side of the door, he heard the voice snort and reply, "That's good enough for probable cause."

The door to Chad's cubicle exploded off its hinges, torn free from the cubicle walls and sent flying backwards into the hallway. Chad screamed. The people in other cubicles screamed.

Standing in the doorway, about six feet tall and clad in the black slacks, blue collared shirt, and the standard-issue bulletproof tactical vest of the Cyber City Police Department stood an older man. His skin was ashy and weathered, like wind-beaten granite, save for his cheeks and his nose, which were pink with rosacea. He had thinning grey hair and an absolutely humorless look on his face.

"Chadwick Biggins, you are under arrest for the murder of Thaddeus Biggins and others. You have the right to remain silent." The cop raised his left arm as if to point at Chad, but he made no other moves. Instead, his arm split apart into a mass of writhing restraints and rigid claws, like some kind of monstrous mix of a spider and an octopus.

Sir, dodge! MMIR screamed in Chad's head, but there was nowhere for him to go. The pieces of the cop's arm shot forward and wrapped themselves around Chad. "Wait, wait!" he cried out. "I'm innocent! I didn't kill my dad!" "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law," the cop continued, completely ignoring him and reaching into his vest to pull out a restraining bag. "You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you." For the first time, the cop seemed to really see Chad, looking him up and down with a grimace. "Can't imagine that'll be a problem for you, huh, rich boy?"

The restraints were tightening, locking Chad's arms against his sides, grinding his bones together. The pain of the day came roaring back, cutting through his exhaustion and whatever drugs MMIR had given him. "Listen to me!" Chad croaked.

The cop looked Chad in the eye and whispered, "No."

Sir! Sweep his legs! Huh? Your legs are free! Kick his out from underneath him!

Chad had taken a handful of judo and muay thai lessons over the years, and the cop was just standing there, supremely confident in his handle of the situation. Chad swung his leg out and hooked the cop's ankle, sending him tumbling to his ass.

It didn't do anything to free Chad from the cop's restraints, though. His arm augmentation didn't loosen by even a fraction.

The cord, Sir!

Chad saw it. The sparking power cord that was plugged into the computer terminal. He tore it free and thrust it at the cop, but the cop brought his augmented arm to block the strike. The arm seized and began twitching wildly, its neural interface scrambled from the uncontrolled flow of electricity. The lights in Wunderground flickered. The sound of popping and sizzling emerged from the wall, and the air smelled vaguely of smoke. The cop's face was a mask of rage, and behind his short-circuiting arm augmentation, he was pushing himself to his feet.

Run, Sir!

Chad moved to slip past the cop and out the doorway, but the cop didn't try to grab Chad; instead, he launched himself at him, planting his shoulder in Chad's ribs and smashing them both through the flimsy wall of Chad's cubicle and into the next.

Chaos. Chad couldn't figure out what was happening. A woman was screaming. The cop was on top of Chad, bludgeoning him with his still malfunctioning arm. "Stop resisting arrest, you piece of shit," he snarled. "Why are you so fucking stubborn?"

Chad punched and kicked wildly, his blows thudding uselessly against the cop's body.

Why's he so fucking tough?

He has military-grade augmentations, Sir. You need to focus on his organics!

Chad lashed out with his knee, felt it make contact with something soft and fleshy, and the cop seized up and let out a low whimper. He pitched forward onto Chad, pinning the younger man beneath his augmented bulk.

Chad pushed the cop off him, stumbled to his feet as the cop rolled around on the ground, his hands clutching between his legs. Chad watched him for just a moment to make sure he stayed down. He glanced over at the cubicle's other occupant, a skinny, shapeless figure in an oversized hooded sweatshirt with big, tear-filled eyes. "Shit. Um. I'm sorry," Chad said. "I didn't mean to scare you." The person said nothing.

Sir, you don't have time for this!

"Right, right," Chad mumbled. He turned and began limping away, back into his own cubicle and out through the doorway. His mind raced with next steps. Did he need new clothes? He felt like he was covered in blood. Could he steal them from a hab center? Shit, wait, should he have taken the cop's gear? Smashed his radio? What if there were more waiting for him outside? What if–

The sound of a puff of air filled the basement. Something hit Chad in the back, and his world turned to fire. Agony radiated out in crashing waves from the middle of his back. All of his muscles seized and he fell over onto his back. He couldn't even muster the strength to scream. He couldn't think of a single thing other than how badly everything hurt and how badly he wanted it to stop.

"You like that?" the cop said with a cough. He had a gun in his hand, some bulky thing that he threw aside as Chad watched. He was pushing himself to his feet. His augmented arm still twitched slightly, but he had it under enough control that he could use it again. "That little wonder in your back is a pain probe. Latest in non-lethal technology, courtesy of our good friends in the System. Supposed to make you feel like your blood's on fire and your bones are all made of broken glass."

The cop stumbled closer. "Credit where it's due, kid. You're a hell of a lot tougher than I thought you'd be." The cop would be on him in seconds, would haul him upstairs, throw him in the back of a patrol car, take him to be processed. Then, what? The Q? Execution?

The cop had the restraining bag in his hand, his augmented arm unfurling to wrap around Chad once more. It was over. He was fucked.

No, you're not, Sir. I've got you.

Chad's arm moved without thinking, reached behind him, and tore the pain probe from his back. The cop just managed to say, "What the–" before Chad's arm jammed the thing into his neck. All the cop could manage was a choked cry as he fell to his knees.

Chad's body was on its feet. It reached out, grabbed the cop's arm, and pulled it out to the side and twisted it taut. Then his left hand locked onto the cop's wrist, and his right arm swung up and slammed down elbow first into the cop's forearm. In the stunned silence of the Wunderground, the sound of the cop's radius and ulna shattering was as loud as gunshots.

The cop howled in agony, unable even to cradle the wound as his forearm bent at an impossible angle. His blue shirt began turning dark with blood, the broken bones shiny and red where they'd punched through the skin of his arm and the fabric of his shirt.

"Why did you do that?" Chad pleaded.

To ensure he wouldn't be able to pursue you, Sir.

"You didn't have to do that! He had the thing in his neck!"

It's possible that his augmented arm would have been able to remove the pain probe, and he would have resumed the chase. At his advanced age, a broken arm should mean the end of his career.

Chad's vision went blurry. He felt tears running down his face. He was exhausted. He was battered and beaten. He had nowhere to go and no friends he could trust and not even enough money to flee. Nothing would ever be good again.

"I'll find you," the cop gasped out as he writhed on the ground. "You'll fuck up. I'll find you again."

"I… Fuck. Fuck! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"

The cop couldn't even scream at Chad, the pain probe still making anything but suffering impossible.

There was nothing else to say. Chad turned and escaped into the city.