Memento Mori

1.5 - NIGHT LIGHT

I STAY for a while longer to listen in while Sarah hammers out the specifics of her plan for the summit with the others. Rising exhaustion pulls me towards the ground like a black hole. The bar is warm, the lights that perfect level of dimness, the drinks hitting just right. When I pull down a stool and slump over my table to catch some quick shut-eye, Sarah taps my hand and dismisses me for the rest of the night. Her revolver, a battered white-painted Sixer- six o' clock barrel, like my 6-Teba, better for recoil- hangs in front of my eyes as she comes over to chat during a quick break.

"Last train ran an hour ago. You got a way home?"

Sarah's shooting range is just two blocks away. My place is twice that and three layers up. Between navigating bridges and public lifts, it's over an hour of travel on foot. I run through my options and tilt my head towards where Krey sits polishing his Malice rifle on the bar.

"Krey's got an autobike," I say, pawing at the corner of my eyes. "He'll cover me."

Her eyes trace the wooden grooves in the ceiling. "He doesn't live here?"

"Nah. Said Dax snores too loud."

Sarah snorts out a laugh, glancing over her shoulder for a moment. Two of the hundred-credit chits from the table drop into my open palm. "Your cut for today. Eat up and get some sleep. We've got work tomorrow."

"What's the name?"

"Outracing those ripples we made today. Dynasty is going to want to hit back for our little raid. What they won't be doing is keeping up a heavy guard around the Orange." The black heart of the syndicate's undercity operations, a spider's web of village-style brothels and electroclubs that covers an entire undercity block. It's the sluice that every part of their business flows through. A redlight district with a citrus filter on top. Always under heavy guard. On the surface, its lantern lights are curated to appeal to overcity tourists. The real machinations of the syndicate happen behind the scenes, where their covert docks process shipments of indentured slaves, contraband materials, and every drug on the planet.

Sarah's nothing but nonchalant as she flicks a finger off the binder I stole. I doubt many people would notice the crows' feet tugging at the corners of her eyes. She's been in this game longer than I've been alive. This face she fakes is more real than whatever remains of the woman beneath. It's the face of a survivor. Cool, cavalier, mean, tough, tenacious, snarky, playful, violent, an act that shifts however it needs to project the image of a woman who can and will do anything to get what she wants.

"...this confirms my suspicions about the uptick in their activity," she's saying. "An Executor, one of their seven leaders, is coming to town to oversee the expansion. They want a bigger stake in the game. Maybe even the whole Vents, wouldn't put it past them. So we're putting an end to those stakes. And I'll be bringing an Executor's head to the summit." She runs a hand through her hair, brushing it so most hangs longer on the left than right.

"You want me on your six," I say.

If she's surprised I knew, she doesn't show her hand. "Haven't decided how close. This is a risky run. Executors..."

Seven of them run the syndicate's operations from around the world. Always on the move, never able to be pinned down in one place, never all gathering in the same location, and swapping names as often as an up-and-comer decides they don't like taking orders from the big bosses. Even they subscribe to the one constant of our society: only the strongest rule. Only through combat can you take the prestige and power you deserve. It's the same law of the jungle that drives our gladiocracy. Carve your own place in the world, or you won't survive long. And to take a place at the top of the largest criminal organization in the Sections? You'd have to be a real special kind of monster.