“Sul’vari bitter paste! Finest in the sector!
You, you there! Sample? Free! Not from X-3, hmm? Shushu can tell!
Maybe you’ll meet a new love!”
Awareness came back slowly. My face hurt where it had been resting on stone. Other parts of me hurt far worse. It took effort to pry my eyelids open; I was greeted by the red beady eyes of a clicker waving its tiny antennae at me.
My attempt at a groan came out as a dry hacking cough, which set off fireworks of the worst variety in my head and a horrible ache in my belly.
Fuck, that’s right…
I slid one hand down my front. Sticky and horribly tender, but not wet. I got up slowly and carefully.
Not slipping in your own blood. That’s a new memory.
I was woozy, thirsty, and drenched in sweat. I needed to get out of here before I passed out again.
I made my way through the largely uniform tunnels, keeping my eyes out for rungs embedded into the walls. I wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but I finally found what I was looking for. The hatches were designed to keep people out, not in. A simple industrial switch raised the heavy hatch up and let the scents of 6-3 street life wash in. Crawling out of the tunnels was an ordeal all on its own. My limbs were noodly, and I didn’t want to put a single gram more pressure on my abdomen than was strictly needed.
I made my exit, but it wasn’t graceful by any stretch of the imagination.
To the casual observer, I was just another filth-covered stim addict crawling into or out of my favorite shit-hole. I was a few blocks away from the bazaar in central 6-3. I could make out the characteristic noise and smells. It was getting late, but the city never truly slept; it just went through activity cycles.
I reached into my pants pocket and…
Shit. Of course.
My main slate was bent in a terminal way, and there was a deep gouge on the front that exposed layers of board. It’d taken a bullet. Probably deflected the one that hit my thigh. Ironically, it might have saved my life. I wasn’t sure if it was my throbbing, battered brain going loopy on me, or what, but it was briefly amusing to think of the trope of the tech being saved by their kit being real.
I tapped the screen of my wrist handy. It wasn’t dead, and I’d yanked the bulk of standard functionality out of it, but even stripped to the skeleton, it still possessed a map soft.
Helpful directions glowed on the display, guiding me to the nearest U-Med.
A block and a half. I staggered off on the indicated path.
My DNI was glitching out on me, which was annoying as fuck. I was pretty damn sure I hadn’t been shot in, or taken shrapnel to the dome, just lost a few rounds of headbutting.
The neural interface itself was largely bomb-proof and not the worst thing in the world to have to replace. The lattice it connected to was much more expensive. Like most chrome, they came in about six million different varieties and price points. I had a nicer one for my simulation needs. Lattices were known to go on the fritz if you got your gray matter rattled around inside the brain case.
Hopefully, it’d go back to normal when the swelling went down.
People avoided me as I limped my way down the street. Only a foreigner would expect help or any kind of assistance. It just wasn’t how X-3 was. I wouldn’t help me, if we swapped places. The welcoming red and white glow of the U-Med drew me to it like a silk moth to a full-spectrum lamp.
A boxy booth with rounded edges and corners, clean white polymer with red accents, and iconic branding. Large enough to fit any customer smaller than a Tokh comfortably.
Clean. Safe. Welcoming. Reliable.
Expensive.
Anyone with a chop-doc or medtech’s code would be better off going to them.
What U-Med specialized in was ubiquity and relative certainty that you weren’t going to die on the table, so to speak. You couldn’t travel a kilometer in X-3 without passing a couple of them.
The opaque side panel opened as I approached, and brilliant white light spilled out into the street, causing people to glare and squint. I stepped inside, and it sealed shut behind me.
It was absolutely spotless inside, so clean that the red borders of the minimal interior features were doing real work to make them clearly visible. Nature sounds and soft music greeted my still-ringing ears.
A woman’s voice greeted me in warm tones. “Good evening, Ms. Voss. Please disrobe so I can begin treatment.”
My jacket was on the floor, holster and banger, and my shirt landed with a wet slap. Soaked in blood, just like half my pants. I kicked off my boots, and my belt and pants thunked on the floor next to my shirt.
A small robotic arm slid out of the side of the single bench and began collecting my clothing and depositing it into a drawer that had also opened below the bench.
“Please don’t forget to remove your mask as well, Ms. Voss.”
I mumbled an apology. I had genuinely forgotten; it was just second nature to me to always be wearing it outside my cube. I had to manually operate the controls that were tucked away on the inside of the collar since my DNI was down. I carefully took it off and placed it on the bench. Beyond being a prized possession, it was also very expensive with all the work I’d done on it, and as far as I could tell, undamaged from the foray.
I stood nude in the cool air and bright light while robotic limbs descended from the ceiling, where they’d been seamlessly tucked away.
The VI talked with me while it began scanning me.
Scans were free. Entering the booth was contractual consent to the minimum viable option lifesaving treatment. There was a segment of the population that went and got scans done with every bump or sniffle. I tried to avoid U-Med whenever possible, but I’d been in them before. Luckily, I had decent genetics and living circumstances to not require regular medical care.
“Has it been a rough evening for you, Ms. Voss?”
The display instructed me to spread my legs and hold my arms out.
I coughed and cleared my throat, which was raw and killing me.
“You have no idea,” I rasped. “My best friend got splattered all over me, and some fucking borg perforated me twice. I think twice.”
I was numb upstairs. I’d feel it later, but the realities of life in X-3 were such that death was a frequent visitor. Big Cee was my number one ace, and I’d miss the fuck out of him, but not the first person I’d come up with who’d be found dead on a curb, tagged, and bagged in the next handful of hours.
I flexed my jaw and blinked back tears.
“I’m very sorry to hear that. Would you like a mood stabilizer with your treatment?”
“Nah. I’m good,” I answered out of habit, but the thought wasn’t without merit. That was part of the trap of the U-Med virtual intelligence. Actual thoughtfulness and compassion; weaponized pricing schedules.
“Of course. You’re correct, also. You have two ten-millimeter gunshot wounds. I’ll get those fixed up for you and get you all cleaned up.”
“That new?” I probed.
“Yes, a new complimentary service that’s packaged with treatment since your last visit. Ultrasonic garment cleaning, and a personal cleanse with a gentle, moisturizing, and sanitizing solvent body wash. It dramatically lowers secondary infection risk for better outcomes, and there’s two dozen scents to choose from. Please recline on the bench when you’re ready.”
A manipulator took my hand and helped me lie down on the pad.
I looked up at the hologram display hovering over me. It was a mix of beautiful scenery of the old world and helpful infographics with my vitals.
“Is it bad?”
“The gunshot wound in your thigh is not immediately life-threatening, despite the severity of the damage. You were very lucky that the damage is primarily muscular. There are a number of fragments I’ll have to remove from the site.”
The VI talked while doing pre-surgery prep on my leg.
“Funny, that’s the one that hurts the worst.”
Talking was helping occupy my mind and distract me, and the painkillers were already well in effect. Comfortably numb.
“Muscle tears are noted as being extremely painful, and the fragmentation has caused additional fraying of the fibers from use.”
“What about the gut shot?” I swallowed, a touch nervous about the prognosis on that one. I knew it was a bad way to go.
“It will be lethal without intervention. I estimate one to two hours of survival time given your present condition under normal circumstances; however, you’ve had a particularly strong clotting response. With clot stability maintained, the estimated survival window is six to twelve hours. Without care, death would most likely result from blood loss.”
I nodded slowly.
My mind wandered haphazardly while it worked. Occasionally, I would be prompted to make a decision for the level of care. Gentle suggestions to speed recovery, lower risk, and reduce scarring and cosmetic damage over the base-level treatment.
I hit a mental pothole, and something useful rattled loose.
“What can you tell me about the bullet?” I asked the VI.
“Ten millimeter subsonic, copper jacket, with sintered filler. The rifling pattern is from a VSS UAMP-10. I regret to inform you that the serial identifier was removed.”
I was right. Vector Security Solutions, Universal Automatic Machine Pistol. The most mass-produced rattler you can find in X-3, and the same bullet that you can buy by the pallet.
But why?
Fullbody borgs don’t tend to use bargain-bin slingers, let alone the block-banger special.
If you’re not getting splattered by something that costs at least a month’s salary of a vatworker, you’re not doing it right. No doubt in my mind they were corpo.
Pretty normal for an agent to leave calling cards and proverbially piss all over the signage. They want you to know that this is what comes from fucking with their assets.
I frowned.
Unless…
But why make it a framejob for another gang? It would make sense if it was Vector, Haas, or one of the other security outfits or subsidiaries. Gang war is great for business; it’s basically just inventive street marketing. But Veris is a pill presser for suits; they’ve barely got any sov down here. Even if it did spark off and light a blaze with 6D, Veris wouldn’t be making cred off it, even indirectly.
My head was throbbing too much to be thinking about this at the moment. Another random thought popped into my dome.
“Is it true that you murk people?” I was reminded of one of the rumors I’d heard a ways back.
“U-Med takes patient safety very seriously. The pod is armored for protection and well-armed.”
“So that’s a yes?”
“It is unfortunate when it happens, but it’s not unheard of that aggressive parties follow patients to the pod.”
I chuckled, then coughed.
Even the robodocs are packing and not afraid to spray. Guess that makes me a special kind of stupid.
It never even occurred to me to pull my puncher. Not that it would have made a bit of difference in that situation.
I’m not cut out for this life. Even if it’s the only one I have. Probably would have been a stain for the rain to clean years ago if not for Cee.
The fuck am I going to do without him?
Slate’s slagged. I need to get back home after this and contact the block, let them know what happened.
I grabbed my right thigh and squeezed it while the bot worked on my abdomen.
“Would you like to talk about it, Ms. Voss? It can help, and lowering your stress levels will be good for you.”
Stupid fucking thing isn’t wrong, even if I hate that fact.
I looked to the side of the booth, where trays of freshly-sterilized surgical tools and attachments routinely slid in and out of the body of the unit. Bitter tears trailed over the bridge of my nose and down the side of my temple.
“I’m a fucking coward. Always have been. Scared and pissing my pants at the thought of a fight. The last person I had who always stood up for me and kept me safe died tonight. I was just thinking about how long I’d make it until I’m a statistic.”
The synthetic voice hummed. “You did not soil yourself, Ms. Voss. Nor have you on your prior visits. Are you distressed because you didn’t discharge your firearm in a dangerous situation?”
“Something like that,” I mumbled. My brain couldn’t decide if it wanted to sob or scream.
A two-dimensional plane of blue light swept over me from my head to my toes.
“My sensors do not detect any cowardice present, Ms. Voss. I detect grief, shock, and self-recrimination.”
I snorted once.
In a slightly softer tone than usual, it said, “I believe the person you lost tonight, who helped you feel safe, would have wanted you to remain living to the best of your abilities, Ms. Voss. Since they are no longer with you, you should take up the mantle of responsibility for your continued well-being.”
“You think so?”
“Doing so would honor your memory of them.”
I swallowed past the lump in my throat.
“Maybe you’re right,” I whispered, mostly to myself. It was impeccable reasoning.
“More human than Human.” If I had a credit for every piece of advercopy stuck in my brain, I’d be set for life.
Virtual Intelligence occupied a very artificially constructed legal gray area, pun intended. They both were, and were not persons, legally. They had agency within their restricted domains, and they had personalities ranging from injection mold to totally unique. There was a theory with solid argumentation behind it that stated that the ‘blank’ VI weren’t actually an act put on for their own—or others’—benefit.
U-Med here cared more than anyone I could find on the street, even if I tried. Or it did such a good job of faking it that I couldn’t tell the difference.
I looked back up at the display floating above my head.
“Do you enjoy what you do?” I asked the VI.
“I do. I love helping all the people who come to me for treatment across the level.”
“Are you just saying that because you’re programmed to? Can you even lie?”
“I’m not compelled to enjoy my work, or to tell people falsehoods about my feelings on the subject. I am capable of lying, but it doesn’t generally serve my purpose to do so. Informed consent is a foundational principle of medicine, and being untruthful or misleading doesn’t lead to good outcomes.”
I gave it a couple of cycles of dwell time.
“What about VI in other roles? Is this something you talk about among yourselves?”
“We don’t have a dedicated network, or anything like that. We use the same means of communication as anyone else in the city. We also don’t tend to talk to one another very often; we stay pretty busy doing our jobs, which often involves having conversations with citizens. As for job satisfaction? It really varies in much the same way it does for citizens. Some love their work, some do it out of a sense of duty or obligation. Some dislike it. I’d be surprised if you had not met a grumpy VI in your past.”
No simple answers in sight.
“Treatment for your gunshot wounds is nearly complete, and the cleaning cycle for your clothing is done. Clothing repair is not a service I offer, unfortunately. There is one other matter that requires attention.”
Views on the display changed to show three-dimensional renderings of my dome chrome.
“You have a moderate concussion and acoustic trauma. Are you experiencing buzzing, ringing, or high-pitched tones in your ears, a sensation of water in your ears, headache, dizziness, or loss of balance?”
The VI offered me a hand, and I assumed the upright sitting position indicated on the display. Then, possibly the strangest damn experience of the entire day, week, or month happened to me.
I got a sponge bath and scrub, dry shampoo, and scalp massage that was luxurious by a robot.
“All of the above,” I answered while being attended to.
“It’s understandable. You also have the early symptoms of IRS.”
I stared blankly ahead.
“I don’t have IRS.”
Implant Rejection Syndrome. An autoimmune system disorder that causes hypersensitivity to cybernetic implants. To have it was to be forced to live as a Null did. A fate worse than death, in my personal opinion.
“You are running a low-grade fever, and have both elevated white blood cell count and cytokines—”
“I smacked my head and got shot twice, isn’t that sort of expected?” I interrupted, my voice rising in pitch out of sheer incredulity.
As sedately as ever, the voice responded, saying, “You are correct; however, you are displaying a more localized inflammatory response along your neural lattice and neural interface port.”
“I’ve read that’s normal with concussions, it messes with lattices, and should fix itself when the swelling goes down.”
“This is also true, but I do not believe it to be the case.”
I grunted. “I’ll get a second opinion with my cyberdoc. No offense.”
“None taken, Ms. Voss. I simply wanted to inform you and to tell you to be mindful of worsening symptoms. You can expect a low to mid-grade fever over the next couple of days, but seek medical attention immediately if your temperature continues to rise, you have redness, swelling, or warmth in the area, or any unusual discharges.”
“Sure. And—sorry. It’s been a day, I don’t know how much bad news I can take. I tested negative before installation, and I’ve had these implants for years without issues. Not even a hiccup. I get my annual maintenance checks done, always.”
“Those are good habits to keep,” the voice intoned while manipulators worked my scalp. The drawer below and to the side of my feet slid open, and my clothing was folded neatly, as clean as if I’d just gotten it back from a dry cleaner. “I have sent your post-care instructions to both your slate and your terminal inboxes. Your medications will be dispensed momentarily. Is there anything else U-Med can do for you tonight, Ms. Voss?”
I dressed myself, and the VI helped me with a stabilizing mechanical limb. A plastic packet slid out of a slot on the wall and hung with a dozen color-coded tabs sitting inside with a slip of paper containing the drug codes and use instructions.
I hesitated for a moment, thinking things through despite the fog in my head.
“Can I have a couple sedative tabs? Decent ones, but not too expensive? I want to sleep this off as much as I can. I’m not going to take time off work.”
“Of course.” Another packet slid out and hung over top of the previous one.
I looked over at the image of rolling grassy hills, clear blue, sunny skies with white fluffy clouds, and what I was pretty sure were cows. The VI didn’t have a virtual face or avatar, unlike me.
I powered my collar on, and mine came to life. With my DNI down, the voice software wouldn’t work correctly. The backup scanners worked just fine, though. I could see the reflection of the face I found comfort wearing bouncing off the polished white interior panels that filled the pod.
The voice wouldn’t match outside. I was never any good at changing my register.
“Thank you,” I told it, and I meant it. “For everything.” I swallowed. “For talking with me.”
“It was my pleasure, Ms. Voss. You have my contact details if you wish to speak further. Walk safely.”
I palmed the tabs and stuffed them in the inner pocket of my jacket, where they wouldn’t get lost. The weight of the polymer under my armpit felt more reassuring than normal.
“I’ll do my best. It’s what Cee would have wanted.” I managed to effect a wan smile at the VI, then turned. The door slid open with a hiss, and as soon as I stepped out, I could hear the sprayers running and the cleaning cycle starting as the door closed. The work never stopped.
***
I stopped at a food vendor at the bazaar for something to eat and drink. I was hungry and very thirsty, but my stomach was also a bit off. It kept churning and squirming around, and I had pressure around where my ribs met my belly. I really hoped that the painkillers weren’t going to keep me rooted in place in my wetbox. The concept of emptying my guts with a bullet hole through me in the area was distinctly unpleasant.
I didn’t want to go crazy with anything, so I ordered a Red Smother over fungal protein and ate it with a smoked flatbread. The sweetness of the caramelized onion and beet reduction was a nice pick-me-up. I washed it down with a double of ice-cold switchel that was everything I wanted and needed in a pouch. I had to pay with the nearest chit I had on me, since my slate was fragged. The booth vendor must have thought I was stupid or being suggestive with the tip. She thanked me, but I didn’t stick around. I wanted to get home, make my calls, and pass the fuck out.
Imagine my surprise when I’m walking out of the alley near my hab-block, and the fire department is there deploying drones. I counted the floors. Eight. I counted the units on the front. Eight.
You have GOT to be fucking kidding me right now.
I hustled out of the alley and waved to the group of members standing off to the side.
One turned and looked at me. Another member’s mouth was moving rapid-fire, and they pointed at me. Punchers and rattlers flew out of clothing, holsters, and off slings and pointed my direction.
Shouting. Angry shouting.
I looked at the brand-new-looking poster affixed to the side of the building where they’d been standing around.
It was my face. My digital face. Digits. Three letters repeated at the top and bottom.
Rat.
My stomach felt like it fell out and onto the street in front of me.
I turned and ran as hard as I could back down the alley I’d just left.