— V!
A persistent and loud voice near my ear. Blue sparks danced before my eyes, and I couldn't focus.
— V!?
— Yeah.
I answered just to make the insistent speaker leave me alone, but he kept talking:
— Hell, you're alive! Thought your brains were completely fried. Should I disconnect you?
Disconnect me? I felt the insistent speaker pull something out of my head. A wire? A whole cable with a jack. It was dark around, except for the equipment lights. A data center rented under false documents—my memory supplied the information. We were working here today.
The recollections finally began to piece together into a coherent picture. Though, alright, I was exaggerating about a coherent picture. My memory was more like unspooling as if pulled by a thread. I had been in Cyberspace. A deep dive into zones where normal netrunners generally shouldn't go. And something happened there.
Fine, whatever. The main thing is that I'm alive or... Totally inappropriate thoughts about sickness and death surfaced in my head. Some kind of nonsense.
— I took a hard hit, — I replied. — My head's a total mess.
— Head home, — nodded the speaker, whose name I thought was Kentaro Okamura. — We've been short-circuited so bad that I'll be cleaning this up until tomorrow at least. Just write a report to your boss. Explain that this is not how we're gonna bypass the Crystal Palace's defense. Another brilliant idea like that from him and we're really going to be fried to a crisp.
— Yeah. One time was enough for me, — I said, climbing out of the ice bath.
I really needed to go home and either visit a ripperdoc or have a good drink. Too many strange thoughts were surfacing in my head, like drowned corpses washing up in the morning at Heywood Bay.
I left the data center in a hurry. My car was parked nearby, but I preferred to take a Delamain cab. I hoped a calm ride would help me recover. No such luck. With every minute, the feeling hit me harder.
Neon signs, 24/7 diners, cheap dives, kiosks selling junk. The evening streets of the City of Neon and Vice floated past the car window, and in my head, something unbelievable was happening. Besides my own memories as Vincent Price, a whole heap of "foreign" memory had settled there. Okay. But that wasn't even the most terrifying or strange thing. The truth was that the new memories seemed more vivid to me. More real. More like mine. Only the objective reality around me forced me to doubt this. Here I am driving from work back home. Vincent Price, or V. All around is Night City, not Moscow, a place I've never been to. Moscow, the capital of the Soviet Union, which never collapsed, and...
While searching for contradictions in my memory, I kept looking out the window and into the cab's mirror. It seemed to me that one of the cars in the flow was following us too persistently. It wasn't trying to get closer, but it mimicked all our turns. It was a large, black, unmarked van.
— Delamain, I want to change the route.
— As you wish, — the AI's bald head on the screen answered obligingly. — Name a new destination and we will recalculate the service cost.
— Megabuilding Ten.
Why there? Have I even been there? I think so. I unzipped my black jacket, feeling for the holster underneath with my twelve-round, nine-millimeter Unity semi-auto. Damn. At home, I had an HJKE-11 Yukimura with thirty rounds, but I rarely carried it to work due to its size and weight, and that was a mistake. A smart pistol would be very useful right now. With such a mess in my head, it's better to rely on auto-aim.
The van didn't shake off our tail even after the route change. I was being followed. There was no doubt about it now. And the tail wasn't very professional, given how conspicuous they were. A good tail should be organized with several alternating cars that would take turns losing sight of the target and then pursuing again from a distance. That makes the surveillance much harder to notice. The question is, who are my pursuers?
Should I call Corporate Security? Something tells me that's a bad idea. Kentaro and I were engaged in netrunning that was not entirely approved, even by Arasaka standards. If I have NetWatch agents on my tail right now, I need to deal with them without involving Corpo Security. It'll be tough alone, so I closed my eyes slightly, calling up my contacts list. Ah. Jackie Welles. A Solo who will die in 2077 during the raid on Konpeki Plaza... Damn! Stop it already! Where did all this nonsense in my head come from? What did I manage to catch in the wild Net?
"Focus," I ordered myself, watching the oncoming stream of cars flash past the window. "Head problems only matter until bullets start flying into that head. Right now, I need to deal with the van. The rest can wait."
I called Jackie and soon heard his familiar voice:
— V! Hate to break it to ya, but I'm not alone right now and not exactly dressed. So unless it's something urgent...
— Hate to break it to you, but it is urgent. I've got a tail. Can you help me cut it off? Calling Corpo Sec isn't an option right now.
A tirade of Spanish curses erupted on the other end, clearly expressing annoyance at the ruined date.
— Tell me where to meet you, — the Solo finally snapped out of it.
— Let's make it near Vik's Clinic. I'll go into the Megabuilding first. Buy a better gun than the Unity there, a couple of grenades. And yeah, I don't know how many guests we'll have. If you can bring someone with you, I'll pay for everything.
— Comprendo. You been to Vik's before?
I wanted to answer—yes, of course I have—but then I realized that the memories of meeting Victor Vector were somehow strange. Everything again revolved around Konpeki, the Biochip, and 2077. Fake memories again. In reality, I had never met Victor. At best, I'd heard about him from Jackie.
— I was looking for a good ripperdoc outside of Arasaka once. Settled on Victor and his clinic, but ended up not needing it, — I lied.
— Vik knows his chrome. Golden hands. Can't take that away from him. Just don't drag him into corpo shit, okay? He quit street fighting.
— I wasn't planning to. Let's meet in the alley by his clinic in thirty-five minutes.
After saying goodbye to Jackie, I drove around the city for a while, still regularly spotting the damned van trailing me. Finally, it was time to stop at Megabuilding H10. Everything here was both so familiar and confusing. I quickly jumped out of the cab, putting Delamain on standby. The area was full of civilians and cops, despite the late hour. It was unlikely the creeps in the van would try to jump me here.
A couple of minutes later, I was inside the gun shop, "Second Amendment."
— Hey, Wilson, — I said.
The chubby clerk frowned and asked.
— Hey. Do I know you?
— Doesn't matter. I need an SMG. A Pulsar is best. Two... three grenades. Regular fragmentation. Plus one EMP.
— Alright. I'll get them, — Wilson replied without much enthusiasm. — A Pulsar it is. Have you even shot one before?
Of course I had. As soon as I closed my eyes, I saw images of many dead enemies. Bullets flying, explosions roaring, me breaching a tower basement... Damn. Now is not the time to figure out whose memories are whose. I have the gun, and the grenades too. One more thing...
— Got any armor vests?
— Nah, — Wilson shook his head, laying the grenades on the counter. — I sell stuff that shoots and explodes. Plus mods, suppressors, and sometimes rigs. Go somewhere else for armor.
— I'd recommend adding them to your stock, — I said, hanging the SMG on the strap and covering it with my jacket.
— Give advice to your secretarial whore, — the gunsmith muttered barely audibly, stepping away from the counter.
Ugh. I thought he liked me. Thought so, huh... Whatever. Time to delta and lead my tail into Jackie's trap.
I carefully left the megabuilding via the stairs. The van was parked slightly away. Just as I thought, the pursuers didn't jump me in a crowded skyscraper. No matter. I'll head into an almost deserted alley just for you.
— Jackie, readiness?
— Ready. Waiting for you and these pendejos.
Perfect.
In the cab, I put the grenades into a small sports bag, like a fanny pack, that I bought from some half-homeless guy in the megabuilding. It didn't quite fit my corpo style, but I didn't care. Then I took the SMG off the strap. It was too awkward and unfamiliar to draw a weapon from under the jacket. Instead, I covered the gun with the jacket. I'd carry the jacket in my hands as if I was hot. It would indeed get hot very soon.
I felt not fear, but a surge of adrenaline. Chaos still reigned in my memory. One half of the recollections assured me that I had slaughtered enemies in droves, while the other claimed this was almost my first serious shootout. Doesn't matter. I'll sort everything out later.
Besides the gun, I also have a cyberdeck. However, fast hacking skills don't always help in a heavy firefight.
The cab slowed down, stopping near bright display windows where girls were dancing. The city was sinking into the night. Bright, noisy, full of temptation and danger. A night not everyone would survive. Through the music, the din, and the noise of distant cars, the voice of a street crazy sounded with insane notes.
— They assure you that Cyberspace is just a way to communicate, like radio or cable TV. Nonsense and lies! Can you climb into a television or a radio? Send your mind to travel there? No! How is life possible outside the body? Who are these spawn of the Net, if not souls who have left our mortal world? I heard their voices. The living should not cross the cursed line, for these souls will join the infernal host!
It seemed like rambling, but something inside me stirred at those words. Stop. Dismiss that! I don't have time for self-reflection now. The weight of the Pulsar felt good in my hands. I pretended to stare into the display window, searching for my pursuers in my peripheral vision. They were coming. Three, four. Maybe more. I shouldn't look at them more closely, or I'll scare them off.
Finally, I ducked into the alley. No one. Even if a shootout erupts, the people forty meters away on the street won't panic much. Gunshots are the night music of this city. However, I spoke too soon about "no one." Some life-worn, dark-skinned old man was sleeping by the dumpster, his wide-brimmed, crumpled hat pulled down over his eyes. Should I warn him?
I approached the tramp and woke him from his alcohol-narcotic sleep with a not-very-polite, but gentle kick to the shin.
— Hey, get outta here, old man. It's gonna get...
— Already, V, — the old man replied with a surprisingly sober and clear voice. — They are already coming for you. Don't look back and step on it to the brick wall.
— Alright, — I grumbled, stepping aside.
Holy hell, what a master assassin Jackie found as a partner. He was impersonating a bum too well.
A step, another step. Ahead was a brick wall, and to the side, a couple of heavy dumpsters. That's good. I'll try to take cover behind them.
— Hey, Corp! — a voice called from behind.
This wasn't the master assassin anymore. The voice was female and had a characteristic accent. I turned around, discovering that six grim-looking black people had appeared in the alley behind me. Voodoo Boys. You didn't need a fortune teller for that, even though Misty lives nearby.
Four huge bodyguards, one shorter one with a sawed-off shotgun on his belt, and between them a girl in a netrunner suit sticking out from under a jacket that looked like crocodile skin.
— Corp, — she repeated with a Creole accent. — Drop the gun and ride with us.
Behind them, an inconspicuous side door quietly opened, and the large silhouette of Jackie Welles appeared. He gestured with the barrel of a dark-golden pistol for me to dive behind the dumpsters. The master assassin pulled out an assault rifle from somewhere amongst the bags of garbage.
— I think I'll pass, — I replied. — I recommend you ride yourselves, preferably to hell.
— Just don't shoot him in the head, — the Voodoo told her crew, as her bodyguards drew their guns.
I lunged behind the dumpsters, pulling the jacket off the Pulsar. Shots rattled from all sides. I poked out slightly from behind cover, pressing the trigger. The surviving Voodoo Boys were already scattering. Two lay with their brains splattered out.
The black guy with the sawed-off shotgun rushed towards me. I hit him with the Pulsar, simultaneously trying to use a script. The bastard easily dodged the first burst, momentarily becoming a blurred streak.
Purely on intuition, I recoiled, and a shotgun blast hit the spot where I had just been. Right. Script. Need an Implant Malfunction since you're such a fast motherfucker. It seemed to be sent, but the upload took time, and the black guy was already upon me.
My Pulsar roared again. The SMG bucked in my hands. I barely coped with the recoil, and the barrel strayed treacherously. Instead of a burst right in the face, the Voodoo only took minor damage. The moment was imprinted in my brain. The enemy's malice-focused face with a tattoo of white crossed bones on his chin. Red eyes with a pattern inside. Both his arms were completely metal. Two spikes protruded from his elbows. The sawed-off shotgun was about to fire and...
The black guy didn't shoot. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the script starting to take effect. It looked like the enemy's heavily chromed arms had locked up. Taking advantage of the sudden edge, I aimed the Pulsar point-blank.
Two shots, control the recoil, another shot, re-aim, two more. Shards and sparks flew from the black guy's face. Bullets shredded the trendy optics. At the same time, I shifted sideways.
The sawed-off shotgun roared wide. The enemy fired almost blindly. The Voodoo had missed his last chance to send me to the other side. Two more bullets. Aim. Three more.
The enemy finally broke. He crashed onto his back, sparks flying from his bullet-shattered skull with exposed chrome. Two final rounds, and that was it.
Damn, I shoot so badly!
It felt like the first time I'd ever fired at a person. V, however, hadn't really engaged in this kind of thing. He was more of an agent and an office worker than an operative. Wait. Hold on! Why the hell am I talking about myself in the third person?
— Hey, V! — Jackie's voice brought me back from my thoughts to reality. — You whole?
— Yeah.
I looked out from behind the dumpsters, not lowering the SMG. The Voodoo Boys were done. Jackie and his combat pensioner shot much more accurately than I did. The old man was just approaching one of the thugs, who was currently convulsing on the asphalt, and delivered a finishing shot to the head.
The netrunner was still alive, though her time in this world was clearly drawing to a close. White synthetic blood oozed from her black bodysuit, which had four bullet holes. The woman gasped for air, either rolling her eyes back or seeming to regain consciousness. I ran up to her. I made sure she couldn't reach a weapon and, pointing the Pulsar right at her face, almost shouted:
— Who sent you?! Why me?!
In another moment of lucidity, the woman answered through her death rattle.
— F-Figure... sent us. He said... Corps summoned a demon... Figure saw... H-how a spirit came from the deep... F-find Figure...
— Does anyone have an injector? — I asked. — We need to question her.
— Too late, — the old man chuckled hoarsely. — But you can mess with her while she's still warm.
The netrunner's agony was over. Her eyes remained open, as if intently examining something sacred in the overcast evening sky. The low clouds reflected the city's bright lights. They shimmered, bringing back memories of Cyberspace.
— What the hell was she talking about, V? — Jackie asked warily. — What other demons in the name of the Santa Madre?
— Just ignore it, — I waved him off, hanging the SMG on the strap. — These Voodoo Boys are just psychos.
— And you know who else is a psycho? Your boss, Jenkins. One of these days he'll drag you into a mess so deep that old Jackie won't be able to help.
— Bludnyaki for corps, eddies for us bandidos, — the old man said. — I'm waiting for mine.
Right. How much do I owe them. I strained my memory for similar cases and answered.
— Three and a half each, plus whatever you strip off them yourselves.
I immediately transferred the money.
— Muchas gracias, — the old man smiled with gold teeth. — And to you, Jackito. Gustavo rarely gives me work now. Thinks that because old Javier is friends with the bottle, he shoots worse. Let him ask these dead putas.
I looked closer. The old man's hands really did tremble slightly, as happens with heavy drinkers. What incredible backup Jackie brought. Well. He didn't have much time.
— Let's wrap this up and delta, — Jackie said, taking the guns from a couple of the Voodoo Boys.
However, he didn't rifle through the dead much. Maybe he doesn't like trophies from corpses. But the old man wasn't above looting.
Ten minutes later, I was back in the cab. Twenty-seven minutes later, I was on the doorstep of my apartment in Japantown. Well, "my"... It was corporate subsidized rent. But the place was pleasant enough. Soft music, dim light, the scent of not-too-cheap incense. A small, cozy refuge in the middle of a city where bullets love to whistle.
Time to sort out the mess in my head.