Three days. The time between jobs was a vacuum Kael measured in physiological data: heart rate returning to a resting baseline, the subtle tremor in his left hand subsiding, the taste of the nutrient paste in his apartment losing its metallic edge. He did not sleep. He entered a low-power state, sitting in the single chair by the room's only window, watching the perpetual twilight of the city. The data-slate was gone, handed off through a dead-drop in a public restroom at the central transit hub. The process was anonymous, antiseptic. He never saw who collected it. He preferred it that way.
The alert came not as a sound, but as a shift in the light. A discrete panel on the blank wall opposite his chair pulsed once, a soft amber glow. A contract was available. He didn't move immediately. He let the glow fill his peripheral vision, watching how it interacted with the grime on the windowpane. After precisely 120 seconds, he stood.
The panel was a passive interface. Placing his palm on it triggered a biometric scan and a direct neural link. No screens. Information poured into his mind's eye in clean, utilitarian glyphs.
**LOCATION:** Sub-Level 7, North-Western Hydroponics Sector.
**TARGET:** Storage Locker #H7-33.
**OBJECTIVE:** Secure and verify contents (biological sample, glass vial, blue suspension). Destroy locker infrastructure.
**CLIENT:** Anonymous (Cleared Tier-2).
**FEE:** Standard rate + hazard bonus (environmental).
**WINDOW:** 02:00 - 03:30.
No name. No person. Just a location, an object, and an instruction to break something. The hazard bonus meant the environment itself was considered the primary threat. Sub-Level 7. He accessed his internal, offline map database. The North-Western Hydroponics Sector had been partially flooded eighteen months prior due to a maintenance cascade failure. It was listed as "Under Rehabilitation - Access Restricted." In Valis, that usually meant "Written Off and Forgotten."
He prepared. His gear was minimal, each piece serving multiple functions. The suit was a sealed, non-laminated membrane that protected against chemical and biological hazards while dispersizing thermal signature. He checked the filters. He armed the compact pistol with standard rounds. For the locker, he prepared a small, adhesive charge—thermal-cutter type, designed to melt through plasteel and slag the contents within a localized radius.
The journey was a descent into the city's digestive system. The efficient, brightly-lit transit lines gave way to service corridors, then to maintenance catwalks that vibrated with the deep, tectonic groan of water reclamation pumps. The air grew thick and humid, smelling of damp rot and aggressive, industrial-grade disinfectant. The lighting here was intermittent, long stretches of darkness punctuated by the sudden, blinding flare of a faulty sodium lamp.
Sub-Level 7 was not dark. It was drowned. The access door opened to a vast, cavernous space where the ceiling was lost in shadow and the floor was a black, still lagoon. What remained of the hydroponics infrastructure rose from the water like the skeletons of ancient beasts—twisted metal frames holding the shattered ghosts of growth trays. The only light came from emergency strips running along the walls just above the waterline, casting a sickly green reflection on the oily surface. The silence was absolute, pressed down by the weight of the water and the distant, muffled thrum of the pumps.
His internal navigation system guided him. Locker #H7-33 was on a service gantry that ran along the far wall, half-submerged. He moved along a narrow maintenance walkway, his steps careful, the grip of his boots on the corroded metal the only sound. The water below was opaque. It didn't ripple.
The gantry was slippery with algae and mineral deposits. Locker #H7-33 was a standard-issue storage unit, its once-yellow paint blistered and peeling. The hazard bonus made sense now. It wasn't about the target. It was about being here, in this drowned tomb.
He placed the charge on the locker's lock mechanism, set the timer for five seconds, and retreated along the gantry. The blast was a sharp, contained *crack* that echoed weirdly in the vast space, followed by the hiss of superheated metal meeting water. A plume of acrid steam billowed up.
When it cleared, the locker door hung open, warped and smoking. Inside, on a wire shelf, was a small refrigerated case. He opened it. A single glass vial, cushioned in foam, filled with a viscous liquid that glowed a faint, unnatural blue under his suit's headlamp. The "biological sample." He scanned it with a handheld sensor. The readout was a string of complex protein identifiers he didn't recognize. It didn't matter. Verification complete.
The second part of the objective: destroy the locker infrastructure. He reached into the case to retrieve the vial.
His hand froze an inch from it.
On the inside of the locker door, scratched into the metal with something sharp and precise, was a sequence. Not a word. Not a code he recognized. A string of nine alphanumeric characters: **K7L-22R-4Q9**.
It was fresh. The scratches gleamed, untouched by rust or grime. They had been made recently, by someone who knew this specific locker would be opened tonight. It was a message, but not for him. For the person who would find this vial. A signature? A tracking code? A mistake?
The objective was clear. Secure the vial. Destroy the locker. The sequence was irrelevant. It was environmental noise, a ghost in the machine.
He took the vial, sealed it in a protective pouch on his belt. He then placed a secondary, larger charge inside the empty case, set it for ten seconds, and moved back quickly.
This explosion was louder, sending shards of the locker and the case flying into the dark water. The gantry shuddered. The job was done. The infrastructure was slag. The message, if it was one, was now melted scrap at the bottom of a flooded chamber.
He turned to leave, his boots crunching on debris.
A sound. Not from the explosion's aftermath. From the water.
A soft, rhythmic *tap*. Like a stone being dropped, slowly, methodically.
He stopped. Switched off his headlamp. The green emergency light painted the world in monochrome. He looked down at the water near the base of the gantry.
There was no stone. There was, however, a pale shape just beneath the surface. It took a moment for his eyes to resolve it. A hand. A human hand, fingers slightly curled, floating palm-up. It wasn't moving with the current. There was no current. It was simply *there*. And as he watched, the index finger twitched once, spasmodically, tapping against its own thumb.
*Tap.*
The objective was complete. The vial was secure. The hazard was the environment, and the environment had just presented a new variable. A non-essential variable. Engaging was inefficient. It introduced risk.
*Tap.*
He stood, motionless, for thirteen seconds. The paradox whispered. Survival meant moving, leaving, reporting in. Survival also meant understanding threats. This could be a threat. Or it could be nothing. A remnant.
He took a step toward the edge of the gantry, peering down. The rest of the body was a darker shadow, submerged, lying on the sloped floor of the chamber. Corporate coveralls. No visible trauma.
The hand twitched again. A dying neural reflex. Nothing more.
Kael turned and walked away, the sound of his footsteps on the walkway drowning out the faint, final *tap* behind him.
As he navigated back up through the levels, the clean, processed air of the city felt thin and false. The vial was a cold weight against his hip. The fee would be deposited. The contract, without a name, was closed.
But in the silent, waterlogged dark of his mind, a new glyph had appeared, unbidden, etched not on metal but on memory: **K7L-22R-4Q9**.
It was irrelevant.
It persisted.