Santi slid the BD wreath over his head, adjusting the neural contacts until they seated properly against his temples, and activated the Bratsk U4020 operational BD. El Capitan hadn't lied about the quality. The sensory data flooded through the wreath and into his Neural Link with a clarity that made previous BDs he had used feel like watching a hologram through a dirty window, though that may have been due to the fact that he now had Kiroshi's.
He was suddenly sitting in the driver's seat of a Kaukaz Bratsk, the enormous steering wheel in his hands, the rumble of the turbodiesel engine vibrating through the seat and into the bones of his legs. He could feel the resistance of the clutch pedal under his left foot, the slight play in the accelerator, and the specific way the fourteen-speed transmission engaged when shifting from neutral into first.
The experience lasted sixty minutes, compressed into the remaining drive time through the Neural Link's accelerated processing. By the time Julia pulled into the service road leading to their rented warehouse in Arroyo, Santi had mentally driven the Bratsk through urban traffic, highway cruising, tight industrial lot maneuvering, and a full cargo loading and unloading sequence using the hydraulic rear lift.
He pulled the wreath off and blinked, readjusting to the meatspace interior of the Galena. It was currently 2:03 PM.
"Done?" Julia asked as she killed the engine inside the warehouse.
"Done," Santi confirmed. "I'm pretty confident I can drive the truck."
"You learned to drive a truck in forty minutes."
"Technically, I experienced sixty minutes of operational data compressed into forty minutes of real time through accelerated neural processing."
Julia gave him the look. "You learned to drive a truck in forty minutes."
"Yeah, Ma," Santi nodded. "I learned to drive a truck in forty minutes."
The warehouse was exactly as they had left it, climate-controlled, well-lit, and with the remaining inventory of pre-Krash antiquities organized neatly along the far wall. The Boss 429 Mustang sat in the center of the space, its rusted chassis bathed in the buzz of the overhead fluorescents, waiting for the day Santi would finally have the time and the parts to bring it back from the dead.
They spent the next forty-five minutes pulling the specific crates that would be going to Meredith Stout. The paintings, which were carefully wrapped in protective polymer sheeting. A selection of smaller antiquities that had been appraised and tagged for the Militech deal. Each and every single piece was accounted for, cross-referenced against the inventory list Santi had compiled during the authentication session with Sasha, and staged near the main loading bay door in preparation for the truck's arrival.
Julia handled the lighter items carefully, and Santi moved the larger crates using a heavy-duty dolly he had found in the supply closet, rolling them across the concrete floor and lining them up in the order they would be loaded.
By 2:50 PM, everything was staged and accounted for. They sat on a pair of crates near the loading bay, catching their breath.
"So, how much is all this worth?" Julia asked, looking at the organized row of cargo.
Santi did the math in his head. "After commissions, somewhere around two hundred and seventy thousand eddies in cash. Plus a set of Higurashi 20-13 Mantis Blades."
Julia stared at him. "Mantis Blades?"
"Part of the deal. The buyer wanted a specific piece, and I negotiated the blades as part of the payment."
Julia opened her mouth, closed it, and then shook her head slowly. "I don't even want to know what Mantis Blades are."
"Retractable arm blades," Santi said.
"I said I didn't want to know," Julia replied flatly.
At 3:04 PM, the low rumble of a diesel engine echoed down the service road outside. Santi hit the control panel, and the warehouse door slid open to reveal a Kaukaz Bratsk U4020 rolling slowly down the alleyway, its boxy, industrial frame standing almost at the same height as the surrounding buildings. The matte-grey paint was scratched and faded, the bumper was dented in three places, and the Petrochem corporate logo on the driver's door had been crudely painted over with what looked like dark primer, which Santi guessed to be Arturo's handiwork.
The truck pulled to a stop just outside the loading bay, the air brakes hissing as the engine idled. By the time they stepped out, the delivery driver, whoever Arturo had contracted for the drop-off, had already left. Santi found the keys in the wheel well, as promised, retrieved them, climbed up into the cab, and started the engine.
The turbodiesel roared to life, and the vibration that ran through the steering column matched exactly what the BD had taught him. He backed the truck up to the loading bay, lining the rear cargo bed with the warehouse floor, and activated the hydraulic lift. The platform descended with a mechanical whine, settling flush with the concrete.
Loading everything took another thirty minutes. Julia guided the crates onto the lift platform while Santi operated the hydraulic controls from the cargo bed, raising each load and sliding it into position before securing it with the magnetic clamps bolted to the floor. The paintings went in last, nestled between two padded crates to prevent any shifting during transport. By the time they finished, every piece was locked down tight, and the cargo bed looked like a professionally organized freight shipment.
Santi sealed the rear doors, locked the magnetic clamps with a digital key tied to his Agent, and jumped down from the cargo bed. Julia was heading back inside the warehouse to initiate the closing of the doors from the inside.
"I'll lock up," she said. "You go warm up that behemoth."
Santi climbed into the cab of the Bratsk and settled into the worn driver's seat. The dashboard was a mess of analog gauges and a single, cracked digital display showing fuel level, engine temperature, and cargo weight. His Kiroshis automatically overlaid additional data on top of the instruments, calculating fuel efficiency, estimated range, and optimal gear ratios based on current load weight.
The BD had taught him the mechanics, and the Kiroshis were working in tandem to give him the edge.
Julia emerged from the side door a minute later, locking it behind her and climbing into the Galena she had pulled out just before closing up.
Santi's Agent chimed with an incoming text from Julia.
[Ma]: I'll follow you. Don't drive like a gonk.
[Santi]: I never drive like a gonk.
[Ma]: You drove through a red light last week.
[Santi]: It was yellow.
[Ma]: Amarillo is not verde, Santiago.
Santi grinned as he put the Bratsk into first gear and pulled out of the alleyway.
The drive from Arroyo to the decommissioned Petrochem freight terminal off San Amaro Street took about twenty minutes. The terminal was located on the northern edge of the Rancho Coronado district. Petrochem had shut the facility down and left the freight cars there after a contract dispute with the city council, and the complex had been slowly decaying since, slowly becoming claimed by squatters, overlooked by 6th street gangers, and used by the occasional fixer who needed a quiet place to do quiet business.
As the Bratsk rumbled down Edgewood, Santi opened a line to Julia's Agent.
"Ma, can you hear me?" Santi said.
"Loud and clear, mijo," Julia replied. "This road is terrible, by the way. I think I just lost a hubcap."
Santi chuckled as he shook his head. "Ma, listen. I need to talk to you about tonight."
Something in his tone must have registered, because Julia's voice shifted. "What about tonight?"
Santi gripped the steering wheel and kept his eyes forward, navigating the Bratsk around a crater-sized pothole. "When we get to the drop point, we're going to unload the cargo and set it up. But after that, you're going to need to take the Galena and head home."
Silence on the line.
"The buyer's terms are specific, Ma," Santi continued, and the lie came out smoother than he wanted it to. "Only the seller and the buyer at the exchange point. No additional parties. If they show up and see someone they weren't expecting, the whole deal falls apart. And these aren't the kind of people you want to give a reason to walk away from."
"Who is this buyer, Santiago?" Julia asked, and the use of his full name meant the maternal radar was fully engaged.
"A mid-level corpo procurement agent. They're buying the art and antiquities for a private collection, which means high-end clientele, and they were very specific about operational security." Every word was carefully chosen to sound professional and boring enough to deflect further questioning.
"And you trust this person?" Julia asked.
"I trust the fixer who brokered the deal," Santi said. "Her name is Regina Jones, and from what Sasha told me, she may be kinda new to the scene, but she's solid. She wouldn't set up a meet that puts me at risk."
There was another stretch of silence, and through the Galena's windshield behind him, visible in his side mirrors, Santi could see his mother's face illuminated by the dashboard lights with an expression she wore when she was fighting the urge to argue with a decision she didn't agree with.
"I don't like this," Julia finally said. "I don't like you being out here alone with a stranger who has enough eddies to buy pre-Krash art but won't let you bring your own people."
"Ma, I'm not alone. I've got my deck, I've got my iron, and I've got more quickhacks loaded than I'd ever need. If anything feels wrong, I'm out. I delta before they can blink." He paused, softening his voice. "I need you safe, Ma. That's the whole point. If something goes sideways and you're standing right there, I can't focus on handling it because I'll be worried about you."
That was the truth buried inside the lie, and Julia knew it. She exhaled slowly, the sound crackling through the Agent's audio feed.
"Bueno," she said quietly. "Fine. But you call me the second, and I mean the second, that deal is done. I don't care if it's three in the morning. You call me, and you tell me you're safe."
"I will, Ma," Santi promised.
"And Santiago?" Julia said.
"Yeah?" Santi frowned a bit.
"If anything feels wrong, you forget about the eddies and you come home," Julia said. "No amount of money is worth my son. You understand me?"
Santi felt a tightness in his chest as he nodded. "I understand, Ma."
"Okay," Julia said softly. "Okay."
The decommissioned Petrochem freight terminal materialized through the thin layer of smog clinging to the Northern edge of Rancho Coronado. It was a sprawling complex of cargo containers, concrete platforms, and rusted loading cranes that had died and been left to rot. The perimeter fencing was mostly intact but unmonitored since the corporate security systems had been pulled years ago when Petrochem abandoned the site.
They found a spot towards the western edge of the complex with enough space to park four Bratsk trucks side by side, and the asphalt was stained with oil patches and chemical spills. Santi backed the Bratsk into the space, and the air brakes hissing as he brought the truck to a stop. The engine idled for a moment before he killed it, and the sudden silence of the abandoned area settled around him.
Julia pulled the Galena in behind him, parking near the bay's entrance. She stepped out and looked around the surrounding area, and crossed her arms over her chest.
"This place gives me the creeps," she said flatly.
"It's supposed to," Santi said, jumping down from the cab. "That's why people use it. Nobody comes here unless they have a reason to."
They unloaded the cargo together, working in the same rhythm they had used to load it. Santi operated the hydraulic lift while Julia guided the crates off the platform and into position by the side of the truck, arranging them in a clean and accessible layout that would allow the buyer to inspect each piece without having to dig through a pile.
The paintings were propped against the shipping container, still wrapped in their protective sheeting, while the smaller antiquities were arranged on a pair of metal folding tables that Santi had found stacked in between two containers. By the time they finished, the area still looked like an abandoned freight platform, but a part had been overtaken to hold a private auction.
Santi checked the time on his HUD, and saw that it was just 6:47 PM. He had three hours and thirteen minutes until the meet.
Julia stood by the Galena, keys in hand, watching him with the same expression she had worn every time he had walked out the front door for a gig. An expression that said 'I know I can't stop you, but I need you to come home.'
"I'll be fine, Ma," Santi said, walking over to her.
"You always say that," Julia replied quietly.
He pulled her into a hug, and she wrapped her arms around him tightly, pressing her face against his chest.
"Te quiero, mijo," she whispered. "Come home safe."
"Te quiero, Ma," Santi said. "I'll call you the second it's done."
Julia held on for a few more seconds before pulling back, wiping her eyes, and getting into the Galena. The engine turned over, and she pulled off, its taillights shrinking until they disappeared around the bend.
Santi stood alone in the open air, surrounded by hundreds of thousands of eddies worth of pre-Krash antiquities. He reached into his jacket and felt the cold of the Malorian Overture resting in the deep pocket.
"Why didn't I just wait a little while before heading over?" Santi wondered out loud. "Now I have to sit around with my thumb up my ass while I wait three hours."
---
Stones... My precious. Help me achieve my dreams...
The infamous P@treon exists for those of you who want to read ahead.
patreon .com/Crimson_Reapr (Don't be a gonk, remove the space)
They get around 3 long-form weekly chapters (4.5-6k words each).