Part 5

My Darling Child

Isolde lunged forward, grabbed her, and kicked back in the grass. "Gotcha," she said, grinning broadly. "You might be The Bunny Hunter, but I'm the master of the warren!"

15.1

February 2101

Isolde Crane rode up to the parking lot that wrapped around the Capital like a self-eating snake, thinking it looked rather bizarre: an entire city surrounded by giant walls, giving it the unholy simulacrum of an impenetrable fortress. It was a dark and starry night, because out here in the hinterland even the light pollution knew better than to wander this far. By the gates (or barbicans, if you wanted to be political), several heavily armoured units stood with rifles held tight to their chests, their visors glowing a cold institutional blue as they tracked every movement with automatonic fixity. A quick scan of their bodies told her that they had enough cyberware to stop a tank; even with her Ghostkey, she had to tread carefully, or else she'd end up another smear on the concrete, filed under 'expendable chaff' in someone's report – all so that they could protect Calyx Ward's precious walls. She would come to learn, however, that walls – no matter how high – did nothing to stop the kind of love that could burn a world to the ground.

So, treading carefully indeed, she found a space, shifted the car into park, and stepped out. She wore the same outfit as always: a red Oni mask, black slacks, and an unsullied white button-up, as if she were here for a work conference. But she hadn't been to work in over a month. The calls, e-mails, and texts confirming she'd lost her position as a neurochemical scientist had long since stopped. And she didn't care – not even a little.

Not anymore.

"Perimeter fortification protocols have been escalated since your last recorded entry," Ourovane said through her head, its voice precise and entirely without inflection. "The structural vulnerability remains accessible, though its approach vector now presents increased difficulty."

"Uh-huh," said Isolde. "Are you Captain Obvious now – or can you tell me how to get around them?"

"Certainly," said Ourovane. "On the left wing of the Capital's protective barrier, the access corridor remains functional. However, the exterior entry hatch is now directly monitored by two Paxson units. A frontal approach would result in your immediate termination."

"Then we're stuck. You brought me out here for no reason at all. What a 'perfect machine' you are."

"Incorrect," Ourovane said. "There is a storm drain running beneath the outpost. It feeds into a filtration shaft leading to a maintenance corridor. The drain is secured by a pressure-locked gate, but its control node operates on an obsolescent firmware I can override."

"So rather than sneaking directly into the maintenance corridor, I have to… crawl through a sewage pipe, and when I end up on the other side, you think it won't be suspicious to anyone looking that I'm covered in shit?"

"Correct. The organic matter density is low; rainfall two days prior cleared the majority of obstructions. Estimated traversal time: ninety-three seconds."

"For a machine maybe," she said, walking around to the boot of the car. She opened it, revealing the small case within, and popped the hinges. Inside of it was a pistol with a silencer – small, but efficient, a little like her. She picked it up. "You have to remember that you're dealing with a very imperfect person here."

"I can temporarily inhibit your olfactory processing."

Isolde paused, stuffing the pistol in her side-holster. "I guess that's not so bad." Though the problem still remained: actually getting to the storm drain to begin with. Even if the security was a fair deal lesser than the other sections, there was still a chance she could get caught, and if that happened they wouldn't stop to ask questions, to arrest her and book her into the county jail; they'd just shoot her, put her lights out.

Dead.

She followed the westbound lane along the Capital's outer structure, trailing the curve of the parking lot until the clean asphalt gave way to cracked pavement and tufts of dry weeds. The glow from the main entrance faded behind her, replaced by a lower, steadier thrum: substations kicking, ventilation fans droning, and the constant rumble of trucks filing through the side gates. Massive scanners lowered over each vehicle, sweeping blue halos across metal and cargo to verify every scrap was authorised. She imagined people used that system to smuggle themselves inside from time to time, but the whole thing struck her as reckless – and far too elaborate for someone of her size to even attempt.

Ourovane guided Isolde's every step, running a digital map and overlaying it on her neural display. A thin red line pointed the way forward like a deep cyber-space finger. She followed it through the scrub and cracked concrete until it finally terminated at a patch of overgrown brush pressed up against the wall: an unremarkable spot, unless you knew exactly what to look for.

Beneath the weeds, half swallowed by dirt and neglect, sat a rusty service grate. It was small, ugly, and absolutely not meant for public access. All around the place were abandoned cars, Paxson units (though not too many), and a single drone. The way they were positioned would almost suggest that they knew someone would try to sneak into the storm-drain area on the other side, which meant she had to take a quiet approach.

Or so she thought.

She took a step forward.

"Remain stationary," Ourovane said.

"What is it?" Isolde whispered.

"Apply 'Deadeye' to the drone," Ourovane said. "I will divert the guards' attention. You will advance when prompted."

She brought up her quick-hack list on her neural display, navigated to 'Deadeye', and paused once she realised she had insufficient processing power to run it. Before she could argue, Ourovane continued:

"Do not be concerned. I will overclock your neural lattice and absorb the thermal load. Execute the command on my signal."

But she was concerned. Was concerned that Ourovane might have had too much confidence for an old ghost. Was concerned that its programme might get flagged the moment it began. But she had no choice – she had to just go with it.

So, she sucked in a deep breath and let it pass coolly out her nostrils, waiting for the signal.

The drone hovered in the centre of the lot, turning towards her; for a moment she thought it might see her, but Ourovane cut in:

"Apply 'Deadeye' now."

And she initiated the quick-hack instantly.

Then, forming out of thin air so suddenly that she didn't know if it was real or not, red digital mist plumed into the drone's engine and began to spin it midair. It let out a horrible, stridulous screech.

The Paxson officers looked up from their perches, completely fixated. One of them moved under it, shouting about a malfunction and that it needed to be manually overridden, while another ordered for it to be shot down in case it went rogue, and while they made up their mind Ourovane prompted her to move forward along the weeds. She crouched low, keeping an eye on the units as she passed, heading directly for the maintenance gate on the other side. She made it about halfway there when something small and furry rustled out from the bushes a couple feet ahead of her.

A rabbit.

Not just any: a jackrabbit.

"Do not concern yourself with wildlife," said Ourovane.

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

But she couldn't move any further. Not when the jackrabbit paused and looked up at her with grave insouciance.

No – she dropped completely to her hands and knees.

Awww, said It. Is the iddy widdy bunny too much for you, little Isolde? Should we turn back? Should we turn back because—

See, Mommy is what we northsiders call a 'bum'. A leech, feeding off me and my husband's money. Don't be like Mommy when you're older, mmmmkay?

You'll never amount to anything so long as you're taking care of that disgusting, useless, waste-of-space thing—

Isolde felt her stomach brewing up with hot vomit. Her breathing became unsteady.

"Now I see," said Ourovane.

Do you see? Do you see how worthless, useless, and utterly—

Suddenly, It let out an enormous, gut-wrenching scream, the voice stretching and breaking into a million pieces.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaagh-a-a-a-a-a.

"Silence worm," said Ourovane.

Isolde's optics glitched momentarily before stabilising, and when she looked up, a red womanshape composed entirely of ones and zeroes materialised. Ourovane. It got down on one knee and offered a hand.

"Instability is not a flaw, Isolde," the womanshape said. "It is simply data you have not yet learned to command."

Isolde, catching her breath, reached out her hand to touch it, thinking that it would pass right through, but in some strange, horrifying twist, the touch of Ourovane felt real, and she used it to pull herself up into a more stable crouch.

She moved on, ignoring the bunny.

One of the Paxson officers had enough of the screeching drone and decided to put a rifle bullet right through it; it spun down like a wonky satellite knocked from orbit, striking one of the abandoned cars with a right thump. The car alarm blared out and ran a grating echo all along the parking lot, which only led to more arguing.

When she reached the maintenance gate, Ourovane teleported in front of her, telling her to run 'Manual Override' on it. When she uploaded the quick-hack, Ourovane stuck its fingers into the gate-line and pried it apart; the resulting sound was suppressed by the blaring car alarm.

Isolde hurried inside, and Ourovane shut the gate behind her. It was quieter in here already – peaceful, even – but also very dark. A short metal walkway led her down into the maintenance trough, where pipes the size of her torso ran along the walls, sweating condensation. She kept low, hugging the narrow band of shadow cast by a defunct light fixture. The storm drain entrance sat at the far end: a wide, circular opening cut into the lower wall, its grate glinting wet and dull beneath a film of grime. Even from here she could see the running water inside, trickling over whatever debris hadn't been cleared by the last rainfall. She crossed the final stretch in a quick, quiet dash. The grate was secured by a thick latch and a pressure lock swollen with rust. She wedged her fingers underneath and effortlessly tore the frame off – all thanks to her augmented strength. She slid it upward and pulled the grate back; a gust of cold air breathed out from the drain, carrying runoff and old metal.

A notification popped up on her neural display – Olfactory Processing Disabled – just as Ourovane had promised. Despite this, she took off her mask, crept inside, and held her breath, bracing for an awful stink. Sure enough, there was none, but there had been plenty of shit, and she did her best to avoid touching it as she scrabbled through the short space and then dropped down into the deeper layer of sewers. A lot more space down here – thank the Lord.

She could see clearly ahead.

For the next forty-five minutes, Isolde listened to Ourovane's directions as it guided her through the semi-darkness, her boots splashing thinly in the shitwater. She had to stop once or twice to tear steel bars apart, but eventually she made it to a section of tunnel where the walls rose upward, funnelling her towards a maintenance ladder.

"There are two guards waiting at the top," Ourovane said. "When you arrive, you must hide behind the valve housing to your immediate right. Then wait for further instruction."

Isolde climbed the ladder, one hand after the other, boots slick on the metal rungs. When she reached the top, she eased the hatch open just enough to see a slice of light. Voices drifted through: two men, bored, talking in that lazy slur people used when nothing dangerous ever happened to them. She pushed the hatch the rest of the way open and slipped out, flattening herself behind the massive valve housing as instructed. She could see things more clearly now: a narrow maintenance corridor that still looked like part of the sewer, round, like a tube, with the guards standing directly at the very end, blocking a doorway, chatting endlessly about how pointless it was for them to be standing around all day when they could have been off doing better things, like monitoring the city, or looking for 'those underground rebels'.

The irony.

"Now," said Ourovane, "you must run a double-hack, and although I am able to tank most of the processing power, you will feel the effects. So prepare yourself."

That didn't sound too good. She whispered, "What hack?"

"Marionette," said Ourovane. "Run it on both of them at the same time. On my count."

She took a deep breath once again, bringing up her neural display.

"Three."

She steadied herself, peeking over the valve housing completely.

"Two."

One of the guards stepped forward and pointed his weapon at her, the light blinding.

"One."

"Hey—" shouted the officer.

The quick-hack uploaded on both of them instantaneously.

Once again, red mist coiled around them, and Ourovane materialised between the two. It seized both rifles in the same instant, swung each barrel towards the opposite man's skull, and pulled the triggers.

The guards shot themselves.

Dead instantly.

It shocked Isolde – she just hadn't expected the quick-hack to literally overwrite someone's thought process – but then she remembered that this was one of the most powerful algorithms on the planet.

No wonder Cierus Marlow held on to it for so long.

When she went to stand up, her legs felt weak, and her vision went red. A pop-up appeared on her neural display once again: CPU OVERHEATING: CORE TEMPERATURE CRITICAL — NEURAL THROTTLE ENGAGED. She went down on the floor, as if she had been shot.

"Keep still," Ourovane said. "Your central processor is attempting to stabilise the thermal spike. Movement will delay recovery."

Isolde rolled onto her back, spread-eagled, panting harshly. "This is…" she breathed. "... so difficult. I thought I was strong, but I guess even expensive cyberware can't make up for suboptimal blood."

"You have little muscle mass, insufficient energy reserves, and your cardiovascular output is below the optimal percentile for sustained augmentation."

"That's one way of calling me skinny," she said, laughing ruefully to herself. She picked herself up off the ground, finally finding some semblance of strength. "I admit: I haven't been eating very well. Not for the last… fifteen years."

"That is suboptimal," Ourovane said, approaching her, the red womanshape flickering in and out of existence before vanishing altogether. "Sustained caloric deficiency reduces your operational efficiency by forty-two per cent."

"I know," Isolde said, wiping her mouth. "I just have a vomiting problem – that's all."

"Your vomiting problem is a predictable biological response to unresolved trauma," Ourovane replied. "It is not an anomaly. It is a pattern."

"No shit," Isolde said, looking at the Paxson units' corpses. "Do you think Ward will be notified about their deaths? Is it gonna pop up on one of their systems?"

"It will not," Ourovane said. "I have deactivated the biometric uplinks on both units. Their vitals will register as stable until their next scheduled check-in. By that time, you will be well beyond this sector."

Isolde exhaled shakily. "At least there's that." And she was about to put on her Oni mask once again when Ourovane spoke:

"Do not do that."

"Why?" she asked.

"Oni masks – also known as Daimon-class facial obfuscators – are prohibited within the Capital's jurisdiction," Ourovane said. "Possession triggers an automatic Class-C security response."

Isolde froze, fingers hovering over the lacquered red jaw. "Oh," she said. "I'm sorry – I didn't realise. What should I do with it?"

"Drop it into the sewer and let the current carry it away," Ourovane said. "It has served its purpose – you no longer need to worry about hiding your face. You are not a registered criminal."

Isolde hesitated, feeling the smooth lacquer under her fingertips one last time. The mask had been a shield, a persona, a thin shell she could turtle behind when the world grew too sharp. But here – inside the Capital, soaked in sewer water, a little shaky, a little broken – its teeth and painted snarl suddenly felt childish.

She walked back to the hatch, opened it, and tossed the mask.

It fell several feet before splashing in the runoff.

"Good," said Ourovane. "Proceed."

But Isolde didn't move – not right away, at least. She simply stood, staring at the empty dark where the mask had been swept away. Then she reached into her pocket, pulled out her wallet, and brought out the crumpled piece of paper, the one which said, with all its undoubted perfection:

I LOVE YOU.

"I love you too," she said quietly, knowing Ourovane could hear – and understand – her.

She furled her brow, put the paper back into the wallet, and the wallet back into her pocket. She turned.

The Capital awaited her on the other side of the corridor. Calyx Ward awaited her on the other side, somewhere. She wiped her hands on her slacks, squared her shoulders, and stepped forward into the penumbral hum.

Sewer-stained, heart trembling, face unhidden.

Isolde Crane walked on.

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