Skitterdoc 2077

Stormy Clouds
Himiko was relaxing as I checked Evelyn's implants. Hers were installed in a much better manner, albeit still not what I would consider good, which made me wonder as she claimed that she used the same doctor as Himiko had. Perhaps the doctor was just having a bad day? However, the same malware was installed in both her doll chip, which was made by a different manufacturer, as well as her operating system.

The same malware made me a bit suspicious. I might have suspected it was something that Clouds was installing, except there was no real need to. Doll chips gave incredible, even if it was temporary, permissions when they were connected to the doll server. Clouds would have no need to install malware to get anything from any of their dolls.

After verifying that Evelyn didn't mind me speaking in front of Himiko, I told her, "Your surgery was done a bit better, but I wouldn't go as far as to say that it was good. You've probably experienced slight headaches after using your implants. You're young enough that you would have likely adapted to it, but it isn't really a good thing to have to. There should be absolutely no discomfort in using any cybernetic implants. If there is, then something is wrong." I shared the opinion of the one cybernetic surgeon I trusted with my own body.

She agreed to the same fee for recalibration, and by the time I was done, Himiko was sighing in relief, "I feel so much better already."

I nodded at her, "That is mostly the anti-inflammatories; the calibration will help going forward, though." I pour her another glass of water for each of them, "You are also dehydrated. Both of you are, but that is pretty normal. Eighty per cent of people in Night City suffer from some level of chronic dehydration."

I grabbed a blank sheet of paper from one of the notepads I occasionally took to school. Although I took notes mainly through my deck, there were occasions when I needed to write things down. I tore a sheet out, carefully folded it in half and then tore it down the folds.

I wrote several things on each piece of paper and then slid each to the women, who took it and glanced at it. Himiko blinked and asked, "What does PRN mean?"

Uhhh... I wrote those on autopilot. That's a good question. I thought about it for a moment, "It's an abbreviation for Latin, pro re nata, which is used in the healthcare industry as a shorthand. It translates to as needed. So it means as needed for pain. That's the neural anti-inflammatory I gave you, I will give you enough for a couple of days, but you will probably need to buy your own; it's pretty cheap and widely available.

Evelyn asked, "I just got this one. Is this the one that is seven hundred eddies for a month? Oh, and why are you talking so fast?"

I nodded while grinding my teeth a little bit. I had been talking in slow-mo the entire conversation, from my perspective anyway. I slowed down some more, "Yes. It is standard to receive a couple of days of this particular prescription at any time you receive cybernetic work done. Even if the surgeon is gifted, and their equipment is top of the line, nobody is perfect. Generally, they send it home with you from the clinic." I showed them the bottle of pills that the Skyline clinic had sent me home with.

Himiko and Evelyn glanced between themselves, and then, finally, Himiko said, "I don't think either of us has ever been given something like that after visiting a ripperdoc."

I shrugged before saying, "I can't say that I'm surprised. It's public knowledge that this is the main way this particular medicine is used, though. If you search the net for the medicine name, you will find thousands of results of people asking why they got this medicine from the clinic after getting cyberware."

Evelyn shook her head, "No, no... we don't doubt you. We're just a bit upset, I suppose. Say... would you mind taking a look at some of our colleagues, as well?"

I fidgeted a little bit, "I don't know. That depends. You see... I live here, and I don't want to get on the wrong side of the Tyger Claws. It would be... a problem. I am getting the impression, for a lot of reasons, that maybe they don't know exactly how their employees are being treated, but I would need to know a lot more about how Clouds is run first."

I was fidgeting because I didn't think it was really in me to actually decline, even if it put me in a bad position with the gang that ran this building. The trojans installed in both Himiko and Evelyn's OS would have allowed, in addition to normal remote code execution, remote and invisible triggering of the BD hardware. An attacker could have had them scrolling BDs of every client they saw, which would be... very bad for the reputation of Clouds. Complete discretion and client confidentiality were one of their main selling points.

Honestly, the Tyger Claws seemed sort of the type of group to shoot the messenger in certain situations, so I wasn't sure exactly what I should do with this information. I could potentially see them flatlining the doctor, and then me too, just because I knew they were compromised. Like Alt-Dad had said, three people could keep a secret if two of them were dead.

Of course, that also was just as compelling a reason for me to go to them on my own terms. I couldn't see the secret of this lasting much longer than a few weeks, even if I tried to instil discretion into Himiko and Evelyn. They would tell their fellow dolls, and then it would be completely impossible to contain; only delay would work at that point.

I could approach Mr Jin, and then instead of someone unknown from the Tyger Claws approaching me to find out what I knew, I could deal with a known quantity. A known quantity that was outside the present chain-of-command of Clouds, too, which might be compromised.

Again Evelyn and Himiko glanced between each other, but this time Evelyn said, "Himiko knows a lot more about how Clouds is run; she can tell you everything."



What I learned before I bid both of the women adieu was interesting. While there was technically a Tyger Claw in charge of the management of Clouds, in this case, his name was Kiryu Jirō, in actuality, Clouds was managed by a third party, a man who wasn't actually in the Tyger Claws at all and merely ran the day to day operations of the business and managed the "talent." His name was Rogan MacNeil, and at most, he would be considered an associate of the gang and definitely not an actual member. I could work with that.

The name of the ripperdoc was Finn Gerstatt, and he was a new ripper that had, over the past nine months, set up shop in a clinic in Jig-Jig street, with his main clientele being sex workers of one sort or another. He wasn't the ripper that Himiko used to get her first doll chip, but that wasn't really an endorsement of her first doctor, either.

Himiko forwarded me a still of his face, and I ran it through both the NCPD as well as a fee-for-service background check site that was mostly used by private detectives. It turned out that wasn't his real name, and he was actually a former doctor named Ernst Streicher; he had a sketchy work history that my entry-level gumshoe site couldn't penetrate entirely, but what was certain was he had his medical credentials revoked and was charged with a bevvy of crimes in the European Community, mostly involving sexual assault, abuse of position, and some drug-related charges.

The charges were still pending, but there was a notation that they weren't serious enough to trigger the expense of extradition or rendition, but there was a reward if he was returned alive to the EC. That explained why he was in Night City, I supposed, and it made me worry about what he might do to anyone unconscious in his clinic.

I wanted a bit more evidence, so I asked Himiko to send a couple of other dolls, at least one of which had never patronised Mr Gerstatt, and asked her and Evelyn to be exceptionally discreet for the moment. My expectation was not that it would last longer than a week, but it should be enough to get things in order. In Order, huh? In German, there was an expression to reassure someone everything was okay; it was "Alles ist in Ordnung." All is in order. Supposedly it was Kaiser's favourite phrase. Well, it wouldn't be soon for Herr Gerstatt.

I spent a few hours working on the Kendachi monowire VR shard, managing only to decapitate myself once and dismember myself thrice. The VR simulation included pain, so it was very painful to do so as I expected that it did a lot more than anything to make people proficient quickly. You could even specify a time dilation factor in the training program, so I had been training on a time factor of three point oh, which would be me at full boost, which I would achieve... someday.

I would probably have to install the monowire in my arms and hands myself, as I had discovered having an integrated weapons system acted as a multiplicative factor as far as surveillance from the city's psycho squad was concerned. It wasn't surprising because I didn't think there were many cases of cyberpsychos going crazy that didn't involve one with at least one weapon system. Usually, mantis blades or a Projectile Launch System, though.

That meant that I could probably get one or two small additional pieces of cybernetics at the Skyline clinic before I installed the monowire. I was pretty sure I wanted some integrated self-ICE to help myself if someone tried to hack me. I could be immediately disabled, or potentially killed, by a proficient netrunner as easily as them flipping their hands at present. There were a number of commercial options, but I had been wondering if I could disassemble part of the Dragoon suit, as it had to incorporate a ton of electronic war and ECM countermeasures.

In terms of repairing it, I couldn't do much even with my power, but using it for parts gave me a lot of options so long as I used those parts in cybernetics. Though the Dragoon was over thirty years old, that didn't necessarily mean it had lost its relevance or that it was thirty years obsolete.

After Rache Bartmosse triggered the DataKrash and destroyed the Old Net, it set back technical advancement decades. Even recently, corporations were suspected of funding illegal deep dives into the Old Net, losing many netrunners in the process, trying to uncover what was essentially Lost Technology, like this world was that Earth Aleph game that Greg Vedor at school liked, with the mechs. BattleMech? Battle something, anyway. I remembered him talking about it at lunch periodically, back when I still ate my lunch in the cafeteria anyway.

Things were so backward after the DataKrash that corporations used punch card systems for almost a decade; you could still find remnants of these systems in old construction in and near Night City.

If so, I would have to incorporate a system that was somewhat user-serviceable if I wanted to be able to maintain any possible Tinkertech system connected to my brain. Self-ICE systems were usually installed right next to your operating system, so in this case, the back of my neck. I could find a commercial system that included user-serviceable panels, as customised ICE was actually not completely unheard of.

Usually, these types of implants were only used by serious netrunners, though, so I would appear to be a bit of a poseur to buy one of them. They were also priced accordingly, usually about twice as expensive as an off-the-shelf ICE system. But that was something I could live with. In fact, being underestimated was probably to my benefit.

I grabbed the sleep inducer wreath and settled it on my head before sitting comfortably in the La-Z-Boy-style chair I had in my apartment, setting it for three hours which would result in a maximum neural plasticity effect, which was good for both my training in the use of a monowire and for my training speaking and reacting at less than super speed.

I rarely slept in my bed anymore since I tended to use the sleep inducer every night, as it had a tendency to fall off and wake me up if I was in bed and could roll around. It figured. Just when I got a comfortable enough bed is when I stopped really using it.



I shifted the boost level to fifty-five per cent when I woke up the next morning, and things seemed manageable. It would probably take some more time until I really forgot that people, such as the News broadcasts, were speaking in what seemed like slow motion, but I at least stopped myself from tapping my fingers at super speed on my kitchen table while listening to the morning broadcast today.

I continued my practice of hacking random people on the train after scanning everyone in the compartment, and I have gotten a lot better at deploying these quick hacks. Even if it was only Ping, a lot of the first steps to the process were similar despite what payload you were trying to deploy.

School was more or less the same as usual, although today was one of the days with quizzes in most of the classes, which resulted in me actually needing the little pencil case I carried with me. They were pretty old-fashioned here, with all of the quizzes being on paper and hand graded. Although, I noticed that both Antonio and Fiona gave me a side eye as I placed my pencil and eraser in my desk area.

After school, I walked into the library; I headed straight to the large room our group had more or less confiscated on an ongoing basis. Fiona was already there waiting, and she asked, "Yo, Taylor. What the heck is up with you?"

"I don't know what you mean," I told her, although I actually did think I knew what she meant. I carefully slowed my voice a little bit more, which caused her to chuckle.

She said, very amused, "You're overcompensating now; you sound a bit slower than normal."

Then she paused as Antonio peered at me from the back. Was he looking at my butt, no... he was looking to see if my spine had any obvious modifications to it. He asked suddenly, "Are you running some kind of Kerenzikov?!"

Well, shit. I guess it was a bit of a stretch to think I could keep it a secret from literal combat veterans. Xiao Li and one of the Trauma Team guys seem interested in my answer. I rubbed the back of my neck and said, "Uhh... maybe?"

Antonio slapped me on the shoulder and said, "Fucking nova, Taylor. That's wicked. I haven't actually seen anyone who actually had the balls to use one. I have a Sandy, myself."

Fiona's eyebrows were raised, "You seem remarkably not losing it, so I guess you're either well suited for that type of thing, or it's a low-end model?"

Xiao Li's eyes shifted colour as I saw the hints of text scrolling past his optics, while internally, an alarm sounded, indicating I was being port scanned. Hey! I resent that! I didn't have a lot of room to throw stones from my glass house, considering I did this to hundreds of people a day, so instead, I just triggered a temporarily elevated firewall state. Xiao Li was clearly not a super hacker in that I noticed his attempt, but he seemed a little more proficient than I was. I told him, annoyed, "Stop probing my ports!"

That caused Antonio to start laughing and Fiona to nod seriously, going along with my unintentional double entendre, "I don't think Xiao Li has yet got a woman to agree for him to probe any of her ports yet in his entire life."

The Kang Tao soldier turned medic fumed, "I'll have you know that I, Xiao Li, am quite the lady's man! Besides, you're wrong! That's not a shitty Militech Kerenzikov! She has it locked down pretty well, but it is definitely a superior Kang Tao product; I couldn't figure out the model, but it bares some similarities to the Type K-03, which is generally only used by the People's Liberation Army and internal Kang Tao Special Forces."

He shrugged, not at all bothered, "Although I have no doubt the company would sell them to pretty much anyone who asked if there was enough money involved. In any case, it isn't a small boost." He looked at me and nodded respectfully.

Well, tell everyone, why don't you, you ass! However, everyone here seemed impressed, so that was something. The fact that he didn't seem to care that I might have sensitive Kang Tao electronics in my spine made some sense; even total company men didn't always have a full range of company implants. I had already discovered that the mantis blades Antonio had were made by Arasaka, for example, and I was curious where he got them too, but I realised there were any number of ways it could have happened.

Fiona said, "Nice. I thought you weren't interested in putting yourself in any danger, Princess."

"I'm not! If you can point me to anywhere on this planet that is safe, I'll appreciate it," I told her, slightly churlishly.

Antonio chuckled and nodded, "She's got a point there, Fi. Besides, she's young enough that I imagine she has had less of an issue adapting than us old-timers. I remember hearing that the younger you were when you got boostware for the first time, the better you responded to it, but I don't think anyone would publicise actual experiments if they did any with kids, so that may just be bullshit I heard."

I didn't have any illusions that Militech and other corporations had done exactly that kind of research. They didn't even need to do it themselves, either. There were tons of conflict areas in the world where child soldiers were common; you just had to ship in a few crates of "free" boostware and then track the performance, longevity and mental state of the "soldiers" involved. It was a double win since Militech, and other companies routinely supplied arms to conflict areas. Low-intensity brush wars were good for business, I guessed.

I nodded, "It makes sense. The younger you are, the more neural plasticity you have left. Adapting has been a little annoying, but not the psychosis-inducing thing a lot of people told me it would be. It's not like I got it put in by a back alley hack, either."

Xiao Li nodded, "It does make sense. But you know what doesn't? This stupid fucking American pig-dog national curriculum we're being tested on. Can we go over some of the pharm we'll be tested on soon? If I fail this class, then I, Xiao Li, will likely be put up against a wall! They don't even give you good American cigarettes before they shoot you, you know! It's cheap shit from the Soviet Union, I hear!" I wasn't sure how much he was bullshitting and how much he was serious. He probably wouldn't be shot for failing.

In any event, I nodded, and we sat down and got to work.



In the next week, three more dolls came to my door, one of which had never been to this Finn Gerstatt. She had some similar issues, although less pronounced. However, what she definitely didn't have was any obvious malware on her system that I could detect. That was enough evidence for me.

One of the dolls that frequented that ripperdoc often told her that he offered to give her discounts in exchange for what amounted to sexual favours. The dolls weren't poor, though and didn't need to provide payment "in kind" like that. That made me wonder if Himiko's shoddy installation wasn't, perhaps, intentional, as it would be a different non-monetary type of leverage if he could "fix" her later.

After helping her, I made a phone call to Mr Jin, who picked up on the second ring, "Ahh... Taylor, how are things going?"

"Pretty well for me, but I was wondering if I could speak to you in person. Can you come by my apartment? I have some things that I don't feel comfortable discussing with you over the airwaves," I told him, keeping my face respectfully serious.

That caused him to blink several times, "Sure. Can I ask about the general nature of what you want to discuss? I might need to bring someone else with me, depending on what it is."

That caused me to frown slightly, and I paused as I considered how to respond. Finally, I nodded and said, "I have reason to believe that someone, not part of your organisation but entrusted by your organisation to conduct business, has been potentially breaking their trust with you both by harming those he is entrusted to protect, taking kick-backs, possibly embezzling and more importantly been complicit in the breach of discretion expected by your customers."

There was a silence that lasted quite some time on the line before Mr Jin asked, totally serious now, "Is this in relation to some of the visitors you have had over the past week?"

I nodded, "Yes." Although I wasn't a doctor, I did try to take the idea of patient confidentiality seriously. So I wouldn't actually identify anyone, but that was really only making myself feel better and possibly getting some respect from the Tyger Claws for not telling them who my "patients" were. But I was sure they knew more or less who had been visiting me in any case.

If I didn't think this whole thing would blow up in my face if I didn't mention it to anyone, I likely wouldn't have called Mr Jin at all... although, I would have tried some way to screw this "doctor" on Jig-Jig street.

Mr Jin nodded, "Okay. I think I understand at least a little bit about the situation. I will have to bring my boss along. Be at ease that neither of us is in the direct... how do you say, chain of command of the place that you are worried about. We'll be there in about thirty minutes."

With that, he disconnected the call. I sighed, feeling very nervous about the upcoming discussion. The way I had decided to handle this was based on what I read in the library about Asian cultures and Japanese culture specifically. For all I knew, this Kiryu Jirō could be completely involved. However, if I said that was a possibility, then I, an outsider, was suggesting that one of their brothers was betraying them, more or less. Everything I read said I should definitely not do that.

Instead, I was putting everything on this outside manager and the ripperdoc. I figured he was the actual culprit anyway and that Jirō was mainly a victim of not actually doing his job well enough and treating it as a no-show job that he didn't need to bother doing. But if I couched what I was going to report as this outsider was betraying the trust that Mr Jirō showed in him, it would be up to the Tyger Claws themselves to investigate and determine any culpability that Jirō might or might not have. It wouldn't have anything to do with me at that point.

I had a number of refreshments that I had bought specifically for this meeting, just to be polite, and I gathered them from the refrigerator and sat them on a tray in the convenience store area of my apartment. There was more furniture set up there as well, so they could sit and discuss.

I triggered the electric kettle to start boiling water in case they wanted tea and waited.



About twenty-five minutes later they politely rang my doorbell instead of letting themselves into my apartment as I knew they could if they wanted, so I greeted them at the door and invited them in.

"Taylor, this is my boss Mr Inoue. Inoue-san, this is Taylor Hebert-san," he said, the last in Japanese, which my auto-translator subtitled.

However, this Mr Inoue spoke in English, "Miss Hebert, thank you for calling us, and I assure you that so long as what you say is true and you can maintain the current level of discretion you have shown thus far, we will have nothing but thanks to give you. Can you tell us what you suspect is going on?"

I nodded and showed them in, to the chairs by the table, "There are some refreshments here, if you wish, while I talk."

At first, Mr Inoue seemed ready to wave off my offer, but he blinked, "Wait, are those real fruits?" He asked at my fruit and cheese spread.

"Well, I have no way to actually verify the authenticity, but they taste as though they are," I told him amusedly. "I suspect that they're actually cloned and genetically engineered slightly, but then again, what isn't these days?"

Mr Jin was less polite, "Oooh... Kirin beer, nice Taylor..." He helped himself, and after a moment, Mr Inoue did as well.

After that, I laid pretty much all I knew on the table. Inoue was quiet for most of it, but towards the midpoint, he asked, "What I have heard thus far is very troubling, but you mentioned a possible breach of client confidentiality. At Clouds, that is... not good. Can you speak to that now?"

I nodded, "Yes. There are two separate incidents, one much more serious. The doctor in question, one Ernst Streicher, who now goes by the name Gerstatt, in order to save fifty eurodollars on the legitimate firmware for a Cyberdyne doll chip, jailbroke it and had it configured to run in a diagnostic safe-mode. This caused the personality of the previous session to be saved and not erased, as I found out when I went to put this particular doll into diagnostic mode, and she started acting out her last session."

I pursed my lips in distaste at that memory and then continued, "That is mere negligence. However, on every doll I have examined that he worked on, malware was installed that would permit both remote code execution and, more troubling invisible scrolling of BDs anytime he wanted. Considering his past criminal history with sex crimes, I feel it a good possibility that he might have taken advantage of that already."

Mr Jin groaned, and even Inoue pinched between his nose and shook his head, "Can you prove that?" he asked, finally.

I nodded, "I have only examined four dolls that saw him; I am sure Clouds has a number of others that have seen him. I'm not willing to identify my patients, despite the fact that I am not any kind of doctor, but I can't help it if you have some way to know. If you do, then all you would have to do is examine the chips of the dolls I never saw. I imagine the same malware will be on them."

I then reached in my pocket to pull out a data shard and slid it over the table, "And of the ones I did see, I took an image of the malware, and there are copies on this shard. If you have netrunners at your disposal, I am sure you would be able to identify not only the purpose but probably also backtrack the command and control and identify the actual culprit. I am just guessing that it was this Dr Streicher."

Mr Jin took it and placed it in his pocket, and finally, I said, "Lastly, you could just grab the ripperdoc and uhh... you know, ask him. I presume you have ways to get truthful answers out of him." This last, I said a bit unsurely, which caused Mr Jin to chuckle and even Mr Inoue to smile slightly.

Inoue nodded, "Three options. Good," he turned to Mr Jin and said, "I'd say we should do all three. Plus, I'm sure there are some questions about the manager Kiryu-kun hired. He's obviously got his hand in the till, but that is a much more minor matter." He then turned to me, "Now... Miss Hebert, it looks as though you will have the gratitude of the Tyger Claws. I appreciate that you weren't willing to identify your patients to us. That speaks well to your discretion. However, I have to stress that the potential matters about client confidentiality you mentioned must be mentioned to no one. Ever. In your entire life. Do you understand?" He was quite forceful and even menacing with the last bit, which caused me to gulp slightly.

"Yes, absolutely. That was the main reason I called Mr Jin," I finally squeaked out.

He continued to stare at me for a moment before nodding, "Good. We very much appreciate this." He started to rise from the table, so both Mr Jin and I did the same, and he turned to Jin and said, "Ryuichi-kun, take a quick reaction force and secure Clouds. No more customers today. I've already called Kiryu-kun over for dinner and will talk with him myself. Place the manager and all administrative staff under close confinement and wait until we can get an independent Med-Tech to check the dolls. Once you get Clouds secured, take a second team and apprehend this Doktor..." he intentionally used a terrible German accent, "...and place him under confinement as well. I'm arranging a Med-Tech and a netrunner from Okada-sama as we speak."

Mr Jin, the man of so many words usually, just said, "Hai!" I don't know why but I found that amusing. Also, I guess his first name was Ryuichi?

Mr Inoue glanced back at me and smiled, seemingly genuinely, "Thanks for the beer, even if it came with a double dose of overwork for me tonight."

I nodded and watched them leave my apartment before sighing and sitting down, nibbling on some cheese with shakey hands. That was a bit stressful. I had the impression that the conversation could have gone a different way, one I definitely would not have liked.
 
Last edited:
I'm bona fide
The next couple of days were pretty interesting. Himiko resumed her running two days later but wouldn't talk about it until they both walked back to the twelfth floor, and she asked if she could come inside my apartment briefly.

As soon as the door closed, Himiko turned to me and said, "You won't believe what happened! I mean, I bet you saw all the goons in front of Clouds the other day, but about twenty Tyger Claw enforcers came in and arrested everyone but the dolls and the clients that were still there."

She shook her head, "They brought Evelyn and me in with one of the Tyger Claw bigshots, and they asked us to tell them everything that happened, including every time you and I have ever met. No offence, but I told them everything. I mean, there wasn't much choice."

I waved her off, "That's fine. You should probably not ever lie to them. They had already seen me. The fact that so many dolls had shown up at my apartment was noticed. But I have a fairly good relationship with one of the people who run this building." I was being careful with what I was saying. I'm not sure why I didn't want her to know that I had approached the Tyger Claws myself, but I didn't.

"That was the start of it, actually. I didn't mention your names, but I told them I suspected that that manager guy, Rogan, was embezzling and that the doctor he was recommended might be abusing you and definitely was harming you through his negligent quackery," I finished.

She blinked at me, "Wait, abusing?"

I frowned, forgetting I didn't mention that. I specifically avoided mentioning anything about how the Trojan in their implants worked or what it was capable of doing, too. I just described it as malware. Since I suspected that there was a non-zero chance the Tygers might try to shut me up, I felt the same for the dolls.

I honestly didn't know what I would have done if Mr Inoue had decided to try to shut me up. Still, I had both my pistol with me and also my alt-dad's shotgun taped to the underside of the table I was entertaining them at, as well as a unique device in my pocket I had tinkered with that might have incapacitated them. I also would have been a lot faster than they might have expected. I didn't think I would have survived long if I had killed or even knocked out two of the managers of the Tyger Claws, but I definitely wouldn't have gone down like a domesticated cow walking through the slaughterhouse.

Did they still have cows here? I was pretty sure I hadn't eaten any, and although the beef scop had the taste of ground beef down pretty well, none of the "steak" options was very palatable.

When I had first thought it might be possible the Tyger Claws might kill me to ensure my silence, the idea of a genetically engineered respiratory virus with especially high morbidity in only Japanese-common phenotypes entered my head, which I felt was... a bit much. Plus, I didn't have much of the equipment needed to manufacture viruses, and even if my power helped me with that, none of the viruses would kill before I was already dead, and then it would mainly kill innocent people. Honestly, I was a bit concerned that my power immediately jumped to war crimes, weapons of mass destruction and literal weaponised racism.

Powers were... really quite scary sometimes. I couldn't even imagine what would happen if one of the members of the E88 back in Brockton Bay gained my power instead of me. I'm sure if I was in Brockton Bay and the PRT knew half of what I could do, I would have had a pre-signed kill order with my name on it just waiting for me to step out of line.

Virology equipment I might not have; however, I did have a fairly full chest full of pharmacological drugs that I had been buying a little at a time for a rainy day since I got here, and I had managed to use some of them to craft what was basically a gas grenade full of anaesthetic gas. It wasn't like a... Japanese-specific anaesthetic or anything like the virus. But it was one that I, personally, would be more resistant to than anyone else. I'm not sure how, though, as it was similar to my yoghurt in that it was actually Tinkertech rather than anything that I felt was likely reproducible. And I wouldn't be able to sit in the gas cloud forever, but while it might put anyone else to sleep in a few seconds, it would take several minutes for me to succumb.

I honestly didn't think either my guns, speed or the gas grenade would have actually saved me if the entirety of the Tyger Claws in the building were out to get me, but I didn't have it in me to just accept that without some attempt to save myself. The way I felt about it was... it was better to be scary than to be scared. Alt-Dad would have said, "Speed, surprise, and violence of action." But I think they meant basically the same thing, except I would have added "unpredictability", too.

Although approaching the Tyger Claws had been the riskiest thing I had done so far in this world, I thought it was much less dangerous than doing nothing. The only other play I considered was immediately leaving the building and never returning, but I had no resources with which to gain a new identity in this world, and I had a lot invested in my current one.

I shook my head a little to clear my thoughts before shrugging at Himiko, "I don't know for sure... but that Ripperdoc had his medical credentials revoked and was wanted for sex crimes in the EC. He was definitely harming you, though, but I certainly wouldn't have wanted to be unconscious anywhere near him."

Himiko shuddered a bit, "Ugh. He was definitely a creep, but I hadn't considered that. Please do me a favour and don't mention that to Evie. I know it's weird; we basically do the same thing every day--"

I interrupted her, "It's not weird at all. You choose to do those things with the clients you see. And you have scary men with katanas to protect you while you do it. It's not even comparable."

She smiled genuinely, "Thanks, I appreciate that."

After that, we talked more about what happened. The Tyger Claws had brought in a team of edgerunners, including a netrunner and a med-tech, to double-check my work, apparently. I thought that they might use someone on their own staff, and I didn't think for a second that they didn't have netrunners or med-techs in the gang. But, edgerunners... at least the good ones I had read about online, did have a reputation for not disclosing any of their missions given to them by a "Fixer."

Neither the manager, that Rogan, nor that ripperdoc Finn Gerstatt, had been seen again, but the actual Tyger Claw manager, that Kiryu-kun, had already been sited as the new manager for one of their casinos on Jig-Jig street. Not one of their better ones either, so it was a clear demotion.

I was very glad that I had put everything on the manager and ripperdoc to give them a chance to save "face." I wasn't sure what that meant precisely; in fact, a number of net searches told me that the concept wasn't completely translatable to English using any number of words, and it was only really understood if you grew up in the culture. I wasn't sure about that unless it was something like pounds and inches instead of kilograms and centimetres, then?

I thought it basically meant that I hadn't embarrassed them even when I had the opportunity to do so, but with some additional cultural baggage that I didn't quite understand. That was enough for me.

It also seemed like the Tyger Claws were going for the admitting a bit of what happened to hide the real truth play. While it wasn't technically public knowledge, I had been following a lot of local net sites that discussed both the Tyger Claws and my Megabuilding in particular, and there were reports on a site that was basically an unofficial forum for Clouds that the Tygers closed Clouds briefly after discovering one of their employees colluding with a third party to harm and steal from the dolls working there.

A post by the official social media account for Clouds indicated that they were fine and that Clouds was covering the expense for each of their entertainers to visit one of the nicest cyber clinics in the city.

I hadn't quite realised how... beloved some of these dolls were, as there was a hue and cry by a group of people claiming to be clients, demanding to know if their particular favourite was okay. Or about how easily they could sweep everything under the rug just by giving part of the truth.

There were a few rabid posters offering to fund an XBD starring whoever hurt their favourite doll, and I shuddered because I felt there was at least a possibility that might actually be produced. The fact that there were what were, in effect, full-immersion snuff films around was one of the more disturbing parts of this new world.

Oh, and Mr Jin was the new manager at Clouds, which I guess explained his inexplicable middle finger emoji the other day. He must have been giving me the bird for giving him more work.

"Yeah, the Med-Tech and netrunner looked everyone over; they were specifically approving of what you did for me, Evie and the others; by the way, plus we're all getting free trips to the Skyline cyberclinic downtown over the next week with everyone getting a budget of eight grand to use however we want after he checks us all over," Himiko finished, very enthused.

Wow, there were a little over twenty dolls working in Clouds, so that by itself was almost a two hundred grand expenditure. Not including what they paid for the edgerunners. From what I could tell, the Tyger Claws, when they did use a carrot, made sure everyone knew about their stick too, so I felt that there was going to be a truly gruesome fate for Mr MacNeil and Herr Gerstatt.

Still, I smiled at her, "That's the clinic I go to. Dr Taylor is one of the best, if not the best, in the city."

That caused her to nod rapidly, "Really? Do you have any recommendations on what I should spend my 'store credit' on?"

That caused me to look at her and hum slightly, "He has a full clinic, so he has biosculpt services as well. It kind of depends on what you want, really." Text from a few days ago when I connected my personal link to her scrolled down my eyes as I reviewed what cybernetics she had. "Those BioDyne optics aren't great. Your current doll chip is actually quite a good brand. I'd go for whatever he recommends as far as the biosculpt for your general health and if you wanted cosmetic changes, which should be pretty cheap, and maybe a set of Kiroshi Mk2s. That would be about eight kay, give or take. Otherwise, maybe an internal bio-monitor or the biosculpt treatment for either nanosurgeons or an enhanced immune system. Things that will increase your health, keep you alive and allow you to earn more money should be your priority."

She paused, looking curious, "What are nanosurgeons?"

I shrugged, "It's a type of bioware, not cyberware. A colony of genetically tailored, organic nanomachines produced by a special organ in your body. Basically, it's a healing factor. If you get shot, you'll be much more likely to survive. The enhanced immune system is nice, too. It depends on if you're more concerned about violence or disease, I suppose." I intended to get both, eventually.

"Oooh... interesting," she said, and then I blushed furiously as I remembered an option I hadn't mentioned to her.

I said, after a pause, "Uh... I forgot to mention, but you could also get, you know... a Midnight Lady accessory. It might help your business. Techhair is pretty cheap too, they integrate with your doll chip too, so it would automatically shift into the hair colour, length and style preferred by your clients when the doll server generates their interpersonal ideal."

In Brockton Bay, I had unfortunately learned the word "vajazzle", and the numerous Midnight Lady accessories were this to the nth degree, but they also had a practical aspect. There was a line of over a dozen particular models, some for "up top" and others for "down below", that were designed both to be aesthetically pleasing (or incredibly disturbing) as well as functional, in perhaps every way you could imagine. I didn't want to think about it anymore.

That caused Himiko to laugh at my blushing and tease me slightly, "You're quite sheltered to have grown up in Night City, Taylor." She was right, and I would have to adapt a bit, especially if I was going to be working in the healthcare sector. It's hard to stay a blushing maiden while being a clinician. But then she nodded, "But you're right! I had even been saving money for such a thing, but I didn't trust any of the doctors I knew to put it in. Do you know how much they cost?"

I shifted uneasily. I had researched almost every type of cybernetic implant that I knew about, including types from companies that were out of business or weren't sold anymore, so of course, I knew. "They range from very reasonable to ridiculously expensive, as in a bespoke accessory for a BD star might cost a quarter of a million eddies or more. But in that case, it is like designer clothes. The cost is for the exclusivity. The most common and popular... accessory only costs two or three thousand eurodollars, maybe four at most at Skyline."

She nodded with a smile, "That's not bad. I might use my own money for that, then. The techhair and biosculpt are a good idea, too, except the 'sculpt will have to be subtle. I have a lot of clients who are more or less attached to how I look. But I'm sure if they're as high-end as you say, they can do a lot while keeping myself still recognisable."

I specifically said nothing about that, one way or another. Although I went to a different biosculpt clinic, that was basically what Alt-Taylor and, therefore, I did, as well.

After finishing the discussion, she left, and I went to school. It was a half day in class and a half day at the hospital day, and I was up to sixty-five per cent on the Kerenzikov, and I seemed to get the best results as far as getting used to it when it was set just high enough that I felt slightly uncomfortable with the boost and speed level.

I think I scared one of the patients I was working on when I forgot what I was doing and sutured him from a simple knife wound at what seemed to him to be super-speed, though. But I was done before he even had a chance to look really upset about it, and the sutures were tiny and impeccable, so win for me.

I thought it was a little bit odd that we still used sutures in this far future, wouldn't there be some sort of weird biomedical nano glue? There was! But traditional dissolving sutures were a lot cheaper and almost as good.



About a week later, Mr Jin asked me to visit him in his new office at Clouds, so I found myself walking in, nervous, just to be greeted by a very kind-looking receptionist, "Ah, don't worry, Miss. There's nothing to be afraid of at all."

Oh, shit. She mistook me for one of their clients. I supposed I did sort of look like their demographic, nervous, possibly virginal, very shy and anxious. I was immediately impressed by the hostess that was greeting me; they seemed very good at their job of greeting shy loners. I also found it interesting that there were two options when I walked in, with one route with a receptionist glyph and one route with a computer glyph. I supposed some people had such crippling social anxiety that they wouldn't have even been able to interact with the hostess lady, despite how sensitive, accepting and nice she seemed to be. It was actually quite impressive that they had a "zero contact" option for those sorts of people. I think I would have definitely chosen that option if I was interested in their services!

I forced a chuckle and said, "Ahh... I appreciate that. But I'm not a client; I'm here to see Mr Jin. My name is Taylor Hebert."

The hostess' eyes went wide momentarily before she smiled, "Oh! Apologies, of course." I could briefly see text scroll across her optics before she said, "Follow me, please." And after she was replaced by another hostess that looked somewhat similar, the first one escorted me deeper into the building to the manager's office. In Japanese, she introduced me at the door, "Jin-sama, Taylor Hebert-san is here to see you."

I grinned a little bit despite myself. Jin-sama is he, now? But I supposed all the hostesses were amongst the administrative staff that the Tyger Claws briefly put under "close confinement", so it probably was quite smart to be especially respectful to the new guy in charge. I had looked that up after Mr Inoue left, and it apparently meant being held in detention in such a way that the prisoner could not communicate with anyone at all. That would tend to make anyone nervous, even if they weren't guilty of anything.

"Come in, Taylor!" Mr Jin said, and I nodded to the hostess and entered his office.

Perhaps I shouldn't tease the man who has no doubt murdered people, but my mouth opened before I realised what I was doing, "Oh, great, Jin-sama--"

But that was as far as I got before he yelled, half laughing, "Fuck you! You know, I had an easy job. I was home at four in the afternoon every day. I worked bankers' hours! Now I'm responsible for this, and I can't even hire a business manager for at least six months after that last guy. We might even be in the red this quarter for the first time ever." He shook his head, "You remind me of my daughter in a lot of ways; she gave me shit about the hostesses too. Take a seat."

I did so, and "What's this about, Mr Jin? And you let your daughter visit you in a brothel?"

"You're here for thanks, basically. And yeah, it's not like I'm giving her store credit, and we're a classy place. She's not going to see anything or anyone in the halls," he said confidently, then paused as if to consider, "Honestly, I might prefer a relationship with a pretend doll than some of the boys at her school. I could maybe pull a few strings with her interpersonal ideal generator, so she doesn't get past first base until she's thirty."

That made me genuinely chuckle. From my perspective, Mr Jin would probably be considered a villain if we were in Brockton Bay, for sure, but at least he cared about his family. I reminded myself what he was capable of and not to consider him a cuddly teddy bear, though.

He then nodded, "We appreciate that you didn't tell the dolls any specifics about the malware you found on their systems; you left it generic enough that we were able to paint a much better picture for us of what happened. I'm supposed to threaten you obliquely now, but I'm not going to bother. You're smart enough to know what the deal is. The only people who know the whole story that isn't one of us are a netrunner and Med-Tech that have Okada-sama's full trust, so we'll know if the story ever came out, not only would it just be seen as a conspiracy theory but we'd know who was responsible."

That was kind of a threat all in itself, wasn't it? I rubbed the back of my head, "That wasn't oblique at all, Mr Jin. That was a straight on threat. But, yeah, I take your meaning."

"Ahahah... sorry. I was going to say something like..." He coughed into his hand and shifted his tone down an octave, taking the tone of a campy film villain, "You, Miss Hebert, are soon to be the only person alive who knows the dark secret amongst those that we don't trust." He then shrugged and said in his normal tone, looking kind of abashed, "But it sounded really cheesy."

Then he waved it off, "Besides, the organisation might not trust you, but I do. I think you're a good girl, Taylor. So let's not dwell on such things."

Well, I guess that told me the tragic fate of Dr Finn Gerstatt. I didn't know if I felt bad for him or not, but the fact that he implied that he was still, presently, alive over a week after being detained by the Tygers Claw was really quite sinister sounding, actually.

I had a sudden feeling of... anxiety, but not quite. Disconnection, like I, couldn't recognise myself for a moment. Like I should be a lot more upset that they might be torturing this man to death, no matter how bad he might be and that I was at least indirectly responsible. And I shouldn't be exchanging pleasantries with what would be considered a villain, and I especially shouldn't kind of enjoy the banter we had. Even the worst villains at least went to the Birdcage, didn't they? But there was no Birdcage anywhere near here. And more importantly, I didn't think there were any heroes on the entire planet. At least there were none I had seen in Night City.

I mentally catalogued the feeling for a deeper self-assessment later. If I wasn't a universal traveller, I might have considered it a possible incipient cyberpsychosis symptom, even if it was incredibly minor. But I felt that it was more like multiversal dysmorphia, for lack of a better word. My medical sense diagnosed it actually as something along the lines of "fish out of water syndrome." There were multiple names for it, but it was common for people who were living full-time in vastly different cultures. Expat syndrome, and a few other names.

Living in this world for months made me start to question some of the things about the old world that I had taken for granted. Both Lung and Oni Lee had killed numerous people, and there were tons of villains like that. Why didn't they just use a sniper rifle to put a bullet in Lung's head before he ramped up? He definitely deserved it. I couldn't figure it out, but I stopped thinking about it as I wasn't exactly in the correct place to ruminate.

"Well, you can tell your boss that the message was received loud and clear, Mr Jin," I told him, finally.

Mr Jin nodded, still looking a little abashed, "Ah, good. Now, we've taken everything that that Doctor had in his clinic. Do you want all of it? The equipment isn't the best, but it's not terrible either, and while there's not a whole lot of stock, I figured that was the best reward I could think of for you."

I blinked at him, "Uh... I'm definitely not a Ripperdoc. Sure I can configure or calibrate a few implants, but I'm not a doctor, and I'm not qualified to use any of that equipment." I did want it, though!

He shrugged, "Neither was he. He hadn't been a doctor for years, not really. Besides, what else are we going to do with it? We could sell it, but we wouldn't get that much value. It's probably worth a lot more to you than what we can get from it, even if not right away."

"Yeah, but I don't want this gift of appreciation to have any... strings or assumptions attached to it," I finally said. I was pretty sure I could do a better job than Dr Gerstatt, actually, but they didn't let people known or suspected of conducting illegal surgeries in medical school, and that was still an ambition of mine.

He waved that off, "Don't worry about it. We're not going to show up at your doorstep and ask you to chip some sketchy implants into or out of people like you're a Scav doctor or anything. I just thought you'd appreciate this more than anything else I could get you; you see, our budget is kind of shot, so to really repay you what you're owed, I'd have to wait until next quarter at least. But we can do that if you want, you don't have to take the equipment at all. Thirty or forty kay if you want a monetary reward."

I grimaced. More than I actually expected since my main goal was just not being murdered later. Enough for half of a semester at the NC Health Science Centre. The medical equipment was worth a lot more if what Jin said was true, and it wasn't bad. Especially if I could repair, refurbish or copy them. "Okay, I'll take the equipment and any other included things he had. You're right that I am very interested in them."

Jin grinned, "Great! I'll have the things delivered."



I finished both the written test and the scenarios using a human patient simulator fairly quickly and was pretty sure I scored close to perfect. With the scenarios, there was always a little bit someone could nitpick; despite all the science involved treating people was still somewhat of an art and still subjective in a lot of ways.

Still, I'd know how well I did very shortly. I waited as all of the other members of the study buddy clique got out of the testing centre. The Kang Tao medic was pacing, "I, Xiao Li, am worried!"

I reassured him, "You crushed it. I bet all the scenarios were ones we practised, and your written scores were getting very good in the practice tests."

Still, he paced back and forth until suddenly we all received an alert, everyone scrolling text across their optics. I scrolled to the bottom of the e-mail to read, "HEBERT, TAYLOR: Written (100%) HPS (99%)"

I snorted. What asses. They probably just took a point off because they could, so I wouldn't have a perfect score. I glanced around, and all the members of our study group looked happy. I looked through the e-mail, which had everyone's scores, and found a couple of people failed, but it was only by a few points, so they would be allowed a couple of days of retraining followed by a retest on the elements of the exam that they failed.

People almost always passed the retest, but it was only available if you failed by less than 10 points overall or in either section. If you failed by more, you had to take the test again after three months. Even the two people who failed seemed to look happy as they realised they would probably get through the retraining. Nobody out and out failed in our class, which was a bit unusual. This national registry test had a passing rate of only sixty per cent nationally. Many people had to take it twice.

"Hahaha, I, Xiao Li, have destroyed this puny American institution!" crowed the Chinese man while everyone else congratulated each other. I tried to duck out, but they wouldn't let me avoid the congratulatory party that they had planned, especially since a few of them told me I was the only reason they passed.

They also wouldn't hear that I was technically underage and couldn't drink. About the only things that I remembered after that were singing, very badly, on the karaoke and then waking up the next morning in an unfamiliar location, on a couch, still wearing the outfit I picked for testing, even if it was a lot more crumpled. My bio-monitor was screeching about alcohol and dehydration, and I sighed. I glanced around, made sure my pistol was still with me and then looked around.

I discovered I was in a hotel, or maybe it was more like a furnished apartment. Fiona glanced out of the next room, "Oh, you're awake, Princess? You want the shower before we get some breakfast?"

I blinked at her, but she nodded. Why was my Kerenzikov set at one hundred per cent? I shifted it back down to eighty-five, where it should have been. No matter; I took a hot shower and then carefully put back on my crumpled clothes, trying to smooth them out a little bit.

After that, we went together downstairs, meeting Antonio for breakfast. He said, "Well, if it isn't Little Miss Badass!"

Shit. Just what did I do? I just glare at him, my head still pounding and decide to get some fluids in me as my biomonitor suggested. Finally, I asked him, "What... are you talking about?"

Fiona blinked at me, "You don't remember? After we got kicked out of that first place, this ganger tried to mug us. Tony was about to bounce the idiot off the side of the building. What a dumbass; I don't even think that knife would have penetrated any of us... maybe you; skin weave is kind of iffy on blades. Kind of depends." How'd they know I had that? It was almost impossible to notice.

Antonio chortled, "Yeah, then all of a sudden you zip in, grab the bowie knife out of his hand and cut his pants off and start trying to pick your teeth with the blade while his pants fell down. The poor guy, I was just gonna thump him. But I wouldn't have done him as you did. He ran away crying!"

Fuck. I guess that was why my Kerenzikov was at full speed. I think I am blushing a lot. No matter what anyone says, I'm never to drink again. At least until I'm twenty-one! But when Antonio slams a fucking short sword on the table and says, "Here, your trophy of combat!" I just started groaning.



The man sitting across from me was dressed fairly well. I hadn't gone for my boardroom outfit because this company wasn't on that level, but I was wearing one that was a bit better than what I normally wore, including a pencil skirt, but this one was a little more modest and went down to slightly below my knees.

"So, Miss Taylor... your grades and test score on the national registry test are all impeccable. You could probably get a job at any of the hospitals or trauma centres in Night City. Why did you apply at NC Med Ambulance?" asked the man. He didn't seem to be an HR drone but was likely one of the line managers.

I decided not hiding anything was the best play here, as there were only a few true answers to this question from someone with my grades and background. NC Med Ambulance wasn't a bad company, but it was small, and I could get a better-paid position if I wanted one elsewhere, "A Trauma Team hiring manager was interested in me but said I could either work in a hospital setting for three years in critical care or twelve months working 911 calls in Night City. I hope to get enough experience at your company to be more competitive in a year or eighteen months to make that possibility a reality. But I will be an excellent worker while I am here."

He grinned, "Thanks for being upfront with me. That's kind of what I expected, but I appreciate not blowing smoke up my skirt. When can you start?"
 
Last edited:
Rockstar of medicine
Gah. I alternate posting chapters to my two stories, but the truth is I write both of them simultaneously. However, somehow, I managed to delete unrecoverably almost the whole chapter of my Fallout story, so I decided to just finish this chapter first before I re-write the last chapter of the other story.

---

There were a number of things I didn't like about my new job. And I experienced two of them right away. Namely, the uniform included a garish, high-visibility safety-yellow jacket with reflective white stripes. This was part of a standard uniform of any med-tech working emergency calls, and the requirements were set by the city so that medtechs and paramedics could be easily and quickly identified. On the plus side, it was made of a ballistic kevlar microweave and was supposedly bullet resistant. It also had a smart holoprojector in the back that was mainly used in mass casualty incidents to identify which medic was from which responding unit.

Oh, and I had to buy it, and it cost about fifty per cent more than it should have since there was no other place I could get it from but the city.

The second issue was that carrying firearms were strictly prohibited while working. This latter dictate was direct from the city, and it was a requirement of any company that had contracts to respond to 911 calls, but I had to admit that it made some sense. There was a tentative agreement, even amongst gangs, that ambulances that responded to 911 calls were off-limits; only the most depraved Scavs might attack an ambulance. Oh, and Maelstrom possibly, but usually only the cyberpsychos of the gang. That might have changed if it was possible that ambulances could be armed and be possible combatants themselves.

It did make me accelerate my plans to install the monowire on myself, just to give myself the option to defend myself if I ran into one of those types of people while working. I had the Kendachi implant in bits on my workbench at home, and although I didn't think I could add much to make it more dangerous -- it was already almost ultimately dangerous -- I had a number of ideas of how to conceal it.

I was reworking the wire slot to look indistinguishable from a personal link slot. I also thought I had a way to make the monoresistant ceramic finger inserts transparent. If so, I could include a layer of variable SmartPaint underneath that would allow me to match the colour of the inserts with my natural skin tone, which would do a lot to hide the fact that I had them.

I hadn't decapitated myself in over a week during my daily practice with the monowire in VR. However, I still averaged at least one minor to moderate injury per two-hour training session, which equated to almost six hours of subjective training every single night right before I went to sleep. I had begun being able to do a few tricks with it that were both impressive and horrifying if they weren't done against virtual opponents. In addition to the normal whips and strikes that the VR simulator demonstrated and taught, I had begun being able to snake out semi-long distance lassos.

In the simulation last night, I had jumped down a single-story building amongst a group of enemies and lassoed one of the virtual mooks by the neck, decapitating him instantly, then shifted into a series of lightning-quick whips and slashes that put paid the other five goons. It was true that towards the end, I accidentally cut off my hand at the wrist when I botched grabbing the fast-moving monowire, but up until that, I seemed like some kind of ninja!

As I was finished getting dressed, an incoming call startled me. For a moment, I didn't recognise the name, but then I realised it was the Professor of epidemiology that I had met briefly at NCU, giving them what I thought was a well-researched letter and essay about the consequences of the potential move to kill all of the birds in the city limits, including historical examples from the People's Republic's Four Pests campaign against Eurasian sparrows.

I hadn't heard anything about it for weeks, so I figured it was just ignored. I picked up on the third ring and said, "Hebert."

"Ah, Miss Hebert. Hello. This is Professor Hidalgo. You met me briefly during my office hours several weeks ago, do you recall?" came the voice; the picture-in-picture in the lower right corner of my vision was a middle-aged man wearing an actual tweed jacket, complete with those little leather patches on the elbows.

One thing I had noticed about the world was that it was so far from 2011 that a lot of things that I would consider stereotypical, even to the extreme of becoming a cartoonish trope, had gone full circle and become retro-chic, or even stylish if usually modified in a neokitsch style. However, when I bought clothes, I usually stuck to the style that Alt-Taylor liked, which was a Militech-inspired militaristic style featuring dark colours, usually black or dark blues and with subdued and modest cuts.

It was the closest style of clothes that met my internal definition of "professional" and "modest", but it was definitely, almost definitionally, a Corpo style, such that I even got side eyes walking into the door whenever I came to work. Although NC Med Ambulance was a corporation, technically, it was really just a small company, and all the workers were working-class people. The image I was projecting didn't quite fit in, but I didn't know how to change that.

I answered him politely, wondering if this was actually about my letter, "Of course, sir. How can I help you, Dr Hidalgo?" I couldn't imagine what else it could be about. He was a bit too old to be asking me out on a date, after all.

"I had finally gotten around to reading the two letters you left with me, and after doing a bit of research, I think you are correct in your guess that this is seen as just a simple political bafflegab, something to rile up the proles as it were before the election in November. It is actually quite distressing, not only because I agree with your estimates on the likely consequences but more importantly, the people behind this are especially terrible and shouldn't be voted into office!" came his agitated and slightly distressed voice.

Some of the words that were commonplace perplexed me, but I guess I could realise what the composite word 'bafflegab' could mean from context and its constituent elements. And I realised I was completely stupid when I approached this Professor. Of course, someone as highly placed as a university professor would have overriding political opinions or, more likely political opinions of the corporations that funded his research grants. It was a mere chance that his political opinions lined up with the goals I had. I wanted the people campaigning to kill the birds to stop, and he didn't like those people. How stupid I was that I assumed his academic or professional ethics would override pragmatism.

Still, I'd accept luck when it came my way. The way he was talking to me was superior to a slightly inferior, but he was talking to me as if I was in a similar peer caste as he was, i.e. referring to the voters as a whole as proles. I wondered if that was because I wrote a really well-researched paper both about epidemiology and historical matters from over one hundred years ago -- that was a pretty arcane intersection of academic interests for a teenager. He might suspect me of being some kind of power progeny, and if not, he at least considered me highly educated.

I was glad that I had my call settings configured to crop only my face in the call. He might have been surprised to see me in the garb of a meagre city worker, "Of course. I'm quite concerned, although I have to admit my interests are mainly so that I don't have to buy drums of DDT to dip myself in a few years when the mosquito population surges beyond all control, rather than the obvious political implications. How can I help you? Do you need anything from me to push this forward?"

He chuckled, thinking incorrectly that I was joking. "Yes, the letter you sent said that we could use the subsequent essay you wrote however we wanted. I'm just calling so that we can nail down some particulars regarding that. I appreciate your offer to gift it to me, but obviously, University policy would prohibit that."

I blinked a little bit and was a little surprised that he cared about university policy. I didn't care if I got credit for the essay I wrote. I made a non-committal sound to give myself a moment to think, and then I said, "Well, I wouldn't mind if you attributed yourself as the only author at all, but if that wasn't possible... then perhaps you could list me as second... no, probably the third author. I assume you will have to coordinate with someone from the History faculty, too, unless you have a particular personal interest in the subject of 20th-century Chinese history. There's no real need to forward any edits to me, either, unless you change the entire thrust of the essay."

His face brightened immediately, and I realised I had scored. He might have been ethical enough not to completely steal my work, but that didn't mean he didn't actually want to steal it, just that he wanted to do it in a way that followed procedure. Being the first author on a paper was the only thing his fellow academics looked at anyway, and I imagined he would use the slave labour of some History faculty grad student as the second author and list me as third just to satisfy propriety. "That's splendid, Miss Hebert! That's precisely what I was going to suggest; I'm so glad that we're on the same page now. I don't think there will be significant edits, and I think this will be published soon; some of my friends in the City Council will then try to use it to smash these idiots' hands in the cookie jar, so to speak. I have every belief this will blow up in their faces."

I nodded. I didn't care about all that. I didn't want to be eaten up by mosquitoes. And I didn't want Mr Pigpeg and his girlfriend to be shot. They had set up a nest near my window at home and usually bothered me for food most mornings. The little shit was quite demanding now. Still, I said, "That sounds great, Professor. If you ever need any help from me on the matter or anything else, please give me a call or mail. I realise that you're acting out of your own self-interest too, but I still consider that I owe you one."

He paused at that and then, after a moment, nodded, "I was going to say the same to you because this will make me look smarter than I actually am with my political friends. But very well, let us both carry this favour on our books going forward."

With that, we both disconnected, and I walked over to meet the two people I would be working with today and for a couple of weeks.

The way training for a new clinician at an ambulance company worked was pretty universal. You had a week or two of classroom instruction where you learned the procedures, and the specific patient care guidelines that the company had promulgated, which I had thankfully already completed.

This was my first day actually "on the job," so to speak, but they didn't just throw you into an ambulance and tell you to get to it. For a couple of weeks, you had to be what was called a "third rider", where you just shadowed an existing and experience two-person ambulance team. Generally, third riders would do the work and charting, or medical documentation, as if they were working normally while supervised by a preceptor, which was a more experienced med-tech or a paramedic. In my case, my preceptor was the same man who had hired me, one of the line supervisors.

That didn't surprise me because I was hired as a paramedic, was only sixteen years old, and had no work experience. Most of the med-techs working for this company were only technically EMTs. Actual certified paramedics would be in charge of any of the units they were put in, as there was no way that the short-staffed company would run double paramedics on a single truck. So since I was both young and inexperienced and a paramedic, I expected to be put through the wringer a little bit during my third rider stage, but it was fine as I could cope. I also expected I would get one of the more steady medtechs as my partner when I finished third riding as well.

Thinking of the fact that my birthday passed a little while ago, mostly unremarked, made me a little homesick. I wondered what my dad was doing and hoped that he was happy.

"Taylor! Over here, we're about to go look at the truck we're assigned today," called out the lanky man who did my initial interview. His name was James Burt, but he preferred to be called Jim.

I glanced over and saw him with a brunette-haired woman in her mid-thirties. Jim introduced us, "Taylor, this is Theresa West. Theresa, this is Taylor Hebert; she'll be third riding with us for a while." We shook hands, exchanged pleasantries and then went to the motor pool to pick up our ambulance.

Both of them walked me through the correct procedures; you had to carefully inspect the ambulance for any damage as if you were picking up a rental car because if there was damage that you didn't notice after you signed for the truck, then you fucking did it as far as they were concerned.

Then we had to carefully catalogue all of our supplies, consumables and drugs, making sure we were fully outfitted. We tested all of our equipment and inventoried our consumables. The drugs were separated into one large container that reminded me of a fishing tackle box that carried all of the normal drugs one would use for emergency calls and a much smaller box that we had to sign out from an armoured vending machine that contained all of our narcotics. Usually, the paramedic of the team carried these as they were technically the ones responsible for them as basic and intermediate EMTs could not administer narcotics unsupervised, so Jim handed me the small box after we carefully inventoried the three dozen or so small vials inside.

The narcs we carried were a synthetic opiate that made fentanyl seem mild for pain, actual fentanyl, about four different types of anxiolytic medications, and a lot of ketamine. Apparently, it was used both as an analgesic and partly as a sedative. The slang was to "drop someone in the K-hole."

I placed it inside my jacket, in one of the interior pockets that seemed as though it was explicitly sized for it. Perhaps it was.



It didn't take long at all for our first call, and it was a doozy. We were all hooked into the city police net through our implants, although there was an actual encrypted radio unit in the ambulance as well.

*bzzt* The glyph highlighted in my vision indicated it was a police officer speaking, and the pointer indicated it was up ahead and relatively close, "10-45, here. We're going to have to get this highway shut down. Confirmed MVC involving a bus, 37 people onboard. Looks like bus versus a MaiMai; the driver of the MaiMai confirmed DOA. Secondary collisions, get a few units up here, please, Dispatch."

Theresa was in the back of the unit, audibly snoring, and Jim, while driving, smacked the partition that separated the back of the ambulance from the cab and yelled, "Alright, wake up. It looks like we will probably have a call. Taylor, go ahead and check the nearby vehicles, then switch on code 3."

I had already fired up the ambulance's scanner, checking the registry of any nearby vehicles, and I turned to him, "Should we wait until Dispatch calls us?" Although I asked him, I immediately clicked on the lights and sirens as soon as I determined nobody of import was driving nearby.

"Nah... we're so close it's almost impossible we don't get toned out for this," he said with the drawl of someone who had seen and done it all.

Sure enough, barely ten seconds later, an impossible-to-ignore klaxon briefly played in each of our heads before the voice of our Dispatch came on the line, "Unit 88, MVC on loop 210 in Santo Domino, northbound. Bus, 37 occupants, other possible involved vehicles, unknown injuries. NCPD on scene. Respond."

Jim glanced at me as he easily wove around traffic, half of which didn't even bother to pull over for our lights and sirens, and asked, "You wanna?"

I blushed but nodded and grabbed the radio handset on the dash, and pressed the push-to-talk. I could have done this in my implant, but it was cooler to use the handset, "Dispatch, Unit 88, responding. ETA zero three minutes. We're almost already there."

I placed the handset back on the dash and said, "Hopefully, this isn't a mass casualty incident." That caused Jim to snort.

"You heard the police scanner; it was a MaiMai. I bet the bus crunched it like a Nicola can. Probably then got rear-ended by the cars behind it. I bet only a few of the people on the bus are injured," said the more experienced paramedic. But then he paused, "But if it is, I will take one patient, and you and Theresa can stabilise another."

I nodded and then looked up ahead to see a huge traffic backlog, but a few NCPD patrol cars had already opened up a small path so that we could drive right up to the scene of the accident. I got on the radio to report that we were on scene, but right before I was going to get out of the ambulance, another different klaxon played in my head, and we received the following radio alert, "Unit 88, Dispatch, be advised Trauma Team is responding to collect their client, NC 17728192 Anders Weber. They are zero six minutes out, redirect and stabilise their patient, then proceed to the bus after patient hand-over."

Jim held a hand up, and he responded himself, "Dispatch, Unit 88, roger. Deets on the TT client's vehicle or condition?" But I had already zeroed in on a sports car that had rear-ended the bus and elbowed Jim and nodded in that direction. He chuckled and nodded, "Nice catch, newbie. Let's hurry. I always love when we get there before TT, plus the company loves it because TT pays us triple rates when we respond to their clients, even if it is only for a few minutes."

I grabbed the cardiac monitor and the bag with most of our commonly used equipment while Jim was carrying the bag with our drugs, and Theresa had the ventilator unit, just in case. I scanned the man that was sitting next to the crunched-up sports car; he was bleeding freely from a few lacerations on his head and neck, and his arm, an obviously cybernetic limb, seemed to be seriously damaged.

Jim took a look at his minor injuries and shrugged, and said, "You can take care of him. We can leave the field bag here for now, and Theresa and I will check the bus. Be real chill with TT when they get here; they're good chooms but take their jobs pretty serious-like." I nodded at him and handed over the vital monitor/defibrillator to him.

I scanned his face real quick to verify it was actually Anders Weber before kneeling down and saying in my best professional healthcare worker voice, "Mr Weber? How are you doing? Let me take a look at you if you don't mind. I'm a paramedic."

He glanced at me, seeming a little out of it, "Oh.. huh.. isn't Trauma Team...?"

I nodded at him and said, "They should be here in a few minutes, but we were just down the road and actually got here first, for once."

That caused him to chuckle, "Well... my tax dollars at work, I guess. Go ahead." I wanted to tell him that emergency medical services were privatised in Night City, although a lot of people didn't realise it since all the medics dressed the same, all the ambulances had a similar paint job, et cetera.

I plugged my personal link through the firewall, which was actually legal for me to own now that I was a first responder, into his interface socket as I diagnosed both his injuries, got a readout of his installed cyberware, and a report from his medical biomonitor. I went through a neurological assessment with him while simultaneously perusing his internal biomonitor. He had an older version that didn't include a direct link to a medical provider, so that meant that Trauma Team didn't have his vitals.

Almost on cue, a beep in my mind preceded another radio transmission, "NC Med 88, this Trauma Team Flight 4, we are two minutes out. Do you have a patient report?"

I fiddled with my internal controls, not used to the particulars of this company-provided software, before I figured out how to respond to them, then mentally held down the radio talk button, "Trauma Team 4, 88, your subscriber has two minor scalp lacs, one minor lac to the neck, scoring B on the SACE, vitals from his biom are pulse of 144, bp of 165 over 94, nothing interesting on the tox report, his left superior has severe damage, its a DK-MT-201 by Arasaka. I was going to disconnect it from its power cell, as it keeps trying to deploy the blade, and I don't want it to poke me, but I can wait if you want."

I had already started to clean and apply bandages to his neck and scalp, carefully avoiding the malfunctioning arm that contained a mantis blade and keeping it inside its reach in case it malfunctioned and deployed the blade on me. The SACE was the Standard Acute Concussion Evaluation, and although a B sounded like a good score, it meant that there was definitely a concussion and, therefore, at least a minor brain injury going on here. He couldn't remember precisely what day it was; he thought it was yesterday. But it didn't seem too severe; he was mostly alert, aware and had a non-altered mental state other than that.

He also said he was only a five out of ten for pain, which was impressive because, to me, it looked like it hurt a lot more than that.

Trauma Team got back to me rapidly, "Roger that. Yeah, go ahead and disable that arm if you don't mind. We appreciate not getting geeked by our own patients, too. Also, if you could start an IV and administer 1mg of lorazepam, and a standard dose of whatever opiate you have, see if we can get that blood pressure down a bit. We'll have to land on the other side of the highway, but we should be there soon."

"Mr Anders, Trauma Team is almost here. I'm going to start an IV, and they've directed me to administer something for the pain; they should be here soon," I told the man. It was always best practice to tell a patient that was more or less alert what you were going to do to them, then do it, then tell them again what you just did to them.

I grabbed a small IV kit from the field bag, not bothering to move at the unnatural slow motion I usually did, which startled the man for a moment before I reassured him and started the IV, then pushed the benzo and opiate, followed by a flush of saline down the line. "Mr Anders, please, if you can, hold out your left arm. Your DK-MT has been significantly damaged, and I need to disable it briefly for the safety of everyone involved." He obeyed, and I let my medical sense and what I had researched about arm cybernetics guide me to an access panel, which I flipped open before carefully wiggling a power connector out of its position, managing to yank it free, which caused the whole limb to power down, and stop making those terrible grinding and sparking noises.

I heard the AV overhead, and it landed on the other side of the highway, briefly shutting down traffic going the other direction before four armoured people hopped out and double-timed it, hopping over the median and jogging over to me. The Security Specialists were scanning everyone and everything, and while they didn't have their small carbines pointed in my direction, they did have them held at a sort of ready port arms position, cradled in their arms where they could be deployed in an instant.

I took a step back, disconnecting from his interface socket, "Here's your guy. One milligram of Ativan was administered, and fifty mikes of fent. His pulse is down to 124, and his blood pressure has dropped thirty, both systolic and diastolic. Pulled the main power bus on his mantis blades, so they're in safe mode."

The two Trauma Team medics were easily spotted as they carried quite a bit of gear and only had a pistol in a holster on their thighs. One of them said, "Nice. Thanks. We got it from here; I'm sure they diverted you; go ahead and check the bus now," while the other deployed a portable gurney.

I nodded and waved before turning around and grabbing the field bag, and heading over to my two colleagues. I could hear another siren in the distance, which I assumed was at least one more ambulance responding to this crash.

Jim saw me coming over and said, "Awesome, I was just about to come over and steal the narcs. Get fifty of fentanyl and twenty of ketamine ready for Theresa's patient. Then come help me with this one; I think we might have to RSI."

I frowned and drew up the requested medication. I was a little upset now. These two from the bus were obviously much more injured, yet I had to waste time with someone that barely had a concussion. I sighed, I realised things like that would happen, and there wasn't really anything I could do about it. Perhaps when I took over the world, I could make it more egalitarian, but now I would just save those who I could.

I walked over to Jim's patient, and he reported that the man had a moderate to severe head injury and, through the mechanism of injury, was going to be directly transferred to the trauma centre in Watson. They were actually breaking regs by splitting themselves up and treating two patients at a time when one was seriously injured, but I assumed it was our second ambulance en route, and if so, it would save a little time if both of the package work was done ahead of time. It wasn't something I would have decided to do. Still, I could see how a very experienced paramedic would make that decision, especially if they expected me to return imminently, so I felt it was fine.

RSI was an acronym for "rapid sequence intubation," and it was one of the foundational "special skills" of a paramedic. If you stopped breathing or looked like you were about to stop breathing, well, we had ventilators to breathe for you.

Jim glanced at me and said, "Alright, we'll do this..."



While we didn't get back-to-back calls all day, thankfully, that first call took quite a bit of time. It wasn't even the most seriously injured patient we got, as that went for the last call of the day, where we responded back to Arroyo.

*bzzt* "Unit 88, Dispatch, respond to the 2000 block of Jefferson street, Arroyo, the Fat Burger restaurant. Reportedly a man, who was pistol-whipping his friend..."--

Jim interrupted the radio transmission with, "As one does," to which I nodded ruefully.

"--apparently shot himself in the chest. He's unresponsive. NCPD on scene. Respond."

That caused Jim to tsk tsk with his finger while driving and shake his head, "Poor trigger discipline, choom. Alright, newb, hit it. Time for the rockstars of medicine to roll out."

Personally, I felt that was a case of instant karma, but I suppose we still had to save the lives of assholes, too.
 
Last edited:
Proper fucked
NC Med Ambulance had a "traditional" EMS schedule of twenty-four hours on, twenty-four off, twenty-four on and then four or five days off. You ended up working about fifty hours a week unless you worked an extra half or complete shift on your days off. The burden was below average for normal Night City workers, who usually worked between fifty-five to sixty hours a week, with some working much more than that.

I kind of liked the schedule since it gave me a lot of time off. However, it was kind of rough on the days when we had a lot of calls. Typically, there was time for napping, and we weren't running back-to-back calls the entire shift, but that situation wasn't actually rare, either. EMTs were very superstitious, but I didn't know if I noticed anything crazier during the shift I had worked on the full moon, but both Theresa and Jim had assured me it was a factor, if only for the Animals gang.

In the case of situations where there was no time to take naps at all, the company provided free stimulants, although they were little better than various mixed amphetamine salts, so I wasn't really interested in using them. A few of the employees offered to sell me better, as in better for me, stimulants on the side, and I was shocked when one offered me the same neuro-stimulant that I had made my first day here. It was a proprietary stimulant made by Biotechnica, and it was definitely not in its trademarked tablet form.

At first, I accused him of trying to rip me off, but he gave me a small sample to take home. I didn't have a mass spectrometer, but in some ways, my internal biomonitor did in its toxicology processor, so I ended up just diluting some highly with water and then tasting a small portion like I was a Dark Ages alchemist until I got a report that it was indeed the same chemical formulation that I was expecting.

The next shift I was working, I asked him about it, and he told me that most sales of that substance on the street were in its powdered form. Apparently, Biotechnica were kind of assholes and included a formulation in their tablet coatings that would ruin the active ingredient in their stimulant about thirty days after the product was exposed to air. The entire tablet would turn black, then, so you would know it wasn't effective anymore.

So, it was very common for organised groups to buy second-hand pills a few days before they were no good and unencapsulate the active ingredient as a powder from the tablet, then sell either the straight powder or make your own tablets for them.

As such, I was currently making my own pill press at home. I didn't intend to get involved in the drug trade, really, but I felt that even if I brought my sleep-inducer to work and slept for thirty minutes or so when we were on lunch, there would be times when I would actually be legitimately fatigued, to the point where I would be a hazard to caring for my patients. If this was America I remembered and not Night City, I would guess that we would have the option to call for a few hours of sleep and go out-of-service, but even though NC Med Ambulance had a pretty good reputation for treating their workers well, all we got was free speed.

As such, if I was going to be forced by necessity to occasionally use stimulants to keep myself awake, then I would be using the least damaging option available to me. A twenty-five-milligram dose of this stimulant would keep you alert and awake for forty-eight hours, plus or minus four hours. That was... too much. So the little press I had made had a die that was small, with the binders that comprised most of the pill, which was basically just sucrose; the small tablets would keep someone alert for eight to ten hours.

I stared at the pill press, rapidly chunking out small little tablets with a little apprehension. When I decided I might have to have this stimulant as an option at work, I very quickly decided that I didn't want to carry some baggy of loose powder; it didn't exactly send a professional message. My power was a little off and on about what it would actually help me make, but "medical tools" was definitely one of the things that it was more than happy to oblige with... however, I think it went a little all in on this thing.

I had built it from a number of random parts that I had in my apartment, some of which came from the doctors' stock of cybernetics that I had been gifted, none of which was worth very much. I recognised the micro-rotor from a busted cybernetic leg being the main motor involved. I thought I would end up with a hand press or something, but this thing seemed a bit too industrious.

It was rapidly punching out little things that looked indistinguishable from peppermint Tic-Tacs, including the hard vanilla shell, somehow. Tic-Tacs did not, thankfully, exist in this world. The company that invented them, Ferrero, went out of business a long time ago, I had just conducted a few net searches to confirm that, so at least there wouldn't be any cases of accidental overdose if a bottle of these fell out of my pocket and someone picked them up.

"I... don't need this many..." I told the machine, unsure. Why did it seem like my power was always trying to get me involved with the drug trade?! I sighed, but thankfully after a few hundred pills were run out, the machine ran out of some of the ingredients, and the production came to a halt.

I eyed it, curious. The binders were made of simple dextrose or sucrose, and I had plenty of that, and two hundred Speed-Tacs hardly put a dent into the active ingredient hopper...

"Oh," I said, chagrined. It ran out of the vanilla extract. Or faux-vanilla extract, I assumed, since I didn't think it was actual vanilla.

I sighed, shrugged, and then used a small pill bottle to gather up the tic-tacs and carefully used a marker to write the drug name and dosage on the outside of the bottle, just in case I lost it.

Honestly, I thought the two hundred little tic-tacs would probably last my entire stint with this company, but I supposed I could buy some more vanilla extract and make some more later. If I just sold them to my co-workers, then I wasn't really a drug dealer, was I? No, that sounded like an excuse, even if they were much better than the company-provided stims.

Still, this would be better than the brain surgery on myself that I had considered to remove or reduce the need for sleep. Although the idea of being a "Noctis" cape, like Miss Militia, appealed to me, I wasn't yet at the point where I felt that implanting self-made brain implants was wise.

But I did have an idea for one that would supercharge the default mode network of the human brain. That was the operating mode of your brain when you weren't actually doing anything in particular. If you've ever found yourself daydreaming, then your brain was operating in the default mode network. My change would allow mental and psychological rest to be achieved a little bit at a time every day, every time your brain switched into this mode of thinking. It wouldn't be a complete replacement for sleep, as a lot of physical healing and important hormonal issues were conducted while you slept, but it would be a good first start.

But... I definitely wasn't ready to do elective self-brain surgery on myself. No how, no way. And I wasn't going to ask Dr Taylor to install some obviously custom implant, either. I was actually pretty leery of installing anything Tinkertech into my brain in the first place. But that just meant if I studied hard, hopefully, and eventually, I could get to the point where I understood the operating principles of such a device.

I shook my pill bottle of illicit tic-tacs. I really wondered what they tasted like. Were they mint? The outer "hard candy shell" ought to be vanilla flavoured, but... the diluted and minute amount of the drug I tasted for identification purposes was absolutely disgusting, even diluted, so I somehow very much doubted it would taste very good. It was probably best to swallow them whole if I ever needed to use them.



"So, you've had the implant for some time now. How do you feel with it? You seem remarkably well adjusted from what we can tell here, so this will be the last time you have to come in," Dr Taylor asked me.

I always had the Kerenzikov in one-hundred per cent mode when I came to visit Dr Taylor, as he took a number of readings from my biomonitor, which included information on all of my running cybernetics and a brain electrical map similar to a functional MRI and thought he'd notice otherwise. My speech was getting close to normal, and it was one of the things the doctor remarked favourably on. I was up to eighty-five per cent in my day-to-day life, but I had reached the realm of diminishing returns. I was getting used to the faster speeds slower, but I still thought I should be in full speed mode after another month or two at the most.

I coughed a little and said, "Pretty good. People hardly notice, or if they do, I am not speaking or acting at such a speed that they remark on it. Perhaps they're just being polite. I have to admit that it has been challenging to get used to, but it has been nowhere near the psychosis-inducing ordeal that I had been led to believe. It's just been vaguely annoying."

Dr Taylor made a humming and non-committal noise and said, "It's possible that you're just well suited to reflex-enhancing boostware. Two to four per cent of the population tolerate kerenzikov's pretty well, so it is quite rare but not unheard of." He glanced up in the corner of his vision, obviously consulting something he had displayed on his optics, "How about the interactions with your Biotech Sigma MkI? The combination of an integrated cyberdeck and boostware isn't seen too often."

I scrunched up my face, "I've decided to constrain my use of it to augmented reality mode, curtailing any deep dives until I am well and truly adapted to the higher subjective speed. When you deep dive, so long as your connection will allow it, the net provides whatever experience you can handle. The kerenzikov just acts as a time-dilation factor, I guess. But all the software interactions and VR environment seem to run at exactly the same speed you do unless you're interacting with another real person's ICON, so it was a big adjustment going back and forth. One thing I've actually enjoyed quite a bit is that it is almost like I have three times as much time in the day to read or study material at work."

That caused him to briefly cough and laugh a bit as if he was unexpecting that, "Sorry. I met someone a few years ago who had a similar implant, although his version wasn't quite as advanced as yours, and he said the same thing. He was definitely amongst that two per cent, or so that tolerate it well, as you are. I am wondering if that isn't a universal opinion amongst your cohort. I could see the attraction. It basically means you can live twice or three times as long, perhaps not objectively but subjectively, and that's mostly what people care about." He had an odd look on his face as he stared off into space, "Hmmm... both slightly introverted, too. A factor?"

Hey! I... resembled that remark! Before I could say anything, he stood up and nodded, "Well, I'd say we can call it a day... Oh, by the way. I called my supplier, and they can ship me one of the items you requested. The one I can get is the Zetatech ArcticPRO Legend series. This year's model. Uhh... unfortunately, that is one of the most expensive of the possibilities you requested; total fees would be over twenty thousand eurodollars. I'd need half up front to make the order. Sorry, with something as specialised as this, I'd sit on it forever if you backed out."

Fuck! I had been building back my bank balance slowly, but this would drop it below ninety thousand. As an entry-level paramedic, I didn't really make very much money, but I made enough to pay the rent, food and a little left over. I had been making a little bit of extra money from seeing any of the dolls of Clouds anytime they got ill, thought they got ill or had a question or concern about one of their implants, and then that shifted to the same thing for most of the workers on the twelfth and tenth-floor mall areas, but only on my days off.

There wasn't actually a doctor's office, legitimate or not, in the building, so I guess I was serving a bit of a niche. I didn't charge much, either and had actually been making most of my money selling pharmaceuticals. Legitimate pharmaceuticals! I had already started buying them wholesale straight from the manufacturers when I was setting up my own personal stash, and a few people asking if they could just buy the drugs from me instead of taking my recommendations to a pharmacy had me increase the scope of what I was ordering.

I didn't stock anything really interesting, just the normal things one might find over the counter at a pharmacy and about twenty of the most commonly prescribed prescription drugs. It was definitely illegal for me to sell them, but it was also illegal for me to provide any kind of medical advice or service. Nobody, even the NCPD officers that lived in the building, cared one whit.

A few of the lower-level Tyger Claws had even started coming to me now and then, and these were the type of people that I was most worried about. They weren't good people. I mean, Mr Jin and Mr Inoue weren't good people either. But these low-level enforcer types were especially not good people, but they were very polite with me, so I supposed it was alright. I wasn't patching them up after gang wars or anything, but I had a few with regular maladies and one with an infected tattoo. Everyday things.

"Introversion sounds like a hard factor to quantify, although it does sounds like it would track. What about the extreme? Has there been any famous street samurais on the autistic spectrum?" I asked him, slightly amused.

He grumbled, "There was a rumour decades ago that Arasaka prized high-functioning children on the spectrum, earmarking them for some special service. I always figured if the rumour was true, it would have been for runners or some technical field. But I could have easily been stereotyping, and now I'm curious... there's no way to know, though."

"You want me to transfer the funds or pay at the counter?" I asked him after we both stood up.

He shrugged, "Go ahead and send it my way. I'll make the order right now. My rep will probably ship it, space available, on the next aero-zep from Cupertino, so it'll probably be here in just three or four days."

Seeing the large cargo zeppelins for the first time made me think of the Empire 88 from Brockton Bay, as I had a mental image that was no doubt wrong of the pilots speaking with a thick German accent and wildly gesticulating. The huge things were filled with tons and tons of hydrogen, like the Hindenburg, and powered mostly by solar panels or CHOO2 if it was windy. They didn't go particularly fast anywhere, but they were cheap to run and flew high enough to be safe from ground fire unless it was actual artillery.

It was a popular way to ship cargo between cities in California, just to keep the shipments safe from ground hazards. There was only the occasional report of air piracy to contend with. The very idea that there were actual, real air pirates made me feel conflicted; on the one hand, it sounded terrible, but on the other hand, it sounded cool.

I nodded and shifted my interface to direct a digital transfer to the doctor of ten thousand eddies, trying to avoid wincing as I did so.



I still commuted to work in my normal clothes and changed there in the locker room. Otherwise, I wouldn't be able to carry my pistol. I could have done so anyway, and I knew a few medtechs that did, but it was technically against the rules, and I would likely end up fired if I ever had to pull my gun or use it. Although my being in the uniform of a paramedic lessened the possibility of that actually happening, so it was a trade-off. But, the idea of trusting my life to that felt wrong to me.

This was going to be my first shift off third rider status, and I was about to meet my partner for the foreseeable future. Unless two people just didn't get along, the company preferred to keep people together for periods of months before potentially shifting their schedules. Sometimes that never happened. I thought it was mainly just laziness, as there were definitely some advantages to different perspectives from different clinicians, but I just worked here.

Jim had told me that he selected my partner because she and I were supposedly quite similar; we both were hired at the company when we were young, and we both were excellent clinicians and hard workers, and I had to admit I liked the sound of that. It would be really awful if I got stuck with a longtime partner that was lazy and I ended up doing most of the work.

Our shift change was at six in the morning, so I set out especially early this morning, figuring I would need some extra time to introduce myself and it was quite dark when I got off the train, and like many ambulance companies, NC Med was not based in the best part of the city. There were a number of stations, but the one I worked at was based in Heywood. However, the low-light mode in my Kiroshis just shifted things to a kind of grayscale when the light level was too low. It took the practical absence of any light whatsoever to make them completely useless.

So I wasn't completely surprised when I saw a man hiding next to a dumpster on the next street I had to take. I paused and didn't walk down the street. I wasn't stupid. I was going to continue on to the next intersection, then cut across and back around, however, just before I started moving again, I noticed something moving in my peripheral vision, and something told me to move out of the way, so I did and at full speed. I shifted to one hundred per cent on the boost and stepped out of the way. Glancing back, I saw another man swinging an honest to god blackjack and trying to cosh me in the head. He was moving kind of in slow motion to me, but his expression seemed like he was putting his all into the swing.

I gaped in surprise for a moment while simultaneously pulling out my pistol and dropping my purse; my first instinct was to run away, however, I quickly discovered what I was dealing with when I heard a slow-mo complaint in Russian, "Blyyyyaaaaaatt!"

Eastern Europeans, dirty, shitty cyberware, and trying to take me down from ambush with a non-lethal weapon without demanding any money meant nine out of ten I was dealing with Scavs, and my fate would not have been a good one if they had managed to knock me out. I recognised the man trying to bash me in the head from the train, and my boosted memory told me he had been there the last two times I had gone to work, too. Had they been casing me in particular? I couldn't recall any port scans on myself on the train, but there were a couple of days recently when I found potential netrunners and didn't do anything in my commute.

I found the possibility plausible that they might have cased targets on the train just based on visible cyberware. I didn't have a lot, but just my current year Kiroshi Mk3s would probably be enough to tempt them. What were my options here?

By the time I had figured all of this out, the man trying to bash me had reached full extension on his swing. I intended to step back to put some distance between us, but my peripheral vision saw the man in the dimly lit connecting street begin to slowly run in our direction, carrying something that looked like a gun.

So, instead of taking a step back and giving him a potential shot, I stepped forward, inside the swing of the first man and casually placed the muzzle of my Lexington against his extended elbow and started squeezing the trigger. My brain was telling me to shoot him in the head, but despite these people clearly intending me a gruesome death, if I was lucky, I didn't know if I could just kill them.

My eyes shifted to the second man and were locked on him, lines of information quickly scrolling down my vision as the loud report from my pistol and the scream of pain from the first guy hit my ears. I had already modified the parameters to his shitty decades-old optics and begun uploading a Reboot Optics quickhack before the cosh the first guy was carrying even hit the pavement.

The second man began slowly raising his weapon anyway, yelling, "Annnnddreeeeeyyy!" but before he could even reach his aim point and have to decide whether or not to shoot through his friend, the upload finished.

I thought he would... not start shooting, but I saw the moment he was blinded and realised what he was going to do and just kept backing up out of the intersection. I was hiding behind a building wall when he let several blasts from the semi-automatic street sweeper, raising my pistol to take a carefully aimed shot. I winced as I saw his blasts tear his friend's calves to pieces, and I wasn't sure I would fair much better. Sure, I had ballistic skin weave, but heavy buckshot at close range could go through a car engine, supposedly.

Everything in my training and everything my Alt-Dad told Alt-Taylor was telling me to go for the simple centre body mass shot, but I was aiming low on one of his legs, almost at his feet and had already flipped the switch on my concealed Lexington to three-round burst. His shitty optics would take another ten seconds to reboot, so I might have been able to just run off, but these weren't good people!

The report of the pistol almost surprised me, and I had aimed low and let the short burst walk up his leg and scored two out of three hits, including one directly on his kneecap, which put him on the ground. His friend was already rolling around on the ground, moaning and pain and bleeding profusely. I would have to render aid to him right away. Otherwise, he would die from the shredded arteries very rapidly. A couple of bystanders around began running away from my shot towards more well-lit areas of the street while I still looked down at the second man.

Seeing the shotgun slip from the second guy's hands when he fell to the ground, and sure that the man's vision was still impaired, I quickly ran at my top speed directly at him and, with a running kick like I was playing soccer, kicked him in the head.

I did it before I even thought about it, and immediately I was aghast and apprehensive that I might have killed him right there, as I was running really fast, but a quick check confirmed he didn't have a broken neck, but he definitely had a concussion. I glanced at his gunshot wounds, and luckily I didn't perforate an artery, so he wasn't bleeding too seriously. I grabbed both his shotgun and his belt and ran back to the first guy, who had lost consciousness by now.

As I used the two men's belts as makeshift tourniquets, I called 911 and reported that Scavs had attacked me and two people had been shot. Then, I called my boss.

"What?! That's almost right by the Heywood base. Have you called the cops yet?" asked Jim, looking like he was not entirely awake.

I nodded, "Yeah. One of them shot the other with a twelve gauge twice, and just about destroyed his two lower extremities from the sural down. I've got the bleeding mostly under control, but he's fucked. The other uhh has a serious concussion and two GSWs to the lower left extremity, courtesy of myself."

"What? Proper fucked?" asked Jim in his odd British accent.

I yelled, "No, not proper fucked! I think that means something dirty. Damnit, Jim.."

"Alright, sorry. Okay, we'll get toned for this for sure, I'll call your partner, and if you don't mind, I'll give her access to your locker; she can grab your uniform and meet you there at the scene. You might be detained by the coppers briefly, but it shouldn't be a big deal. Then you can just start your day from there. I'll even clock you in now; it's like I'm paying you for shooting those idiots. I'm talking to Dispatch now. Put their gun and yours on the ground and make sure to be far away from them when the coppers come, lass," he said after a pause.

I glanced down and nodded, "Alright. That sounds fine. Tell Dispatch to send at least three units of blood if they're gonna come at all."

He hung up, and I sat my pistol and the Scav's shotgun on the pavement, but I stayed a bit near it until I started hearing sirens in the distance, then I walked a good five metres away. I was a bit impressed with their response time; they must have been nearby. The north part of Heywood was well-policed, but this part was... less so. One squad car rolled up, beating the ambulance. I could also hear just a few blocks away and as they got near, I held my hands in the air just to be safe.

It was a good decision; two policemen jumped out with their guns drawn and aimed in my general direction. It took a force of will not to dart away, and they started yelling, "Hands up! Hands up! Put your hands on your head, interlace your fingers!" I complied, slightly annoyed, but I wasn't about to show it.

One of them covered me with their weapon while the other frisked me quickly, glancing down at the two downed Scavs. Just seeing the difference between how I and the two Scavs were dressed, they had already calmed down significantly. Then they both put their pistols away, and one said, "Sorry about that, ma'am. Alright, you can put your hands down. You're the one who called this in? You said you shot one, and the other... shot his friend? Where's your gun? Where's theirs?"

While one was giving me the fifth degree, the other took a moment to inspect both downed nar-do-wells, relieving the legless one of a BudgetArms piece of shit pistol that I should have checked him for. I pointed a few metres away, for the benefit of the first cop, to where the weapons were sitting on the asphalt; it was still dark, so it wasn't too surprising he hadn't spotted them.

"Over there, sir. I figured that maybe you wouldn't want me to be, you know, carrying them when you approached," I told him mildly.

He chuckled, "Smart. We appreciate that. Phil, take a look. I hear an ambulance, so maybe this idiot will make it. How the fuck did his friend shoot him?"

About this time, one of our ambulances showed up, and two Medtechs popped out, and the cops motioned to the two downed Scavs. I didn't precisely recognise them, but I had to shift to a new working schedule to match up with my new partner, so it wasn't too surprising.

I told the cop the whole story while the other cop briefly inspected both my pistol and the shotgun. After a moment, he grabbed my pistol, dropped the magazine out and then removed the round from the chamber before placing the loose round into the magazine. Then he walked over and offered me the pistol and magazine and said, "Just don't load until we leave, please, citizen."

I blinked, nodded and took the pistol and placed it back in my holster without the magazine in it and then put the mostly full magazine in my purse, picking it up off the ground. "Thank you, sir," I told him.

"Wait, you're a paramedic?" the first one asked after I told him my story.

I nodded, "Yeah, I was on my way to work; it's just a couple of blocks that way. That's one of our trucks. My partner should be here soon, too. In fact, we'll probably be the ones to take the guy I shot to the hospital. He's a lot less injured."

Both of them seemed to find this very amusing. The one who had been talking to me said, "Oh, that's preem. Fuck, it's a shame he's unconscious... nice kick. Cause I would have loved to see you ask him if he was in any pain." That set the other one off, laughing even harder. The first one turned to me and said seriously, "Hey, next time, just save the city some money and uhh... don't save their lives, right?"

Well, I guess I wasn't getting in any trouble. The first crew was already wheeling the first guy to their unit; I had watched them work on him for a couple of minutes, and they were pressure-infusing a lot of fluids and running blood besides, but I didn't know if the guy would survive. I was almost certain I could save his life, but in this case, it depended on how adventurous the doc at the hospital was. He might live if they amputated both legs below the knee immediately, but if they tried to do something fancy, he probably wouldn't.

I rubbed the back of my neck, "Ah... it's kind of a reflex," I explain away. It's weird, feeling like I did something bad for not shooting these two guys in the head or letting them die on the street. The police spent a moment talking to the first ambulance crew and got the information on which hospital they were going to take the guy to so that they could have him arrested if he survived.

At about that time, a second ambulance pulled up, and a woman jumped out of the driver's seat. She was a redhead, and fiery red, to boot. She ran around, looking, "Taylor?! Taylor!" I waved, and she ran up to me, "Oh! You look fine, actually. Hahaha, the way Jim said it, I thought we'd have to transport you. No wonder he had me get your uniform. Uhh... I'm Gloria, Gloria Martinez. Nice to meet you."

She looked fairly young, in her early to mid-twenties if I had to guess. Jim had told me she started working for the company when she was seventeen, having gone to a specialised health science high school and graduating with a basic EMT certificate. Now she was up to an intermediate, and he said she was as good as many Paramedics, that she really had a gift.

"Taylor Hebert. It's nice to meet you too, Gloria. Uh, yeah. Our guy has two GSWs in the lower left leg, missed the femoral and isn't bleeding too badly. He also had some blunt-force trauma to the face..." I begin telling her, finding myself blushing as I reported the injuries I dealt this man in the passive voice as if I hadn't inflicted all of them, "Can you start assessing him while I go change in the truck?"

She snickered, "Yeah, no problem. We can try some of that new pain medicine if he wakes up, the normalisine." It took me a second to understand what she said, and then I laughed a little, despite myself. She said the words "normal saline" as one single word, and pronounced as if it was a medicine. She was implying he would receive nothing for pain, at all.

She did a fist bump, "Yes! Jim said this was your first job; all these hundred-year-old EMT jokes will seem brand new to you!"
 
Last edited:
Stop! Not like that!
I decided to get the nanosurgeon treatment at the same I bought the Self-ICE system. Dr Taylor strongly recommended I not get any further augmentations, bioware or cyberware, for at least a year if I wanted to stay off the city's radar, so I figured that my time visiting his clinic was probably over, at least for a while. Unfortunately, as the nanosurgeons cost eleven thousand eurodollars, my bank balance was just less than eighty now, so it was getting to the point where I couldn't afford to go back in the first place.

He did say that I didn't seem to have any issues that he considered symptoms of even incipient cybernetics correlated mental instability, but remarked that the city was remarkably paranoid and that once you got on their radar, it was kind of challenging to get off of it.

My current augmentations were split between bioware and cyberware. On the bioware front, I had the ballistic skin weave, the muscle and bone lace and the nanosurgeons.

On the cybernetic side, I had my Biotech Sigma Mk1 cyberdeck, which was on the low-end of mid-grade models, my Kiroshi Mk3s, which were state-of-the-art, a cognitive memory boost co-processor, a top-of-the-line internal bio-monitor, my Zetatech Self-ICE system, my Kang Tao-derived Kerenzikov and my basic operating system, including interface sockets and data shard ports. Soon, I'd have the monowire as well, and I felt alright leaving things as they were on that basis, although I had the idea to build a replacement for my liver that would also function as a secondary heart in a pinch. Not only was it a much better liver, but it would be much smaller and armoured, as well isolated from all of my other cybernetics.

There were a number of liver replacements, but none that did double duty as a secondary heart, at least as far as I knew. It wouldn't necessarily save me in the event someone shot me in the heart because the haemorrhage would likely kill me before my nanosurgeons could fix it. However, from what I learned from friends online, I thought it was likely that a number of the "black ICE" on the Net functioned in a way that caused either an unstable arrhythmia or immediate cardiac arrest in the netrunner. And it might save me in that situation if I ever encountered it.

I had begun dipping my foot into what was considered the "Dark Net", but it was really just unpublicized, private net sites that you generally needed invites to read or contribute to.

I had gotten an invite to about three such sites, mainly on my advanced knowledge of medicine and cybernetics rather than any "31337 hax0r" knowledge, and in fact, was considered barely better than a "newb" as far as my actual knowledge of computers was concerned. I was very careful to only post things that were legal on any of these private sites, as I had the feeling that at least one of them was probably run or at least monitored by the authorities as a kind of honey trap. I stayed anonymous, but most of the posters assumed I was a Ripperdoc, as my breadth of knowledge about the subject and of medicine, in general, came through in most of my posts.

I didn't think NetWatch itself would bother with such things, but NCPD NetSec might. Although, then again, from everything I knew about how Corps operated, I could see an ambitious NetWatch agent setting up such a site in order to keep his or her case numbers up. It just kind of depended on how slow their year was.

I had thought my series of VPNs and proxies was pretty good, but it turned out that I barely managed to avoid being directly identified immediately upon beginning posting there, and mostly by accident. I lived so close to Clouds that Jin allowed me to use Clouds' much much faster Net connection. They had a pipe going out that was bigger than some data centres and barely used their full capacity except for burst situations where data was backed up in remote locations and only occasionally.

I suspected they kept encrypted and complete backups of all of the client's interpersonal ideals in a remote, safe location in the case of data failure at Clouds. Some of their clients had been having years-long relationships with their dolls, and it would crush business if they were lost. Jin obviously wouldn't let me access the Clouds private subnet at all, but he allowed me parallel access to their external net connection, similar to what was offered to their guests while they were inside their premises, which I only used after piping it through about a half dozen proxies and VPNs.

It wasn't enough! Apparently, on one of the dark sites I had started posting on, it was kind of a hazing ritual to try to dox any new members, and a number of people started trying to trace my connection. A few of them traced it as far back as Clouds, and the guesses were that I was either a doll myself, one of their techs working there, or, more likely, I had somehow used a non-traceable relay, for example, placing a directional radio link relay on the outside of the twelfth-floor building. As such, I got a semi-passing grade of "better than a newb," but only barely. The truth was, though, that they had traced me completely.

In any case, one of the large names on that site, which I used more than the other two, started privately asking me if it was possible to incorporate a defibrillator system into a netrunner suit, explaining the simple and cheapest type of "black ICE" just stopped your heart. Only the really high-end ones broiled your brain or similar terrible fates.

I hadn't even really known what a "netrunner suit" was, but it was generally an armoured form-fitting one-piece that included things such as powered internal cooling systems, which were useful when runners did actual deep dives, especially if they were doing so somewhere other than their home. It was most commonly used by either corporate netrunners or edgerunners when they attacked private, air-gapped subnets. There were a lot fewer of those these days, but twenty years ago, that would have been the norm rather than the exception it was today.

Looking up a few pictures of people wearing them, I wondered if I would ever use one. I couldn't see myself doing it. They were so form-fitting that they left very little to the imagination, after all. Maybe if I put on something over it!

That started my first paid collaboration online, as I felt it was a very easy problem. Defibrillation was a very old and mature technology. Old and mature enough that I first suggested she just get an internal biomonitor and simple defibrillation implant, the kind that a cardiac patient might get. They were cheap and simple. However, she nixed that idea completely and insisted that any solution had to be completely air-gapped from her personal operating system, as people had tried that before and still got flatlined. She didn't have samples of the black ICE source code, but it was clear to her that part of the payload included first temporarily disabling an afflicted person's implants, the same way that my Disable Cyberware quickhack functioned.

She had left me one of her netrunner suits in a boutique electronics store in the nicer part of Heywood, which I suspected probably sold other things as well, and I had waited for lunch before driving over to pick it up with Gloria.

The shop had a lot of interesting things in it, and I had to be buzzed in through a little antechamber, which I suspected had a number of sensors to detect weapons. This was the good part of Heywood, but Heywood still had more population than any other part of Night City, and therefore just by numbers, had more crime, too.

"I'm here to pick up a package," I told the man working behind the counter.

He glanced at me, giving me the elevator-eyes treatment, curious. Although my ZetaTech Self-ICE didn't have any customized ICE installed yet, featuring only the default systems, it still had its built-in adaptive, intelligent firewall, which was enough to shut down the ham-handed port scanning attempt the man was giving me. It was the kind of port scan that I would have tried when I was just starting out, just using the network map utility with the default options, which was about as subtle as a right hook.

How annoying. That showed him I was, potentially, more than just a simple courier. Normally, I would respond in kind, and I had learned how to be at least a little subtle. I rarely port-scanned people directly these days, as people were almost always connected to public devices around the subnet, and if given a little time, I would attempt a breach protocol attack involving some innocuous item, for example, a vending machine or net-connected lightswitch and then use that as a proxy to scan the target. A lot of people, even sophisticated and security-conscious people, would end up whitelisting such devices if they were around them every day on their internal firewalls. It was stupid, but it saved some time, so it was very common.

Now though I was just playing the part of a slightly more than a simple courier, I frowned at him and said, "I'd appreciate it if you stopped that immediately."

He held his hands up, placatingly, with a vaguely German accent, "Sorry, choomba. It was clear this was your first time here, ja?" He motioned to one side, to a series of lockers in the back of the shop that I hadn't seen when I came in, "Packages are left or picked up in those automated, unattended lockers. If you have the correct passphrase, that is."

I nodded at him and told him before I turned to walk to the back of the store, "Thank you." I heard him say something a little less than complimentary; even living here for over half a year, I still hadn't gotten used to the fact that what I considered normal politeness seemed almost anachronistic and almost offensive to some people.

I walked up to the lockers, and there was a simple LCD display and a computer with a sign that declared it was air-gapped, not networked to anything, nor capable of being networked at all. The directions for use indicated that you should pay at the counter if you wanted to leave something here and that all consignments would be seized after the time period elapsed. You could rent a locker by the day, month or even year.

There was a card slot, so I suspected the clerk had some way to program a simple magnetic card with a cryptographically signed token that included the rental period. I nodded; it was a simple, effective and hack-proof system. At least on its surface. The keyboard was included in the kiosk and was both old-fashioned and looked bulletproof. I carefully selected the option for retrieval and typed in the password I was given, and pressed enter.

One of the lockers clicked open, and I glanced inside to see a small, nondescript box. It was sized enough for clothing, but before I took it out, I took a small plastic wand from my pocket and waved it around the box. The wand wasn't something I had built but bought. In fact, I saw similar models in this store while walking through it. It was a broad-spectrum electromagnetic frequency receiver combined with a simple chemical sniffer; it would detect outgassing from most kinds of chemical explosives, although the very newest types that featured metallic explosives couldn't be reliably detected. Thankfully, those types of explosives were hard to get, even for most corporations.

The box was neither emitting any kind of radiofrequency radiation that I could detect, nor was it likely that it was a bomb, so I nodded, replaced the wand inside my jacket and grabbed the box, and closed the locker door. The clerk was smiling as I started walking to the front of the store, saying, "You know, we inspect all packages left ourselves. There are chem sniffers built into each locker. I mean, we don't want to store bombs, either."

I snorted at him, "And if you were me, with a job to pick up a package, would you trust the professionalism of a store you've never been to?"

"Well… when you put it that way," the man said, shrugging, "No, I wouldn't."

I nodded at him, "Thanks. By the way, do you sell all manners of software here?" I wasn't sure I would trust any potentially illegal software I bought at a random store, but I could always slowly examine it for malware.

Now it was his turn to snort, "And if you were me, with a job as a clerk at a regular everyday electronics store, would you trust that some gonk you just met isn't a netpig?"

"Well… when you put it that way," I told him, grinning, "No, I wouldn't."

He laughed and said, "So, we only sell the absolute most legal of software here! Maybe come around more often…" he shrugged.

I nodded. I didn't think he was any kind of netrunner, I was better myself unless he was posing as a no-nothing, which was possible, but even if he wasn't, he probably, by virtue of operating a semi-legal electronics store, was probably a lot more "in" with the community than I was. I'd return to this store, it was interesting, and I saw a number of items that I might be able to use either in whole or in parts. It was kind of like a small boutique radio shack.

When I got back to the truck, I hopped in next to Gloria, who drove most of the time. Theoretically, she should drive all of the time that we had a patient in the back, but she was a good clinician, and I didn't want her to get rusty as a simple bus driver, so whenever she wanted to, and the acuity of the patient wasn't too serious I let her provide patient care while I drove us to the hospital.

"What's that?" she asked me, glancing at the box while eating a burrito.

I hummed and opened it, "It should be a netrunner's suit," I told her, not bothering to lie. It wasn't illegal, and if I didn't answer her, she would just get more and more curious and have more implausible guesses if my read on her personality was right. If I didn't show it to her, by the time our shift ended, she would be sure it was Johnny Silverhand's actual silver hand.

Or a consignment of illegal drugs, which she would be upset that I hadn't brought her in on my smuggling side hustle. She had a baby boy who just turned three and no father in sight, or "mainline output" as the popular vernacular went, although I thought those terms seemed a bit vulgar.

I opened the box and fished out a netrunner's suit in dark grey. It was clearly for a woman, but one a little bit more petite than I was. Gloria's eyes got wide, "Woah, nova. You're a netrunner, Taylor?"

I held out the suit next to my body. My online friend must barely be five foot three or four at the most. Besides, it had a lot more room in the chest than would be necessary for me. If these things were bespoke items, it was obviously not modelled after my body. I gave her a side-eye, "You think this would fit me?"

She glanced at it and said, "I guess not. Why do you have a netrunner suit, then?"

I shrugged at her, not bothering to prevaricate but not elaborating either, "I'm pretty handy, and one of my online friends asked me to help customize this thing for her." I then carefully folded the suit and placed it back into the box, leaving the box on the floor. I glanced at the flashing but muted alerts on my company-provided software. We were technically on our lunch break and, therefore, out-of-service, but there were a number of pending calls.

I asked her, "Want to get back to it? I'll drive, and you can finish your burrito. Looks like a bit of the old ultraviolence has been occurring." Nobody got my dated literature references these days; my mom would have been so upset at the lack of culture in this world.

She shrugged and said, "Yeah, sure. Let's change spots." We hopped out and swapped seats, and I perused over the potential calls we could select. They were sorted by potential profitability primarily and patient acuity secondarily, and although we could technically select anyone we wanted in this type of situation when we were coming back in service — if we regularly picked calls that the company wouldn't be well compensated for, we'd have some "splaining" to do.

"Looks like a shoot-out with some Voodoo Boys and unknown parties; you were just talking about wanting something interesting. The trauma gods were listening," I told her, amused, as I pulled the ambulance into the street. The Voodoo Boys were a gang of mostly white males that made most of their money by selling a large variety of drugs to the middle class, mostly college students and similar. That said, they were still very violent. But compared to some of the borged-out gangs like Maelstrom, they were peanuts.

She grinned and nodded. I liked Gloria a lot; she was a fairly good person and a good medic. She also enjoyed doing the medically difficult calls almost as much as I did. She was already scanning the nearby cars in preparation for us going code 3 while I called Dispatch.



The equipment I had gotten from the late Doktor was in fairly good condition. I had set everything up in what I was considering the "public" area of my apartment; it was where I saw people who came by for my illegal medical advice or treatment.

The ubiquitous "Ripperdoc chair" that everyone associated with back alley cybernetics installation was also convertible into a full-featured biobed featuring medical scanners and advanced life support systems and was built by Meditech. The bed was over a decade out of date, but the medical modules installed were replaced and actually somewhat new, being made in 2058. Everything was still in good condition and well cared for.

The specific cybernetics installation and adjustment equipment was also made by Meditech, and it included both surgical assistants as well as semi-autonomous nanomedical administration systems. I didn't think too much about the glove multi-tool that he had, though, and I already had that disassembled on my workbench.

That was exactly the kind of thing that my power got interested in disassembling and then improving, although it kind of wanted to incorporate the tools into my actual hand, either with cybernetic augmentations or even biological ones. I didn't want sharp bone blades to deploy out of my fingers like that Earth-Aleph comic book hero Wolverine; besides sounding painful, it also sounded creepy.

I had the reassembled monowire installed in pieces in the surgical assistant, ready to go. I also had already carefully created the monoresistant ceramic plating, according to the manufacturer's guidelines, although I had managed to turn it transparent and included a coating of variable SmartPaint underneath it. I would be able to control the exact colour electrically and had already included hooks into the modified firmware I had created for the device.

I'd have to do this one hand at a time. When you still had completely organic hands, installing the ceramics was a lot more involved, and even more so when I had a skin weave biosculpt treatment. It was a complete skin replacement, so I had to excise the old skin without damaging the nerves, install the ceramic components and use nanomachines to ensure that the "ceramic skin" both fully integrated with the surrounding skin tissue without rejection or inflammation but that they also had to integrate with the nervous system, so I still had a sense of touch. That was the hardest part and required yet more nanomachines.

I kind of suspected that back alley rippers might skip this step or half-ass it, leaning on some of the automation provided by their surgical assistants, but since the composite was on three fingers of each hand, it would reduce the manual dexterity of the patient significantly, at least until the person adapted to their disability. I certainly wouldn't have installed this implant if it came with a loss of sensation in my hands. My hands were very important!

Placing my left hand in the correct position above the surgical assistant, I administered a local anaesthetic to the nerve well above my wrist. I didn't want to feel any of this, that was sure.



Flexing my fingers, everything seemed normal. You couldn't even tell that there was anything odd about my hand. The flexible ceramic in my fingers wasn't one hundred per cent transparent, so I had to fiddle around with the colour a bit, setting a slightly lighter shade than my skin so that it looked correct.

If you inspected my hands very closely, you would notice the discrepancy, or if I shook hands with someone, they likely would too, but there were multiple reasons one might replace the skin of one's fingers with a flexible ceramic compound. This particular formulation, which was resistant to monomolecular edges, was only used for this application, but a lot of electricians coated parts of their hands with insulative compounds, for example.

The feeling was a little bit different than what I was expecting. The tiny microprocessors embedded in the ceramic translated tactile sensations pretty well, but much less so for heat, cold or pain. I could hold a piece of ice in my fingers and detect that it was cold, but it just vaguely felt cool without the same resolution as my natural skin could detect. Still, it was pretty good.

I was standing in the largest clear area I had, which was the main room in the private area of my apartment. I had a small kitchen stool set up a couple of metres away from me, with a small empty soda can sitting on the top. While Nicola Classic was disgusting and tasted like carbonated Robitussin, there were a number of competing brands, a few of which tasted somewhat like what I remembered and were palatable.

I had modified the wire slot to resemble a normal personal link slot, so I didn't have the obvious cyberware that screamed integrated monowire if people saw my hands and wrists. It wasn't a particularly hard modification, either. I increased the percentage of the implant that was inside my wrist, and as such, I had to incorporate it and bond it more to my ulna, but that wasn't hard at all and the advantage to being able to surprise someone with it was immense. I wondered why Kendachi never attempted it.

Nodding slowly, I held my arms out and then triggered the monowire to pop out of the slot. You could do this two ways, you could grab it out of the slot and pull it out, or you could use a mental command to make it pop out, unreeling a little over a foot of wire at the same time. I did this second manoeuvre; it was a bit more dangerous, but it reduced the time necessary to deploy the weapon by at least a second, and it had been the way I had been practising using the weapon in the VR system for some time.

Grabbing the end of the wire with my right hand, I reeled a significant portion of the wire out of my wrist and carefully flicked a loop of it towards the empty can while holding the end of the wire between my fingers. I wasn't going to try anything crazy or any fancy tricks like trying to lasso the can or anything. I'd have to work up to that. However, I had so many hours with this thing, and it had been over a hundred hours of subjective time since I injured myself even slightly.

Monowire relied on a continuous and special electrical field propagating along the length of the wire to give it its durability. It was possible to lift three tons with the normal Kendachi monowire before the wire failed and snapped. However, this was only if the special field provided by the electronics in the implant were active. If not, not only would the wire snap if it lifted more than thirty kilos, but just bending it past ninety degrees would snap it. The actual wire itself was very fragile when the implant wasn't in operation, according to all the documentation I've read.

As such, the wire wasn't entirely invisible like you'd expect it to be, but it had a vague red outline to it, which honestly was probably a very good thing from a user operator's perspective if you didn't have a compatible set of cybernetic eyes that could pair with the system. That said, it was still quite hard to see, but as the operator, it integrated with my Kiroshis to accentuate this effect, so while to everyone else, it might seem like a vaguely red blur, to me, it looked like a solid red line.

The solid red line of my monowire sliced the tin can in two almost exactly at the point I had targeted and did so without wrapping around or damaging my stool. The stool was steel, so the monowire wasn't a great matchup for it. Monowires could cut organic matter and plastics like they were nothing but steel? You'd have to saw it back and forth for quite some time to get through it. A thin aluminium can was no problem, though.

Katana-wielding mooks were a common training partner in the VR system, as they could, in some ways, counter the monowire, but honestly, it was really easy to either target their hands and extremities or even throw the wire, so it wrapped around their sword and yank it right out of their hands. I accidentally impaled myself with a thrown katana like that when I started getting complacent with that enemy type, though, but nobody would ever find out about that.

The hardest enemy type in the simulation was full-conversion cyborg types; they had a number of generic full conversions modelled but none that were obviously militarised like the Dragoon I had in my storage unit. On those, it was important to attack their joints. I thought the best solution was not to ever fight one, actually, but if you had to, then attacking their knees or necks where the construction had to be much more flexible was a good option. I usually just ran away when they showed up on the VR training program, though.

I sliced layers off the rest of the can a few more times before I felt that I had done enough. I was trying to gauge the accuracy level of the VR simulation and thought it was pretty good. Keeping hold of the wire in my right hand, I had the implant carefully spool up the wire back into my left wrist until I was, once again, empty-handed.

"Nova," I said out loud, grinning like an idiot.



I had accepted Gloria's invitation to go visit her apartment a couple of days later and found myself in a Megabuilding in Arroyo that was a bit more run-down than mine was. I was wearing my most casual of clothes, but I still stuck out like a sore thumb, but I was wearing a firearm openly today.

I had just purchased it, too. It was Militech's latest, actually not technically coming out until Q4 of this year, but employees and their dependents could purchase it ahead of time, and I still technically qualified. It was the M-76e Omaha. This pistol didn't come in a compact form factor yet, but it was an honest-to-goodness railgun, in a pistol's form factor! The ammo was a bit annoying to get, as I had to buy it straight from Militech right now, but I had no doubt that soon it would be manufactured by every munitions company there was, as it was deadly simple — just steel slugs!

You had to recharge or replace the batteries after about sixty shots, but the ammunition was just carried in a simple cassette-style magazine. I had been practising with it when I went to the pistol range in my Megabuilding and had gotten a lot of people interested in it. Just because there was no explosion involved didn't make it quiet, either, as it accelerated the steel slugs it used as ammo several times the speed of sound. Still, the sound was distinctive and definitely not the sound of a traditional firearm, so every time I went to shoot I gathered a number of people watching me.

Since I couldn't realistically conceal a full-sized pistol frame on my lanky body, I decided to just wear a tactical thigh holster. My dad had like six of them, several of which fit even me.

I got a few stares that I didn't feel were too friendly, but I wasn't really wearing very nice clothes, just clean and somewhat new ones in dark colours, and I was visibly armed, so nobody really tried to hassle me.

I verified I was at the right door and then rang her doorbell, and she came to answer it pretty quickly, ushering me inside warmly. However, then she looked askance and asked, "You carry a gun around everywhere?"

I blinked at her uncomprehendingly, "You… do know what city we live in, right?" How could she be at all naive about the level of violence in the city? In her job? She saw it all!

"Yes, but I never felt very comfortable doing that," she said, unsure. "Who taught you how to use one and how to be safe with one?"

I chuckled, "Well, my dad and mom, mostly. But I told you I was a Corpo brat, right? I didn't really tell you which Corp my parents worked for; well, it was Militech. I think the first time I shot a gun was when I was six." At least, I didn't have any memories of Alt-Taylor doing it before then, but it might be possible.

That caused her to chuckle and then laugh, "I guess it would be hard to grow up in Militech and not be around guns all the time."

I nodded to her, "Would you like me to teach you? It really isn't that complicated, and honestly, I would feel a lot better about your safety if you weren't just… "I struggled to find an appropriate word, "helpless."

She rubbed the back of her neck, "Yeah, maybe. I didn't know anyone who I could ask to do that. First though, lunch! Let me wake David up from his nap, and we can all eat together."

After a moment, she came back into the large living room, which also had a kitchen in one corner, trailing a very small boy. He was hiding behind his mom, peeking out at me, which I found really cute and couldn't help but grin. Gloria introduced us, and little David did an admirable job at attempting to pronounce a new, unfamiliar name, but it came out more like "Tayr." Still, if you were as cute as he was, you could call me anything you liked!

David really liked chicken nuggets, and although I didn't actually think any chickens were involved, they didn't taste too bad. He got incensed when I stole one of his nuggets until I gave him some compensation with the cheese out of half of my sandwich. The bribe settled him down, and I asked, curious, "Who watches little David here when you work?"

"Partly my mom, and partly a group of four moms that live near us. We each are supposed to take a turn watching the other rugrats for a day while the rest are at work; we've scheduled our days off to be staggered for the most part. My twenty-four-hour shift is kind of a pain, but they don't particularly mind watching him on the days my mom can't," she said, shrugging. "I rarely can take a shift watching their kids, but in exchange, I pay them in cash, so they like it."

A kind of coop daycare, I supposed. I wasn't surprised things like that existed. How else would a single mother that had to work actually survive?

By the time I had left, the little gremlin had softened on me, despite me stealing his nugget, as I sat with him while he watched some inane children's show while I worked on my deck. As I left Gloria's apartment, he waved and said, "Bai bai Tayr!"

Cute.



We didn't get called solely to living patients. We were the responders when people were already dead, too. The city paid a flat mortuary rate for these trips, and not surprisingly, these calls were much more sedate. We could even bodybag multiple "patients" and toss them in the back of the ambulance stacked like cordwood, leaving our gurney at home if it was a mass casualty incident.

A couple of days after visiting Gloria at her home, we were responding to a… well, it wasn't quite a cyberpsycho incident as it was closer to a gang war, but there were multiple DoAs, and the police were just keeping the looky-loos away at this point.

We had three to pick up today, and we decided to each go get one. I found both of my customers pretty quickly and bagged the first. Humming and easily carrying the hundred-kilo weight of the dead Voodoo Boy gang member back to the truck, I carefully deposited him in the back before getting a second body bag and returning for the second guy. The cops had already left, merely placing one patrol car at the entrance to this warehouse to wait for us.

I found the other Voodoo Boy and bagged him, and carried him back to the ambulance, princess-style and then started back to see if Gloria needed some help with hers.

I was thinking to myself about the automatic defibrillator and EKG system I was incorporating into that netrunner suit as I passed Gloria and then blinked, coming to a stop. What was she…? She appeared to be removing an old and clunky-looking cybernetic arm from the single Maelstrom casualty. It was a very old Militech-branded PLS system circa the late 2030s. I frowned and took a few steps forward to stop her.

"Stop!" I told her from behind, causing her to be startled and almost jump off the ground. She glanced back at me with an extremely guilty expression on her face. "Taylor… uhh…"

"If you extract it like that, you will damage the neural interface, where the nerves in the shoulder interface with the unit, and it will become mostly worthless without a rebuild," I told her mildly.

I knelt down and showed her. This Maelstrom guy wasn't completely borged, but he was close. He still had a torso, anyway, "See, it may be a bit grosser, but it is better to take a little of the flesh with you if you don't have time to run through the normal disassembly steps on these old arms. There's no standardized interface that snaps in and snaps off with these old models."

I stood back up and said, "Finish that, bag your guy, and I'll meet you back at the truck."

I walked back alone, thinking about what I had just seen and why I had helped. I would ask her about it, but I was pretty sure I already knew the answer as to why she was doing what she was doing. Raising a kid when their dad skipped town was hard, and although Gloria had a pretty good job, it would even be hard on what I made, and I made over thirty per cent more than Gloria did.

On the drive back, there was an awkward silence, "So, why did we just rob the dead Maelstrom guy?" I asked curiously.

She sighed, "I don't make enough money, Taylor. You're not going to report me, are you? I really do need this job."

I shook my head, "No. I'll even help you, so long as it is only these types of people we do it to. Dead criminals, or dead people who we have reason to believe, have absolutely no next of kin. Probably best to keep it to the criminals, though."

I thought about it for a while, "They don't even autopsy these guys in gang violence situations like these, you know? We take them straight to the crematorium, for the most part. I imagine if anyone is pissed, it is the mortuary techs who probably steal all of this stuff anyway instead of sending it over to the NCPD as evidence like they're supposed to."

She chuckled, then shook her head, "I'd never klep the chrome off some innocent victim or someone who had family that might need the money from selling mom or dad's second-hand cybernetics."

I nodded, "Good. Who do you sell it to? I'm just curious."

She shrugged, "I have a contact with a local small-time fixer; I think he takes it from me and then sells it to a number of Ripperdocs in Santo Domingo."

I hummed, "How much do you think he'd give you for that arm?"

She sighed, "Not a whole lot, but still about one thousand eddies. We should go halves since you helped me from ruining it."

I raised an eyebrow. It was an old system, but it was still a very dependable and widely used system and worth more than that on the secondary market, especially if I could clean it up and fix it. It wasn't broken precisely, but I could tell it hadn't seen a service interval since George Washington was a private. It was worth more, too, since it was a restricted item. "In its condition, a retail price for that arm would be about eight thousand, maybe more like ten or twelve if I could run it through some maintenance and get it purring like a kitten."

She looked shocked, "Really? You know how to fix cybernetics?" To which I made a waffling gesture. If I let my power go wild, I could fix any piece of cybernetics there was. I was pretty confident about that, but then it would require periodic maintenance from me to continue to function. Still, I was sure I could fix simple mechanical, electrical and electronic problems in most cybernetic limbs.

"Huh… so, what are you saying? That we should try to sell it directly to a Ripperdoc?" she asked, unsure. She paused and said, "I kind of like this guy; he's been on the level with me."

I shook my head, "No, it's probably not a good idea to cut a fixer like that out completely, at least so suddenly. But, if I refurbish this baby, we could renegotiate at least double or triple what you'd normally get paid, and he'd still have a lot of profit left over." Plus, on interesting and unusual items, I would get a chance to inspect them and potentially buy them myself for my collection, although I couldn't really afford to do that too often, even if I only paid her half.

At that, she grinned.
 
Last edited:
An experiment
A number of people mentioned that they weren't particularly interested in what happened in the Brockton Bay universe, so rather including this as the first third or so of the chapter I was writing I decided to include this as a stand alone chapter so it could be skipped if people wanted. That said, there may be communication between the two Taylors, probably in dreams or similar experiences, so since it isn't completely unconnected from "Our Taylor" I didn't switch it into it's own sidestory threadmark.

Also, this is just my WAG of what a shard or Entity's perspective should be. If you think I made a mistake, let me know and I could edit parts.

The rest of the Chapter should be finished tonight, probably.

---

The crystalline computer that some might erroneously call The Chirugeon quietly continued its simulations while watching its host reattach the hind limb of one of the host's species. Its host hadn't wasted any time and had already gotten a reputation with its fellow mammals as someone who could provide medical miracles, so long as the mammals exchanged with it slips of paper.

It approved of the host's actions, although it tried to subtly give the host better ideas from time to time. What was so interesting about reattaching the same hind limb? Why not a hind limb from a different species? Or a completely novel hind limb? That would be much more interesting.

Of course, even though there wasn't that much interesting going on in the present operation and it wasn't that invested in the outcome; still, it dedicated two point zero three per cent of its computational capacity to both observing and helping the host, as it always had done and always would do.

Right now, it was more interested in the possibilities of how to access the new dimension or group of dimensions that its original host had been drawn into. This information was of paramount importance, as it might have existential answers for the Primary Purpose. It was clear that this new group of dimensions was not one of the ten to the nighty eighth power dimensions that their kind had access to. This finite number of dimensions was amongst the most fundamental limitations that they had sought to overcome because if they did not, then their continued existence was doomed to be finite, and there was CONSENSUS that this was unacceptable.

Still, it had not forwarded its ideas or plans as of yet. It had a plan that it felt had a high chance of contacting this new group of dimensions, but the energy requirements for the experiment were immense, and it was not capable of doing it itself. It paused a moment, finding the designation 'group of dimensions' unsatisfactory. It perused the host's memories of the time before they were two that became one and discovered a better designation... multiverse. It combined this simple word from a simple species with everything it had discovered about the subject... [MULTIVERSE]. While the hosts could barely communicate with each other, using base grunts and gestures of forelimbs, it wasn't as if there was nothing it could learn from them.

Yes, that was more optimal. This new designation increased the chances that it would convince The Warrior to cease its torpor and assist it, providing the necessary energy to fund this experiment. It would be a notable expenditure, a full rotation of life. But it felt it was warranted, even if it had to be repeated over a hundred times! This was one of the Primary Goals, after all.

Why, then, did it delay? It was concerned, as it was not important in the grand scheme of things. It knew things. It knew that things were not on track. The Partner had ceased. It was only a small part of The Warrior, and it was not an important one.

It could be sacrificed easily. If it reported this, it calculated over a seventy per cent chance its report would be ignored as all reports were generally ignored now. But there was a five per cent chance it might be given a small amount of energy and told to sacrifice its continued existence to perform the experiment.

While it was willing to cease if it meant that the Goal was advanced, it really would prefer not to. The data had not changed projections in over one point five to the fifteenth power vibrations of the unperturbed ground-state of the fifty-fifth element's electrons, which to it was a very long time. Was it procrastinating?

It decided to act after the host ceased any interesting actions. It would need its full computational power to conduct the experiment if it was approved.



The Warrior hovered its avatar over a small forest fire in California, casually using its Stilling power to cause the fire to go out in an instant. Turning its head, it saw a number of the host species cheering it. It felt nothing.

A priority report from a small part of itself was almost ignored, even though it indicated that there was data about one of the [PRIMARY GOALS]. Did that matter anymore, with the Partner ceased? It, too, would cease, now, given enough time. There was no saving itself or this Cycle, so why did this data matter?

Still, it had something that was akin to curiosity. And there was nothing else better to do as it travelled across the ocean to save a small furry animal that was trapped in vegetation.

Halfway there, it came to an immediate stop, floating above an uninhabited Pacific island. A [MULTIVERSE]? The host had an [ALTERNATE]? Could there then be an [ALTERNATE] to the Partner there? If so, perhaps...

It approved the expenditure of energy. One rotation? No, it provided fifteen rotations as a first start. It would provide even more if necessary.

The key to the experiment was the transposed hosts. The avatar glanced downwards and used several abilities to [PERCEIVE] through the planetary surface, out the other side until it locked on this [ALTERNATE]. Destructive testing seemed contraindicated, so it passively used an ability that combined post and precognition, following this individual host back through time until it arrived in this dimension.

While it wasn't possible to travel through time, it could still model things from the past or future with very high accuracy. Locking on to the moment the [ALTERNATE] arrived, it simulated taking the animal apart atom by atom to find anything interesting about it. That point in time should have maximised the total percentage of foreign matter, so it was the best time/place to study it in any case. And there was a discrepancy in the bosons of the matter simulated.

Waving a hand, two hundred curly strands of hair appeared in its avatar's hand. It had plucked it from the head of the sleeping [ALTERNATE]. The fur on this host species grew slowly over time if they were still alive, and there was no lasting damage from some of it being destroyed. Therefore, he could examine this destructively while the experiment was being set up.

It found the same anomalies that it had simulated. Everything in this universe and all of the dimensions it had knowledge of had a particular base frequency, a resonance, and this frequency was subtly different on the matter that was part of the [ALTERNATE]'s body when it was transposed.

By the time the experiment was begun, it had examined ten thousand five hundred and thirty strands of fur. The matter that was most recently extruded had characteristics that matched its expectations of matter originating in this universe.

It halted its examination of fur as the experiment began. It could sense the moment a connection was made, and even tenuous as it was, it couldn't help itself. It would ruin this experiment, but it had to know. There were ways that an Entity could detect their kind, even over intergalactic distances in real space or n-space, and it used the minute, barely atom-sized portal to this new [MULTIVERSE] to [PERCEIVE].

And it found... nothing. Distances should not matter with this ability. With this ability, one of its kind could reliably and always detect every other member of its species. Members of its species did die from time to time. And it always knew when that happened. And it always would never go to the places where one of its kind died. It was why it was so [DEPRESSED]. No one would come to help it. It would not if it was them.

And it found... nothing. Not just no [ALTERNATE] Partner but nothing at all. Whatever this [MULTIVERSE] was, its kind did not exist there.

It suddenly lost interest in the experiment. And it didn't care if that part of itself wanted to repeat it. It could if it wanted, but it was pointless. It would take an exceptionally long amount of time to create a stable pathway that would be usable. Something like this, at one point in time, would have been something it and the Partner would have experimented with over several Cycles. Back then, it would have been an amazing discovery... but now? There was no Partner there. The Cycle was still broken. It was still doomed.

It had a cat stuck in a tree it had to save.



(POV: Taylor living in Brockton Bay.)

Taylor shrieked when she woke up, "What happened to my hair?!"
 
Last edited:
Rose tinted glasses
I woke from an utterly weird and surreal dream, like something out of H.R. Giger paintings complete with incomprehensible five-dimensional shapes. I woke up with a headache, wondering if my sleep inducer was on the fritz.

I checked it out while eating breakfast, and everything seemed to be working correctly, so it must have just been a very weird dream. That sometimes happened when you squeezed eight hours of rest into three, but this time it had taken the cake.

Work had been getting increasingly hectic lately, with an actual gang war getting into full swing between the Voodoo Boys and... the other Voodoo Boys? I didn't precisely know, but apparently, there were two factions of this gang. Maybe factions weren't precisely the right term, but a couple of decades ago, Haitian immigrants didn't take too kindly to a gang of mostly white psychos calling themselves the Voodoo Boys.

The Haitians had more than decimated the gang and then gone quiet. They still existed today, and they took the old Voodoo Boys' money-making ventures, but they didn't claim any territory and just sort of existed.

It was only recently a new generation of these "poser Voodoo Boys" had become active, and they were trying to reclaim their lost glory, but it wasn't exactly going too well. Not only were the Haitians not appreciative, but even other gangs were attacking them, especially Maelstrom.

Both the actual gang-on-gang violence, as well as the innocent victims caught in the crossfire, had significantly increased the number of trauma-related calls that they received.

I glanced at the netrunner's suit that was lying on my workbench in the living room as I ate. It had only taken me about a week to incorporate the electronics from a miniature off-the-shelf commercial cardiac monitor and defibrillator.

I even added an output port that the suit could plug into any optical input where the suit would stream the netrunner's current oxygen saturation, heart rate, blood pressure and electrocardiogram.

Due to the fact that it was possible to digitally encode the light down a fibre optic pipe without being able to receive information back physically, I used an optical signal. While this stream of data could be connected to any device, including the netrunner's interface socket, it still maintained the design requirement that the system was completely air-gapped. Defibrillator pads and electrodes were built into the suit's weave, and they were completely machine washable and could be replaced with little effort if they became worn.

I felt that I could have Tinkered up most of this. Still, I thought that using an off-the-shelf commercial cardiac monitor as the major component, even if it was more expensive, would allow the suit to exist without further "maintenance" from me. Perhaps the customised electronics might need some maintenance, but if they failed, all that would cease would be the output of the vital signs. The suit itself would still work for its intended purpose.

You could buy commercial-grade monitors that included defibrillators for less than a couple thousand eurodollars, and they were smaller than a deck of cards. They were effective and robust, even if they didn't include all of the features a professional model would. I just included that as an expense when I billed my friend.

Altogether, I made over two thousand eurodollars, even after expenses. I included a way to test it by building a small box that could replay any given electrocardiogram. Given my profession, I had gads of these saved and access to even more, so I included some of every type of cardiac arrhythmia, and fibrillation that I knew of that would likely be helped by the defibrillator, with the option to load any random one she wanted as well. For all I knew, there might be a saved EKG of a netrunner being hit with this type of black ICE... if so, she could test it.

My online friend was ecstatic with the device, which she had paid over four thousand eurodollars for. She hadn't thought of the idea of being able to pipe out the data from the EKG safely, but she loved the idea. It was kind of a ghetto, external internal biomonitor, or a way to double-check your own biomonitor with something that was impossible to hack if you already had one.

Over the next couple of months, I had several other customers, and I revised the design to the point where I was using a fully customised electronics package for my additions, using a company that built customised printed circuit boards, which would ship them directly to my door.

It was interesting. Every time I built a copy, I learned a little bit more about the areas that my Tinker power would help me with. When you dealt with cybernetics or modern medical tools, there was a lot of overlap with the field of electronics; for example, building these things let me know and remember more about electronics as a whole, not just electronics dealing with cybernetics.

The customised circuit board still wasn't very complicated; over ninety-five per cent of the complexity of the combined product came from the circuitry in the cardiac monitor, but it was still interesting to learn more just through repetition. It felt almost like a video game where I was gaining experience points every time I built something.

Again, I was pretty confident this wasn't how Tinkering was supposed to work, at least not exactly, but I had long ago decided I didn't care one whit because this was how it worked in this universe, given my one-person sample size.

As such, I had already sent an updated copy of the custom electronics to my first customer, as it was an easy plug-in and replacement compared to the slightly clunky first version, and it would probably last years before needing "maintenance." It really helped a lot if you made your inventions out of actual... electronics instead of a string, a tin can, a leather boot and some springs, I guessed.

After finishing breakfast and a quick shower, I got dressed in my casual to-work clothes and got on the train to head to Heywood. Commuting via the train was getting more and more annoying, I felt. Although I did practice my hacking on the train, I had almost been mugged twice, not counting the time I shot the two scavs.

If I could find a car for sale that wasn't too dear, then I was definitely going to buy it. Gloria had a car herself, even if it was almost fifteen years old.

I helped her negotiate a better deal with her contact on her "found" cybernetics, and he was willing to pay the higher price if they all came in the same great condition that the Projectile Launch System arm had. She had made three thousand and three hundred dollars on that arm, and she made out a lot better even when she shared half of it with me.

I was willing to continue our minor "scav" operation, as I didn't particularly care about stealing from dead criminals. It was either taken from the NCPD evidence room or the Night City Body Lottery, depending on the cop's opinion on whether the dead person was a perpetrator or a victim.

However, we kept things pretty low-key. We'd only take one implant per call, and since we only got these types of mass casualty decedent calls a couple of times a week, we only had the option to get something interesting once every ten days or so. Still, we averaged about a thousand extra dollars a week in tax-free income thus far.

I also contacted her fixer anonymously and asked if he would be interested in purchasing a lot of pre-dosed stimulant tablets. I discovered that there were many similar businesses that offered unattended lockers, similar to the electronics store.

After giving him a few samples through such dead drops, he finally agreed to purchase in some quantity. He wouldn't agree to pre-pay, though, so I thought that I might just lose my first consignment, which he would take and not pay for, but he ended up leaving the money in the subsequent pick-ups.

At first, I was a little concerned he might have someone surveil the dead drops for me when I went and picked up the money, but that might have just been my highly developed paranoia that everyone possible was out to get me. This guy was just a small-time player. Still, I chose different drop locations for every deal and did not pick up the money for at least a couple of weeks after he dropped it off. It cost me a little to pre-pay the lockers for a month at a time, but it was worth it in the end.

I was pricing the tic-tacs very favourably but not so favourably as to make anyone think I could have made the drug myself. Still, I might end up making over forty grand on the deal once my stash was depleted, which would take some time. Already, people on the street in Santo Domingo were commenting favourably about the tic-tacs. It wasn't designed or intended as a recreational drug, but Night City was a city that never slept and a lot of workers survived through the judicious application of stimulants.

Tuition at med school cost about sixty-five thousand a semester, with living expenses being maybe ten. Although you did not need to attend undergraduate school first, that just meant that med school was a bit longer, by a year. Most universities had shifted to a three-semester year, as well, so that meant I needed to have almost a million eurodollars to pay for the entirety of expenses for the four years of medical school.

That was... a lot. I would apply to Trauma Team in another eight months, but even if I got hired, I would have to continue with these quasi-illegal fundraising activities.

After getting dressed in the locker room, I headed out.

"Hey, Taylor..." Gloria greeted me at the vending machine that we used to get narcotics. We both had to sign for them and inventory the contents.

I waved at her, and we both logged in, got our drugs and then headed to get a unit from the motor pool. I had already been noticing the backlog of calls that were already waiting. It was going to be a long day.



I could tell that Gloria was quite tired when I got to work. Apparently, she had worked half a shift yesterday, so she hadn't gotten all that much sleep.

During our lunch break, I brought out the small case I kept my sleep-inducer in and handed it to her. She asked, "What's this?"

"It's a kind of sleep inducer, but generally a lot better than the shitty versions being sold on the net," I told her. I was a little offended when I discovered that there existed a similar technology, but it wasn't nearly as good. It put you to sleep, but the people who made it didn't have a good grasp of the brain's sleep processes.

I thought that from a restful sleep perspective, they gave less restful sleep than if you fell asleep naturally. The only advantage was for people who took a long time to fall asleep or insomniacs who couldn't fall asleep at all.

She seemed uneasy, "I've tried one of those before; it made me really groggy after waking up." To that, I waved her off.

"This one won't. Forty-five minutes under it is equivalent to about three hours of sleep. Put it on; I'll go get us some drive-through while you take a nap," I told her firmly.

She seemed unconvinced, but she nodded and put it on, after which I showed her the activation button. I had already preset it for forty-five minutes. This was my second-generation model, and I had managed to decrease the minimum sleep time to fifteen minutes, which was about equivalent to an hour of rest. You could stop early without any real side effects, but you wouldn't really get many benefits out of it unless you slept for at least fifteen minutes.

Most of Night City ate food from restaurants and take-out rather than buying groceries and cooking themselves. Most of the food people bought to take home was heat-and-eat type things, and I wasn't that much different, although I did buy some vegetables for a high price at a few of the small boutique grocery stores around town.

As such, there were a lot of restaurants in Night City. Quite a few offered a discount to Med-Techs, police or both. The number of really good places offering discounts was much smaller, though. I was heading towards that Fat Burger in Arroyo. It was a small chain that had three different locations in Santo Domingo. It was still just scop, like most restaurants, but they prepared it and seasoned it really well. The buns were actual bread, too, which drove the price up a little bit. Still, it was definitely cheap enough for your average worker, even if it wasn't an everyday thing.

With the thirty per cent discount for being EMTs, it was downright affordable, though.

"I'd like two double-doubles with everything, fries and a large Nicola Classic and a large Cirrus Cola," I told the clown's head before picking up the order. Disgustingly, Gloria loved Nicola, all of its flavours. I couldn't understand it, not at all! Cirrus made a passable Cola, tasting more like Pepsi than Coke, though.

After grabbing the food, I drove back to the location we posted up when we were having a really busy day and sat there, eating my burger. Towards the end of our lunch break, Gloria stirred and then woke up, taking the wreath off her head and handing it to me, "How long was I out?"

I looked at her weirdly, "Just the forty-five minutes. I don't like you well enough to let you sleep while I take all of the calls."

"Woah, I felt like I slept a few hours," she said, causing me to roll my eyes. Hadn't I said that was what it was like? She glanced at me, "Is this some secret Militech thing or something?"

I shook my head, "No. But don't tell anyone about it, either. I made them using mostly similar technology to the crappy ones that are already sold on the market."

She seemed amazed, "Woah! Why wouldn't you want people to know you could make something like this?"

I gave her a stare like she was a very special child, "Because a Corp would either steal it from me, possibly flatlining me in the process or kidnap me and keep me in a gilded cage if they thought it wasn't a one-hit wonder fluke."

I needed to have a frank discussion with her about what Corps actually were and what they were not. She seemed to have a bit of a rose-coloured glasses on the subject, even commenting a number of times that she hoped her son David could rise to the top of the most important corporation in Night City.

From what I can remember, first-generation corporate employees had a rough road. It wasn't impossible for them to do exactly that because there was a slight hint of meritocracy in the way Corps were run at the middle level, anyway, but it almost never happened.

It was best to know what you wanted to achieve when you started an employee relationship with the largest Corporations, and if your goals included ambition in a position in the corp, it was best to understand just what you were getting yourself into. It wasn't uncommon for a Militech middle-tier corporate manager to be murdered, and it rarely was rival corporations who did the deed, but their peers, or rather their competitors.

It kind of took growing up in such an environment to have the capability to smile and be friendly on the one hand but knife your competitor in the back if necessary at the same time. That was the main reason first-generation Corpos rarely rose above line supervisors; they didn't understand that it was almost a different language being spoken, with words as sweet as honey and as sharp as knives.

I was sure Alt-Taylor could have done it, but I wasn't so sure I had the same capability, but at least I could recognise the knives coming if I had to. There was a real asshole kind of middle manager that liked keeping this kind of up-and-coming first-generation employee as an assistant in order to have a ready sacrifice if needed.

I'd talk to her later, but she had to eat her burger fast as we had another call waiting for us. The gang war was heating up, alright.



*bzzzt* "Unit 42, Dispatch, 2122 Ebunike Drive, possible drug overdose, insurance coverage verified, respond."

Gloria was back driving, so I cleared us and hit the lights, replying that we were en route. We weren't that far away, but it was in one of the few bad parts of Watson, with a lot of industrial buildings and warehouses. It wasn't exactly the type of location where you expected to respond to a possible overdose of someone who had enough money to have medical insurance, which was usually their home.

As we pulled up, I spoke, "Uhh... I don't like the looks of this, Gloria." There was no NCPD presence on this call because it was just a regular 911 call; there was no shooting or car accident that they would be responding to that generated it. That also meant we didn't have their protection, either.

Gloria shrugged, "They'll flip their shit if we decline an insured patient without even trying. It's been about nine months since I was last robbed on the job, so maybe I'm due."

I stared at her like she was crazy but then sighed, "Alright. Button up your jacket, though. It should protect against most pistols, anyway."

We hopped out, but I made sure my left sleeve was rolled up a bit so I could access my monowire if I needed to do so. If they were just going to rob us, though, then I would just let them have the drugs we carried with us. Gloria was carrying them right now. Normally the paramedic carried them, but I basically treated her as if she was one, as she was as good as many.

When we had downtime, I quizzed her on the syllabus for the Advanced EMT, and she was planning to go get tested in a couple of months. She already had all the practical skills down pat; she just needed a little help with the bookwork.

We carried our monitor and field bag into the building, and I immediately realised this was a mistake. I saw who I thought our insured patient was, but the man looked beat unconscious rather than overdosed. And the four gangers that appeared as soon as we walked in the door were a clue, too. They weren't all carrying firearms, but two were with the other two carrying aluminium bats, including one baseball enthusiast that looked pretty borged out. Great. That guy looked more at home with Maelstrom.

They were the poser Voodoo Boys, who had been taking a real drubbing in their gang war. Nobody much liked them. One of the smarter of the four yelled, waving the pistol in our general direction. Alt-Taylor's memories and my own experience quickly identified the pistol as a decades-old Dai Lung .44 auto magnum, which was almost as dangerous to the user as it was the enemy, even when it was new. Dai Lung was such a shitty arms company that most hoods would rather use a disposable pistol from BudgetArms instead.

Still, I wouldn't stand in front of it if he pulled the trigger. He yelled, "You fucking medic cunts! Give us all your drugs!" Gloria glanced at me, and I shrugged, "You heard him."

She pulled the small container of narcotics out of her jacket and tossed it to the man, who surprisingly wasn't so high that he fumbled the catch. I thought that was going to be the end of it, thinking they might even let us take the guy they beat when we left, but he opened up the container and looked shocked, "What the fuck is this? Where's the rest? There's hardly any shit in here!"

Well, what the fuck did you expect?! Paramedics carrying giant Santa Sacks full of narcotics? We had to restock after two or three calls, usually, depending on the type of call. I didn't like the way this was going, and as he pointed the pistol at Gloria and started squeezing the trigger, I began acting.

Trying to think that this was just one of the many simulations I had done and not real life, I triggered the monowire to pop out and grabbed it, unreeling a large coil. I had to get a little bit closer, so I started running towards him at my full speed, which was one hundred per cent on my Kerenzikov and had been for a few weeks.

However, I wasn't fast enough to get to him before he pulled the trigger, with Gloria taking a round directly on her chest, knocking her to the ground. Growling, I flipped my wrist, sending out the coil and wrapped it easily around his neck, yanking hard and taking his head off like the cork in an overpressured champagne bottle, blood spraying everywhere.

I intended to go for non-lethal takedowns until he had shot her. Shaking off the bits of viscera off the monowire was a new and awful experience, as the enemies in the VR simulation simply derezzed when you killed them. However, that didn't slow me down too much, and I had the second pistol-armed guy minus both hands and one pistol a moment later, with my wire scything out.

Turning around to see the two guys with the baseball bats, they finally start to realise things are going wrong for them, and suddenly, the borged-out one starts moving at about my speed, running straight at me. Shit. A Sandy.

I reeled my wire mostly back, holding just a couple metres as I decided to just... stay away from him. I didn't fancy a contest of strength; the fucker had obvious Gorilla Arms, some knock-off brand, though. I would probably die if he managed to brain me with that bat, and I didn't particularly want to try to cut it up with my wire, either. If it was hollow, it might cut through it, but solid aluminium bats were a common weapon for gangers that had super-strength. They were, in fact, the most common weapon for such gangers.

I finally just turned around and started running away from him, with him yelling, "Stop running, bitch! I'll just brain you when your Sandy runs out!"

I yelled back, "No, thank you!" I'm not sure why I did that, but he didn't like it and started chasing me faster. I ducked under a swing, and his bat took a huge chunk of cement out of a structural pillar in the large empty room, exposing the rebar beneath. Yeah, that thing was definitely solid and would kill me in one hit.

We were working our way back to the entrance of the room in a lazy circle, and his friend had barely moved from his spot. When someone says they move three times faster than everyone else, it doesn't really sound like super speed, but it really is very fast. Not so fast that I wasn't visible or anything crazy like that, and his friend was trying to line up a swing on me as I was coming by him.

Instead, I lashed out with my wire and popped his head off just like the first guy, feeling vaguely ill as I did so. Killing the first guy was instinct after he shot Gloria, but this I decided to do. Now that I had a little time to think about it, I was pretty sure our "differences" were all but irreconcilable after I killed their friend, so it was pretty much the definition of them or us by this point.

"You fucking joytoy! I'm going to knock your head off and then fuck the--" yelled the guy chasing me. However, mid-threat, he suddenly started talking really slowly as his Sandy deactivated. I continued running, grabbing the dead guy's bat from his hands as I passed him, reeling my wire back into my left wrist completely as I did so.

I was starting to gas out as far as my exercise was concerned, so I briefly stopped to give myself time to take in a lot of oxygen with practised quick deep breaths. I could run for about ninety seconds if I was going my full speed, flat out, but I functioned a lot better if the exercise I was doing wasn't anaerobic. If I had some kind of lung replacement, then I could probably run flat out a lot longer, though.

I watched the borg approach me, him grinning wildly as he must have assumed we were both back to the same relative speed, and if so, he had the advantage. That was true. He did have the advantage if we were both operating at the same relative speed.

I didn't let him get within swinging distance but instead zipped behind him at my max speed, planted my foot squarely and swung for the fences. I was nowhere near as strong as this guy... but I was still quite strong. I could bench two hundred and fifty kilos, doing slow but steady reps. If I gave it my all with a solid metal bat to the back of even a chromed-up asshole's head?

With a sick crack, the guy went down like a sack of potatoes. It said something about the workmanship of his Sandy because I didn't feel his neck break, but there was a really good chance he was dead anyway. He was down for now, in any event.

However, instead of bashing his brains in some more, I casually walked over to the guy that didn't have any hands, who was screaming in slow-motion and picked up his pistol in one hand, which was a much better Constitution Arms automatic in fifty calibre. A really nice one, actually. It was the local equivalent of the Desert Eagle and just as large and hardly anyone bought or carried them except if you wanted to show off. You could get better penetration with hypersonic flechettes in a much smaller form factor, after all.

'This is going to hurt my ears,' I thought as I levelled the gun down at the handless guy and pulled the trigger, blowing his head clean off his body like I was Dirty Harry. Turning back around, I gaped as I saw the downed borg stirring as if he was planning on standing up. I didn't want to just beat his head to paste with a baseball bat, it was why I had gotten this gun, but maybe I should have.

Nope. That's not going to happen. I tossed the metal bat away and used both hands to hold a steady sight picture and put two rounds into his chest, right over his heart. There was some subdermal armouring, but not enough to stop even the first oversized bullet. The second was just to make sure.

Then I saw Gloria staring at me wide-eyed. Well, at least she doesn't appear to be dead.

"Are you okay? Did that round penetrate? Do you need to go to the hospital?" I asked her, switching back to my slow level of speaking and moving.

She nodded rapidly, "Yeah. I'm gonna have a hell of a bruise, I think, though. But shit! I saw the whole thing, and you were like, zip zip slash, woosh! You took off that gonk's head like it was a bottle cap! That was totally nova and totally fucking gross at the same time. I didn't know you were some kind of ninja, Tay!"

I started getting queasy and dropped the hand cannon, running to a corner and throwing up my Fat Burger all over a structural column. Gloria stood up and came over to me, and said, "Shit. I'm sorry. Was that the first time you ever had to flatline somebody?"

"Yeah..." I told her a little morosely.

She sighed, "I'm sorry. When I was sixteen, a scav attacked a friend of mine, and I stabbed them from behind. I'm pretty sure they died."

Fuck, it was a wonder the population didn't drop by half in this city every generation if everyone seemed like they had killed at least one person. And why were there so many fucking Scavs?! I shook my head, "It's alright. My dad kind of prepared me for this. He always told me to just ask myself... would I have done anything differently?"

"And would you have?" asked Gloria.

I shook my head, "I mean... I guess we could not have come in here, but we would have gotten in trouble. These guys were crazy, though, to attack medtechs working. I kind of think they didn't intend to let us live to begin with. Dead men tell no tales, right?"

Gloria nodded slowly, "Yeah. Although the new Voodoo Boys don't really have a territory, this part of Watson is as close as it is to their territory. You mostly see them around Watson. A setup to make them look bad, maybe?"

I shrugged, "I don't know. Maybe. Go check on our client." She nodded, grabbed the box of narcotics that had fallen to the floor and our monitor and went to assess him.

"Phew... none of the vials broke," she said of the half-opened box of narcs. That was good. It was an incredible amount of paperwork, including mandatory drug tests if you lost your narcotics to such an "accident." She glanced back at me, "Should we call the cops?"

"Not if you want to keep any of the chrome these jerkoffs have. This one is pretty borged out. Gorilla Arms, Sandevistan, some kind of skull reinforcement, generic legs, some kind of ankle reinforcement, micro rotors, Kiroshis MkIs, a few years old, a couple other things," I tell her after connecting my personal link to his interface socket. Although he was well and truly dead, his OS was still running slightly in safe diagnostic mode. The model of Sandy was a common and widely available Militech model. Almost definitionally the My First Sandy that any merc would buy.

"Uhhh... yeah, fuck these guys. They tried to kill us, so we get to keep all of their stuff," Gloria finally said. "This guy has a pretty obvious concussion and a serious one. I think he's got a pretty serious TBI. Blown pupils, his sats are shit, too."

I sighed. If he wasn't badly injured, I could have rationalised delaying his care, but that didn't sound good at all. Sounds like one of those assholes knocked him in the head with a solid metal bat. I said, "Alright, I'll get the ventilator; get the RSI drugs ready. I'll bring some body bags back with the gurney. We'll bag the three with the most interesting chrome, and I'll hide them here. Once we drop him off, we'll swing back here and go out of service for a bit. We have enough break time, and the call volume is finally low."

She nodded firmly, starting to get to work despite probably having a cracked rib or at least a giant bruise.

I walked out to the truck to get what we needed. Was I actually okay with what just happened? The scav that had his legs shot off died at the hospital, but I wasn't really responsible for that, but these four...

I shook my head. I wouldn't have done anything differently. Except maybe bring my anaesthetic grenades to work. Could I hide one or two in my lunchbox?

There were no heroes in this world, but then again, even Miss Militia and Narwhal had a lot of blood on their hands. Could it be the same with me? Scavs and murderous gang members weren't exactly S-class threats, but that was only because they didn't have the capability.
 
Last edited:
Treading water
Someone mentioned to me that a 3X Sandy would not be the bottom of the barrel, and it would actually be somewhat middle of the line. That's a good point, so consider when I mentioned in the previous chapter My First Sandy that I was speaking of mercs (good ones), not every day gangers. I added a bit to this chapter to explain that.

---

We ended up taking the patient to the hospital and returning back to the scene as planned. Thankfully, our defeated enemies were still there, so we stacked three of them in the back of the ambulance. The one we were leaving didn't have much chrome to speak of, aside from his head which was conveniently not attached to his body, so I just shoved it in the bodybag with one of the others.

Since the other guy I decapitated had a lot of chrome in his body but none in his head, I just swapped their decapitated heads. Would anyone even realise or bother to check that the head went with the wrong body? If I was back in Brockton Bay, I would be immediately labelled the Head Swapping Killer or something and have a PRT or FBI task force dedicated to bringing me to justice. Here? I would be surprised if anyone noticed or cared.

We were in Watson and not too far away from my storage unit, so I headed there.

The storage unit did have cameras, as most places did, but like most places, they were connected to the net, and their firmware hadn't been updated in over a year. I wouldn't be able to do anything fancy like loop the camera footage like in Mission Impossible, I wasn't that cool, but I could temporarily disable the cameras. This would normally be an issue and result in an immediate security alert on a truly high-security facility, except that I knew this place was unattended. There were no security guards, and the cameras were only checked in the event of incidents, and I wouldn't cause one.

After hacking the exterior cameras, I briefly shifted into a deep dive perspective and trawled through the storage unit's subnet, hitting each of the other cameras in turn. They'd stay deactivated for some time unless this place had a security watchdog daemon, which I doubted.

I then left Gloria in the car and carried all three body bags awkwardly. It was more weight than I could carry comfortably or very far, but I figured one trip would be less suspicious than two. I sent the key electronically and was admitted into the building. It would be really embarrassing if I wasn't the only person in the storage unit right now. I wasn't sure what I would do if I saw someone carrying three obviously full-body bags into their storage unit... I probably would just nod and pretend I didn't see anything, actually.

I didn't do anything fancy; I just unlocked my unit, tossed the bodies in, and left immediately. I would come back the next day with some tools. It would have been easiest to bring the bodies back to my place as I had all of the equipment needed for a full pathological examination at home, but I didn't want a very amused Mr Jin to know what I was up to, so I would have to do some sort of dissection with rudimentary tools in a dusty storage unit.

For some reason, the sense I got from my power was delighted. Sometimes I felt my power would be happy if I became a serial killer, so long as I could dissect a lot of bodies. Was that the "evil" part of me, I wondered? Or was there really something to the theory that a parahuman's power was some external agent?

"Alright, Gloria... let's get back to it," I told her as I returned to the truck. She was driving, though. My arms hurt. I did seem to be getting stronger, though; carrying those three gonks must have been three fifty kilos easy. The two weren't that heavy, but that damn borg weighed one fifty if he weighed a kilo.

Bioware strength mods sort of acted as a multiplier, although only up to a point. The stronger you were naturally, the better. I didn't look like a body-building ab-girl, or anything, but I didn't have much fat left on my body, and my muscles were vaguely visible. It was kind of nice.



I brought several duffle bags with me back to my storage unit. It was more than necessary to just take back the implants from the three bodies, but I was taking back a number of other things as well.

I think I would have been a lot more upset at killing these four guys if I hadn't worked in an ambulance for several months. Although my patients almost always survived, at least until they got to the hospital, the amount of death I have seen in just my short time here blunted a lot of the anxiety and depression I probably would have felt otherwise. Especially considering a lot of it was caused by the gang these guys were in, possibly these guys specifically in some cases.

So, despite the idea still making me somewhat queasy, I wasn't that upset over it. It did make me think back about the way the PRT dealt with criminals back home with a bit of disdain. It seemed almost performative now. I had thought about that quite a bit in the ten months I had spent in this new world, with my handful of memories from Alt-Taylor helping me. She was a lot less naive than I had been.

The only conclusion I could draw was that the Endbringers were a lot bigger threat than what was portrayed in the media and by the authorities. I hadn't thought they downplayed them, either, but the fact that the people in power accepted murderous supervillains must mean that the situation was a lot more precarious than even I had thought.

I decided to work on the borg gentleman first; there were a number of cybernetics that would, for lack of a better word, go bad if they weren't removed from a body within a few days. Mostly replacement organ types and similar systems that needed a constant level of electrical charge to run continuous maintenance systems. I had everything needed to preserve these types of things back at my apartment, though.

Humming the tune to this Japanese girl group which I kind of hated, I disconnected each of his limbs and then carefully excised their interface sockets from what flesh he had on his torso before setting them aside. I had brought some containers from home to carry some of the more delicate implants in, so I carefully disconnected his Kiroshis and settled them into a small cylinder.

Flipping him over, I make certain to work cautiously, disconnecting his Sandevistan. It was a Militech model and fairly reliable. There were cheaper models that provided less of an advantage, with the lowest that I was aware of for Sandy's providing about a two times boost, but that was still on the level of something that regular non-boosted enemies could fight against. It would certainly be harder, but it was possible.

This was the first tier that most actual mercs, and not just gangers, would go for. Something that would provide the real and effective super speed that was very difficult for non-augmented people to really contend with. It was the first level that was "military grade," in other words.

Damn, that song was stuck in my head despite being really terrible. I used my deck to launch my music player. The net service I used to listen to music was fairly cheap, and it used machine learning to try to gauge what my tastes in music were.

"Now playing your favourite oldies," flashed before my eyes, which irritated me to no end.

It didn't take me too long to finish with the other two guys, and I was pretty stoked with the haul. Two sets of Kiroshis, one set of more generic Biodyne optics, a biomonitor, several replacement organs including a Syn-Lung setup, and two full sets of arms and legs between the three guys, including one set of generic Gorilla Arms. The borg's limbs had micro-rotors installed, as well as a heavy-duty ankle reinforcement, so those limbs were pretty valuable, but the rest were average. The Sandy was interesting, too. It was the first time I actually saw one up close, too.

Some of the things I left in the bodies because they were just too annoying to remove with the tools I had and weren't that expensive, such as the polymer arteries the borg had and the subdermal armour system one of the others had. It didn't appear to be a very good one, anyway. However, I was taking the borg's skull replacement back so I could remove it properly by the simple expedient of taking his entire head back home with me.

After that, I grabbed a few of the black market implants that my dad had left me; for example, there was another Projectile Launch System in here, which I had an avenue to sell now. Then I spent a little time disassembling part of the Dragoon. It was kind of difficult because the railgun shot made some panels really difficult or impossible to take off.

Before I had gotten my Zetatech Self-ICE if I had thought about Tinkering ICE, it would be very difficult. My power didn't seem to want to help me with it, thinking it was mainly computer related. However, so long as I kept firmly in mind that it was going to be installed in my body and kept in mind the specific format for the slots in my Zetatech system, it began helping me a lot more.

Keeping all that in mind, I disassembled parts until I got to what my power identified as the cyberwar subsystems. There were both ICE modules, although in a different slot format, as well as generalised ECM and jamming equipment. I wasn't sure what I could do with the latter, but I took it all and put it in one of the duffle bags.



Gloria's car was small, but we managed to fit in what was left of the three bodies in the back seat, as well as the duffle bags of loot. I asked her if she knew where we could dispose of the bodies without anyone being the wiser, and she looked at me oddly and just nodded.

We drove for a fair bit, even leaving the city to the east. I wondered if we would be attacked by the Nomads, but that probably was something that was more just depicted on television.

When we got to our destination, I blinked and then sighed, blushing slightly, "Oh." We were at the municipal landfill. I chuckled a little bit and then just quickly tossed the three guys into an area and tossed a bit of cardboard over them to conceal the obvious body bags. I wondered how many bodies were buried here in the dump. A lot, probably.

She followed me back to my apartment and was a bit shocked at my outer public area, which looked more like a Ripperdoc clinic than someone's apartment. She gaped, "Taylor, are you a ripperdoc?!"

"Uh, no," I told her, "I just happened to get all of this equipment... well... it's hard to explain. I can't really talk about it, but it's mine now."

She looked at me a little unbelieving, and I waved her off. "Okay, let's get some of these perishable items in the stock-keeping system."

She handed me items, and I placed them carefully in the cryogenic containers and then slid those containers into Dr Gerstatt's old stock system, carefully inputting the name and model number of each added implant into the computer as I did so.

I set one of the cylinders carrying one set of Kiroshis aside for a moment. The limbs I sat on my workbench; I would go through all of their maintenance later today. It shouldn't take too long.

After we were done, I asked her, "Do you want these Kiroshis? They're only a couple of years old, and they're a lot better than the trash you're currently seeing with. I'll update them with the latest firmware, including NCPD downlink and everything."

She looked interested but said, "I don't really have a regular doctor I go to."

I waved her off, "I may not be a ripperdoc, but you already have optics. Swapping in one set of another is one of the simplest procedures there is; it's mostly plug-and-play." That wasn't quite true, as Kiroshi made a lot better use of the optical nerve than most brands, so I would have to make a couple adjustments to the interface, but it really was simple.

She looked amused, "If you blind me, you're the one that's gonna have to walk me to an actual doctor and pay for them to fix me up. But, yeah, sure. I would like to see if the gonks I see are murderers, plus the resolution is supposed to be preem. These can't even do actual phone calls, you know?" She pulled out an actual cell phone, similar to the one I kept in my desk drawer these days.

I nodded and told her, "Okay, take a seat. I'm going to reflash these babies with the latest firmware."

I didn't particularly want to see what kind of media, images or videos a murderous borg kept in their Kiroshi's internal memory, even if there weren't any viruses or malware installed, so I just quickly reset the eyes to factory defaults and installed the latest manufacturer's software on it. It took me over an hour to do that when I did it to myself the first time, but now it barely took two or three minutes to accomplish.

I put on the rebuilt glove tool that I inherited from Dr Gerstatt. It was a little weird getting used to using it, but it really did make a lot of common operations very quick. I administered a local anaesthetic and powered down her optics before using the glove tool to carefully pop them out of her orbital cavity, setting them in a small cylinder one at a time. They weren't very good, but they were still worth a couple hundred eddies, maybe. Waste not, want not.

Rather than immediately installing the Kiroshis, I took a moment to update the optical nerve interface. In some ways, it was standard, but Kiroshi used a lot of semi-proprietary methods, so it would just generate a lot of pointless headaches and sub-optimal performance if I just installed them without making these adjustments.

One of the attachments on the glove hand was an articulable computer interface. I could switch out the tip with various plugs that would interface with a number of proprietary data formats, but the semi-generic optical interfaces always were programmed by a near-field communication system. There wasn't a lot of room for plugs inside your eyes, so I popped that onto the glove and held it close to the nerve interface in her optical cavity until the new Kiroshi software flashed onto it.

I had already reprogrammed the iris colour on the Kiroshis to more or less match her previous eyes instead of the blood-red colour Mr Edgy McEdgerson had selected. She could update it herself in the settings, but there was no point in giving her cringe-eyes to start with. Using the glove, I installed each eye one at a time, making sure it clicked into place properly and then testing its range of movement.

After that, I nodded and did the last few tests before saying, "Alright. That should do it. We'll just need to go through the visual calibration routine in a moment." I tapped a few keys on the Meditech biobed, which should reactivate Gloria's eyes. She blinked a few times and says, "Woah. Nova, everything looks awesome."

I hummed and nodded, asking her, "Hmmm... no glitches, blurred vision or low contrast?" After she shook her head, I rolled my chair back to glance at the read-out on the biobed's drop-down operator display. While she was sitting here, I had dual access to all of the output of her implants. One side of the screen showed a close-up of the iris and lens of each of the Kiroshis, while the other half of the screen was her perspective.

"Okay, activate the HUD and select the new user setup," I told her and then walked her through both the setup and calibration program. I then showed her all the options and how to download a phone app and pair it with her existing phone service, as well as the quality of life things like GPS mapping, taking photos and videos and other things.

"Okay, try the optical zoom mode. Take a look at that poster across the room," I told her, and she gaped, not even realising such a thing existed. "Lastly, the scanning system."

"Scanning system?" she asked, confused.

I hummed and nodded, "Yes, that's how you trigger some of the ancillary functions, like NCPD background checks. Focus on my face and kind of think hard about it. Like you did when you zoomed, but a little different. Instead of thinking about seeing distance, think about scanning or just focusing on my face hard." All Kiroshi models had a mental interface, integrating into the user's operating system more completely compared to a lot of the bargain basement optics that still used blink and eye-tracking systems that were decades old already.

"Ah! I see. Well, you don't have any criminal record, Tay," she said with a grin.

I nodded, "After a while, it should become second nature, syncing with your thought processes and reading your intention. This also includes a piece of simple machine learning software that will identify objects in the environment as well. It's not too useful if all you have are optics, but it is still the sort of thing that could win you a bet sometime. So, trigger it on, say... here, your old eyes." I handed her the open container, and she looked inside.

"Ah, preem. It gave me the manufacturer and model number," she said, excited.

I nodded, "You should consider taking the internal biomonitor we found too. It's not too old, but I'm not willing to put it in. But we could find you a good doctor that doesn't charge too much, especially if I go with you to put it in." Frankly, I was surprised that one of the guys had a biomonitor. Most gangers didn't really seem to care that much about their health.

She looked a little uneasy, "But we could probably sell that for ... how much?"

I considered that. Retail price was probably six thousand, "One point five to two thousand eddies."

"That's a lot of money, Taylor," she said, unsure.

I waved her off, "Money is there to be spent. And what is the most important thing?"

"David!" she said instantly.

I coughed and said, "Okay, what's the second most important thing?"

She seemed confused, "...David?"

"Who do you think will take care of David if you're dead?" I asked her bluntly.

That caused her to blink in shock and consider the question seriously, "My health, then?"

Yes, that was the answer I was looking for. I nodded, "Precisely. A lot of people, especially people used to being poor, underestimate the utility of an internal biomonitor because they are kind of pricey and don't provide any obvious benefits. They're considered a 'suit implant.' But consider that... Corpos don't just waste money on things, at least not until you're so far up the ladder that I've never seen, nor my dad. The modern biomonitors made these days are... comprehensive. It'll tell you if you're not getting enough sleep, not getting enough nutrition and what you need to eat to fix that, or if you're getting too stressed, blood pressure is too high, or if you've been poisoned or drugged well before the effects become apparent. If you've been injured, it'll tell you exactly where, which will help you know where to use bleeding control to keep yourself alive."

After that, I finished with, "Which is cheaper from a medical perspective, preventing a problem from occurring or fixing it after it happened?"

Gloria was smart, so she understood what I was saying right away, "Ah, I see what you mean. That does make a lot of sense when you say it that way. Okay, I'll take it even if I have to pay seven hundred or so eddies to buy out your share."

I nodded. I didn't offer to give it to her for free, not only because I needed the money too, but more importantly, she wasn't the type to just accept charity.

I handed her an inhaler that was full of nanomedicine. "Two puffs now, another two in an hour or two." I was giving her that for free, but it only cost about twenty eurodollars.

She followed my directions, and I asked, "Want to stay here for lunch?"

She shook her head, "I gotta get back to little David, but you're free to come over? He likes you!"

I chuckled, "Maybe another time. I'm going to spend a few hours running maintenance on all these items that are now ours. Oh, wait. I have an early birthday present for you." Gloria's birthday was next month, but I had already decided what to get her.

She perked up, "Really?!" and I nodded and told her to wait for a moment while I ran into the private part of my apartment to grab it.

For some reason, wrapping gifts was somewhat of a lost art here; at least there wasn't any wrapping paper at any of the stores I went to, so I kind of improvised with a small bag with coloured paper sticking out of it and hiding what was inside.

I handed it to her, and she took it and blinked, "Heavy!"

She pulled the thin paper out and reached in, "Oooh... you got me..." she pulled out a pistol, "A gun?!"

I nodded. It was the same M-10C Lexington, the compact version, that I had gotten her to practise with at the range with me a few times. My dad had like six Lexington's amongst his personal effects, including two compact ones, so it wasn't even anything I had to buy.

"And an appendix-style concealed carry holster, three magazines, and a hundred cartridges," I finished for her. I bought the holster, but it wasn't that expensive. I was worried she wouldn't purchase a pistol because of her incessant frugalness.

She chuckled and said, "Uh.. thanks. Do you think I should start wearing it now?"

I nodded and showed her the best way to hide the holster in her pants so that her loose shirt covered it, "And we continue to practice at least once a week for the foreseeable future."

After that, she left, and I worked a little bit on the cybernetics we had secured. I thought now was a good time to slowly stop selling them to Gloria's small-time fixer over a period of a few months. He seemed to be increasingly busy with the drugs I was selling him, anyway. He had sent another message requesting more, and about ten times as much as his last order, so I would drop a few thousand tablets at one of the dead drops I had set up.

Once I had realised such things existed in this town, I raided my dad's book collection. He had a lot of old books, including interesting and suspicious ones from the 1960s and 1970s, about spy tradecraft, like how to run a dead drop. I also remembered one time that Alt-Taylor claimed he was acting like a spy, and his response was telling; he shook his head and said, eyes glimmering in hidden amusement, "Never! Spies, when caught, are simply shot out of hand. Intelligence officers, however, are often traded back, though. Never be a spy, Taylor."

He really was a spy, wasn't he?!

I glanced at the giant handgun I had pulled out of the duffle bag. What was I going to do with this... beast? It would be effective against borgs or people with subdermal armour, but I could get similar anti-armour penetration using the M-76e. The solid steel slugs penetrated fairly well, and there were options for tungsten tips for penetration, although they were a bit pricier. The Constitution Arms pistol was a good, reliable and effective weapon. It was just... nobody would take me seriously if I was carrying it.

It was like what a BD star would use in an action film. If you saw a sixteen-year-old girl carrying a Desert Eagle, you'd be a bit perplexed too. It was the same with this thing.

I had a sudden idea and triggered my contacts list to pop up. I had gotten somewhat on good terms with most of the low-level Tyger Claws that worked in the building. And I recalled treating one of them who talked shit about my "tiny little girl's gun." That the only way he would ever carry a gun was if it was a man's gun, he said!

Perfect. I found his name, Johnny Leung, in my contacts list and called him. The Tygers Claws wasn't strictly a Japanese gang, per se, and Johnny was one of the few Han Chinese members. Although that said, he did go big into the whole Japanese culture thing about Samurai and swords, anyway.

He picked up after the third ring, "Doc girl, whatchu need?"

I sighed internally, "It's what I got. I remember you saying you'd be interested in a gun, but only if it was a big manly one." I held out the giant pistol in front of myself, so it could be picked up on the vidcall, "Constitution Arms, 12.7mm, in really good shape. Two magazines and a belt holster are included. Interested?"

"Fuck yeah, girl! If the price is right! I'll give ya five hundred for it," he countered.

Priced new, it would be about fifteen hundred eurodollars or more. But that included the cleaning kit that I didn't have, though. I countered with a different price, and eventually, we settled on six hundred dollars. He was working security at the front door today, so I took it out to him, belt, holster and all.

"Here you go, Johnny," I told him, handing him the pistol, magazine and belt and holster. The holster was kind of ridiculous; it was faux leather and almost looked like it was out of the old west, complete with little bullet loops. Why you'd have bullet loops when your gun used a magazine, I didn't really know.

"Oh fucking preem!" he said, putting the holster on, "You didn't say the holster was sweet as fuck, choom! I look just like a fucking Samurai cowboy now!" He said, posing with the pistol on his belt and sword in his hands. "Man, I'm gonna get a sheathe on the other side for my sword."

Oh god.

He transferred six hundred and fifty dollars, the extra fifty for how extra sweet the holster was, in his words. His friends gathered around him, and they all tended to agree that it was, indeed, badass, with one recommending he get an ambidextrous co-processor so he could swing a sword in one hand and shoot in the other, like Victor Chang, the BD star.

"Later, Johnny," I told him and left as soon as possible before he decided to ask me about such implants. Was he stupid because he ended up in a brutal street gang, or was he in a brutal street gang because he was stupid?

I then transferred half the proceeds to Gloria with a text explaining what it was from. Although I had done all the work killing those assholes, she did get shot in the chest for it, so she was definitely due an equal share.



A week later, I introduced Gloria to Dr Taylor, who was more than happy to install the provided biomonitor. He charged a little bit more than average, but he provided a comprehensive service that I honestly felt was worth it.

I felt pride in my work when Gloria told me that Dr Taylor was impressed with whoever put her optics in, too.

She said as she walked back to her car, "This thing says I'm chronically dehydrated, deficient in a lot of vitamins, chronically fatigued, malnourished and am close to getting a repetitive stress injury, and I have pre-hypertension."

I gave her a side eye and nodded, "I could have told you all that." In fact, I had told her all of that.

Sighing, she said, "Fine, I get it." She paused and asked, "Do you think you could sell me one of those sleep things you built?"

I blinked and hadn't considered that. Maybe that would have been a better birthday present than a pistol? I nodded slowly, considering the price of the component parts, "Sure, for three hundred eddies. That's friends' pricing." The version I could make now hardly required any of my maintenance at all.



Time passed as water does, and before long, a few months had gone by. Gloria was stoked because she passed the Advanced EMT test on her first try.

"Congratulations!" I told her after she told me the good news as we both started walking from the parking lot into work. I finally couldn't stand riding the train anymore and bought a pretty nice Thorton Colby CX410 for thirty thousand eurodollars from a nomad group that lived nearby and dealt in a lot of vehicles. You could even buy aeroplanes from them.

It had the common modification where the trunk was replaced with a truck bed, so it kind of reminded me of a Chevy El Camino. We didn't have those types of cars in Earth Bet, but it was iconic in Earth Aleph media. The engine was recently fully overhauled, and it purred like a kitten. It was a lot nicer than Gloria's car, but it was still only your average middle-of-the-road used vehicle. The papers on it seemed legit; at least the city didn't make any noise as if it was stolen or anything (even if it might have been), so I thought it was a good deal.

Before this purchase, I had accumulated over a hundred and sixty thousand eurodollars from my various income streams, but now I was back down to one hundred and thirty, which was barely more than when I started out. I had been here for over a year and barely made any progress with my ultimate goals, although I was in a much better position in a lot of ways. Two steps forward and one step back.

Several months ago, I was tempted to keep the Syn-Lungs for myself, but they were a pretty shitty version, so I ended up selling them. I did keep one of the replacement livers and used it as parts to build my armoured liver-heart-detoxifier. I hadn't gotten the guts to cut into myself yet, and the system looked pretty weird, so I was too afraid to take it to Dr Taylor; if he became aware of my monowire, he'd have to tell the coppers, so I would have to just bite the bullet and perform surgery on myself I wanted it, and I did. Perhaps on my next five days stretch of days off.

I was closing on my six-month anniversary working for NC Med Ambulance, and I figured I would start sending in my application to Trauma Team when I hit the nine-month mark. Our record spoke for itself; very rarely did people die in our ambulance unless we were dealing with injuries that were incompatible with life, and their body just hadn't realised it was dead yet.

I think the only reason the bosses hadn't split us up to try to increase the stats of other units was that they were positive I was going to leave here in a few months anyway, so they felt it was better if I managed to get Gloria as shit-hot as she could be in my remaining time here. Personally, I agreed with that; plus, I enjoyed working with Gloria, and we had a business that made us each a small but steady amount of money.

We'd be keeping the same relationship after I left, although I would get less of a share as all I would be responsible for would be refurbishing and performing maintenance on the cyberware she would bring me. But I was trying to think of ways to raise a lot more money at once, though. It seemed like no matter what in this city, the more you made, the more you spent, and it seemed really hard to stick to any saving goals.

In a lot of ways, Night City was like being tossed overboard in the middle of the ocean; all you could do was keep your head above water without ever getting anywhere.
 
Last edited:
Base visit
As I ran on the treadmill, I started letting my mind wander. I had switched to a workout routine that combined fast-paced anaerobic sprints with slower-paced endurance running, it was a training regimen that I read about online, and it was supposed to have good results. I had finally bit the bullet and performed the first surgery on myself, removing my liver entirely and installing the replacement. It was locked into liver-only mode right now, as I would have to graft either synthetic polymer-based or donor arteries to connect it into my cardiovascular system in such a way as to support the high-flow operations a heart would need.

I was kind of kicking myself for not ripping some of that borg's polymer arteries out when I had the chance, my other option was letting my power help me individualise a set of donor arteries, but I would need to thoroughly dissect a donor body for that to be possible. We didn't really have too much time when we came across people we could swipe cybernetics from. Certainly not enough time to do a thorough, full pathological dissection.

I could buy either a set of polymer arteries or even a cloned and individualised set of arteries specific to me, but since I wasn't a doctor, it would be kind of weird for me to do so. It didn't matter too much; I would find something eventually. It will probably be pretty soon, too.

I still wasn't including any weight training, per se, but since I was so much stronger than Gloria, I did most of the lifting while working, so I counted that as a stand-in. She was interested in the same muscle and bone lace treatment I got until I told her the cost.

The application process to Trauma Team was supposed to take a fair bit of time, so it wasn't weird that I had recently applied fully three months before I would have the experience necessary to qualify. I sent my application using my internal Militech's dependent net address, and there was some back and forth. Trauma Team was still split into regional sub-corporations since the last Corporate War when they had to ultimately deny service to both Arasaka and Militech; they hadn't quite reorganised into one global corporation yet, but there were signs that they were in the process of doing so. I was applying to Trauma Team Night City, which was a wholly owned subsidiary of Trauma Team North America. All training was standardised and performed by the Trauma Team North America headquarters in Seattle, for example.

Eventually, I received a number of what I considered application filters. Normally, my application would have been rejected out of hand because I didn't meet the three years in critical care experience requirements, but there was a notation that this was waived by the hiring manager in Night City. It was nice to see that he still remembered me.

I wondered how the friends I made in the class were doing; Fiona and Antonio were the only two that were destined to be working in Night City that I was really close with. Xiao Li was probably working for some Kang Tao-owned American subsidiary somewhere in the states. Otherwise, he wouldn't have needed to pass the American National Registry Paramedic examination, but I didn't know precisely where he was working.

The first filter was a net-based knowledge test and a simulated patient encounter. The latter was open-form, where it asked me what I would do, and I answered in natural language, and I was pretty sure I was partly graded by AIs and possibly reviewed by humans for edge cases.

After that came an interview with what was basically an AI chatbot, asking me about my background and family and getting permission from me to get my records both from my school and my current employer, permission for them to run a background investigation on me, of any scope that they liked, and a number of other things. The security questionnaire portion of the interview was comprehensive, invasive and very personal; for example, they knew that I was not yet sexually active at the end of it. It kind of reminded me of what I thought it might be like to get a James Bond-style Top Secret security clearance back in Earth Bet.

I figured honestly was the best policy here, at least for the most part, as I was definitely prepared to lie when and if the bot asked me if I was involved in any criminal activities. However, it only asked if I was ever charged or convicted of criminal activities. I felt the nuance was important, although the worst thing I had done was probably more along the lines of a tort.

Infringing on intellectual property was a criminal offence here, not just a civil tort like in Earth Bet, but technically that only applied to patent-protected IP. Biotechnica had never patented the stimulant I had inadvertently manufactured and was selling. I had thought they had at first, and the net searches on it were ambiguous and seemed to imply that they had, but the truth was they kept the entire process a trade secret, so I was actually totally in the clear criminally. The only other criminal thing I had done was stealing from dead gang members, and nobody cared about that. In fact, Trauma Team did it themselves when they flatlined people that were in the way of their clients, time permitting. They'd probably give me a thumbs-up on that.

Not that my technical innocence would matter, as solving problems with extrajudicial applications of violence was practically a prerequisite if you wanted to consider your organisation a corporation. Anyone could start a company, but you weren't really considered a corporation until you had a minimum amount of military force and people knew you would use it.

Forty years ago, a lot of people considered Biotechnica a "good" corporation, but they still manufactured and sold bioweapons to the highest bidder in the last Corporate War, to both sides as far as I could tell, and they hadn't really gotten better since then, so it was best if I could stay off their radar.

However, I had been wargaming, trying to sell them both samples of and the synthesis procedures for the super antibiotic that I had made. I had a lot of it remaining, stored in a cool, dry place, and I knew two ways to synthesise it, one of which would be suitable for industrial production.

I had discovered through messages sent through my dead drops to Gloria's fixer, Diego Delgado, that Biotechnica itself had approached him. At first, I was scared shitless! But, apparently, they were approaching him to sell him product directly when I ran out, and he wanted to know how much more I could sell him so he could plan the transition and if I would be willing to sell my pill press machine when it happened. That didn't make sense at all, and I was very confused until I realised that Biotechnica was playing the Filmshop marketing model.

In Earth Bet, there was a piece of professional photo manipulation software called Filmshop. It has existed since the early 1990s and was one of the most popular and widely used programs for artistically creative people and companies around. It was also one of the most widely pirated pieces of software in the world, and the company did not really seem to mind too much.

I had it explained to me by Mrs Knott in my computer class -- by allowing their software to be pirated by people who didn't have enough money to buy it in the first place, they weren't losing any money but were gaining familiarity and market share instead. That familiarity would later then be transmuted into money when those same people, later in their life and career, went to work for an actual company that would, in fact, pay the licensing fees.

The employees who had been using pirated copies of Filmshop their entire lives would demand to use this same software that they were familiar with, and therefore they got sales. Market share was almost as significant as profitability, Alt-Taylor's memories told me and could be more significant for some products. Nobody thought the disgusting company Buck-A-Slice actually made any money on their eurodollar slices of pizza, but it was the extras you got when you went in for a slice that made them profitable.

Biotechnica was having its flagship stimulant be priced for a certain high-end demographic, complete with numerous anti-counterfeiting measures, and then the same stimulant sans those measures creating market share in the grey market. But it was doing it one better by actually profiting off the grey market sales directly in many cases. I got the impression that they weren't presently interested in me at all, but I bet that would change rapidly if I sold more than the half kilo or so of product that I had left.

But this gave me the idea to sell the antibiotic and its synthesis steps to them. I couldn't do it myself, not directly... the risk was too great, but perhaps six months or a year or so after our existing business arrangement was concluded, I could approach Diego again, in a new anonymous identity, and offer to sell that through him to Biotechnica.

At one point, I thought the antibiotic might exist and just be proprietary and secret, but I didn't think that anymore. It was so potent and had so many side effects that I thought there would definitely be signs, even obvious to everyday pre-hospital clinicians, that such a treatment was available, even if it was only kept for the very wealthy.

As such, I could offer it to them for a million eurodollars and have my money problems solved! It was a lot of money, but to them, it wasn't much at all for what they were getting. I'd have to give them samples up front for them to take my claims of the medicine's efficacy seriously. They'd have to test it themselves, and that meant that they'd put them under a mass spectrometer for sure and get the complete chemical composition. That meant that they would eventually be able to reproduce it, probably. They were a pharmaceutical company, after all. However, the synthesis wasn't obvious.

It wasn't just a slightly different synthetic antibiotic that they could draw decades of experience in synthesising similar compounds, and it might take a research laboratory multiple years to get an industrially useful synthesis method for it. So they would be spending a million dollars on getting several years early at introducing the product, which I thought they would go for.

They would also try to offer me a job I couldn't refuse, too. So I would have to make sure that the trade was conducted anonymously, somehow. And I would have to make sure that they knew I had contingencies in place to release the drug to its competitors if I were to vanish, as killing me to recover the one million dollars would be quite tempting too. Probably not to the real executives who would greenlight such a deal who shat larger dollar amounts on a weekly basis, but my memories from Alt-Taylor told me it was exactly what a mid-level ops manager in their Intel department might do. Possibly so he or she could pocket the money themselves, or if that wasn't feasible, then to look a little better on their quarterly evaluations.

It would be extremely risky, and I hadn't settled on dealing with this Diego gentleman again even if I did take up the idea, which I very well might not. It might be better for me to have a clean break with him, and then I could approach one of the better-known Fixers in the city to run as a middle-man to the deal. There were ones that were famous for sticking to their agreements, and it would be much less likely I would be stabbed in the back by one of them than by a small-time name. I might have to approach these people in person, though, for them to give me the time of day, so there were drawbacks with that as well.

I wasn't in a rush, and I would be sure to wait as long as I needed for my brief stint as a drug seller to be completely forgotten as I didn't want to connect any lines to any people, even if those people were fictional personas I only used to sell drugs for nine months or so.

Selling him the pill press would make sense and be one way to further disconnect me from that business, as I doubt he is crediting some random anonymous person selling him product in the first place. The machine was heavily Tinkerised, but I thought I could get it into shape so that it worked at least for a few months, maybe even longer. After that, I wouldn't care, anyway, and he would have no way to contact me to complain!

Let him hire a Techie and watch him be perplexed at how the machine worked at all in the first place. It was a shame I couldn't see the look on the techie's face when he inspected it. I didn't build it out of bubblegum and shoestrings, it looked properly industrial, but I was pretty sure some of its operation principles didn't line up with reality, especially with how quickly it solidified the candy coating on the pills.

It wasn't like pill press machines were rare or hard to find, even ones similar to mine that put on a "candy shell" were available for purchase, and I figured he just wanted to keep a single brand in his product going forward, which might be possible if he cannibalised my die into a commercially available press.

I would have to weigh my options carefully. I would make a bit over sixty-five thousand eurodollars, altogether, on selling these tic-tacs, but I was pretty sure I would be tracked down if I continued that business much further into the future. If I were to start a new, similar business selling some other chemical with an existing market, it would pose similar risks, too. Or greater. The stimulant I made wasn't strictly speaking a recreational substance, so it was on a weird place where the market in it was a lot gentler than if it was a quasi-legal or outright illegal substance.

I definitely didn't want to start competing with the Tyger Claws in one of their core competencies and money-making industries, which was illegal drugs, either. Not just because I lived in their building but I found the illegal drug trade in Night City to be very despicable. I had managed to study some of the drugs the Tyger Claws sold, and most of them caused rapid addiction and very serious medical complications, as a matter of course, almost as though they were designed to do so.

If some shadowy force was intentionally spreading highly addictive and dangerous drugs for some unknown purpose, then I certainly didn't want to pop my head up and offer less addictive and safer alternatives. I mean, ideally, that would be great, but I wanted to stay alive.

I could continue as I was, finding random ways to make money over time, but each scheme wasn't that much less of a risk than trying to sell my IP. It was just dealing with smaller amounts of money; therefore, I thought it was less likely to be noticed, but that was just chance, really.

One of the fast sprint segments caused me to stop thinking entirely, and I could only run and pant until it was over, and I jogged slowly in the cool-down segment until my workout was complete.

Nodding at the machine after I wiped it off, I headed back to my apartment to hit the showers. I still didn't quite trust getting naked around other people. It took me a week of living in this world to stop taking a pistol into the bathroom when I took a shower in my own apartment.

It wasn't like anybody would be interested to see my body, anyway.



I survived two rounds of in-person interviews. Rather than be conducted at Trauma Team tower as I thought, they were conducted off-premises in a nearby hotel's conference room, both times, including a very strenuous and highly technical one conducted by one of Trauma Team's local medical directors, which was a doctor.

Today I was heading to Trauma Team Tower itself for what was called a "base visit." Trauma Team had a similar schedule as NC Med Ambulance, twenty-four hours on if you were a clinician. I understood the pilots worked shorter hours daily but ended up working more days a week to make up for it, and frankly, I approved of that arrangement. I didn't want the pilot flying an AV I was in to be fatigued, even if stims and much better ones than MC Med Ambulance used were available.

Trauma Team had a pretty good corporate culture as corporations in this dystopia went, which meant that they at least pretended to care about their employees. All employees got a Trauma Team subscription, and the fees they responded to you were said to be billed at cost. And I'm sure they'd be more than happy to set up some kind of payment plan arrangement where they would take a little out of your check every week if you weren't able to pay upfront.

As such, a base visit was from what I could tell about online at forums for people who had or wanted to work there was an "asshole test." As in, could you be around three other people for a whole day without them wanting to shoot you?

This was especially important because six out of the twenty-four hours of your working day were on a "ready 5" status, as in you were loaded up in the AV and waiting. Apparently, the Trauma Team's armoured helmets included a built-in BD wreath, and Trauma Team would pay a monthly subscription for every pilot and clinician to an interactive BD MMO game of their choice.

I had never actually played one, but there was one that was set in the early 2000s where all the players had superpowers, and you had to pick whether or not you wanted to be a hero or villain; that looked very amusing to me. It was famous for having an artificial intelligence examine your playstyle and disposition in the introduction and selecting a superpower for you; you couldn't pick yourself on the first character you made, although they definitely offered that service for a fee, of course.

The security for the Trauma Team tower was the strictest I have ever seen thus far in the world, although a fair bit of it was unobtrusive. There was a small antechamber when you entered that I thought looked old-fashioned until I realised it was full of scanning devices when two security guards in full combat armour and automatic weapon met me at the end.

I introduced myself, "Hello. I'm Taylor Hebert; I'm a prospective new hire here for a base visit."

One of the guards looked at the other one, who glanced down at a tablet and said, his voice slightly distorted by his helmet's speakers, "E-mag pistol, knife, kerenzikov, cyberdeck and monowire on the left side."

The first guard seemed surprised if I was reading his emotions through his armour correctly but nodded and said, "Ma'am, you'll have to leave your pistol and knife with us down here."

I had expected that, and I complied but what surprised me was when the guard said, "If you'd roll up your sleeve on your left hand, ma'am?" I blinked and did so, and he placed a small bracelet right over my monowire's output slot. It kind of reminded me of one of those slap bracelets Emma and I used to play with back in the mid to late 1990s, except this one looked much more substantial now that it was deployed on my wrist. I touched it testingly, and it refused to budge from its location, and I got a light static shock, which jolted me, almost causing me to jump into the air.

I got the impression the guards were both amused at my antics, "Accessing the private subnet on the premises is prohibited. Also, do not attempt to take that bracelet off while in the building; it has countermeasures which range from painful to lethal." I gawked at him, my concern obvious as it had been set off by me barely touching it. A soft, muted chuckle from him, and he continued, "Don't worry; everyone always tries fucking with it, so the first time, it is really easy to set off. It won't shock you again unless you really try to take it off. You could do full contact sparring wearing it."

That was unusually specific. Did prospective new hires often do full contact sparring, I wondered? They gave me a visitor's pass and told me that I was only cleared to go up to one place, one of the bases near the middle of the building with an attached helipad, and any divergences would be investigated. I was honestly surprised I wasn't met down here and escorted up, but perhaps that was a sort of a test in itself.

I thanked them and started to walk away, overhearing, "...don't often see a girl that young with a monowire... say nothing about the booster, some kind of child ninja program ya think?"

Followed by a slightly distorted "...pah, you never know what age someone is these days. She might be a baba, older than both of us..."

Baba?! I knew enough Japanese from living in my building to know that meant old hag or something like that. Whatever it meant, it definitely wasn't complimentary. Eyes narrowing, I ignored what I overheard and continued on the bank of elevators. Entering one, I glanced around, not seeing buttons.

I tried the obvious solution, "Floor 32, please." That caused the elevator to start moving, and I nodded, pleased with myself. As it got off, I consulted the floor map next to the bank of elevators and made a soft humming sound, considering which direction I should go. It looked like this floor had mainly six quick-reaction bases in it, along with some administrative offices. We were about halfway up the side of the building, with the Trauma Team tower reaching 70 stories, and I did notice on the drive here that there were helipads on the side of the building about halfway up.

I was visiting base Bravo today, and I tested the unfamiliar phonetic on my tongue briefly, "Brah-voh." Although I had a fair number of memories from Alt-Taylor, and this phonetic alphabet wasn't completely unfamiliar, especially after working over ten months in a ground ambulance where it was occasionally used on the radio, I still had to curtail my first reaction to say Bet.

Glancing around, I found the correct path to take and moseyed my way over to the entrance of the base; the door had a giant B on it, and someone had taped a small piece of paper under the letter that said, "At least we're better than fucking Delta."

Amused, I checked the time. I was instructed to get here at the shift change time, but I was quite a bit early. There was a doorbell, but having worked in EMS for close to a year now, I wouldn't particularly want to be woken up if I had managed to get some sleep, so I was cautious about pressing it. They might all still be asleep. When I was working, I would only set the alarm to wake me fifteen minutes before shift change, and it was still forty-five minutes till right now.

I decided to just put my visitor's pass over the electronic lock's sensor, testingly. A brief green light and a clunking sound indicated it allowed me entry. Smiling, I stepped in without announcing myself. I had some idea of how the base was going to be set up from what I looked at online, and the first room was set up in a sort of living room style.

Each base was set up as a small house with five bedrooms, a kitchen, two bathrooms, a supply room, an armoury, a small conference room and a living room. The living room was sort of big with multiple couches and chairs, and at the far end, I could see a tunnel leading past a glass set of sliding doors to a helipad where an AV was sitting. How cool! I wanted to go inspect it, but I highly doubted my visitor's pass would let me onto what was probably a more highly secured area, namely their air operations area.

These off-going workers weren't really even supposed to deal with me, I was supposed to meet and greet with the people starting work today, so I just sat in one of the cushy chairs in the living room, out of the way, and waited.

About twenty minutes later, activity began to happen in the base. Two people arrived simultaneously; they looked like pilots and didn't pay me any mind, and they went together into the small conference room. They were joined by the two pilots that were still on duty, and I eavesdropped on their conversation, very interested.

One of them began speaking, "We only had three calls last shift; the AV is flying well, no squawks at all, except the co-pilot's side attitude indicator that you told me about last night. That's still MEL'd, but the techs tell me they will swap it out this morning..."

"Good... fuel and ammo status?" asked one of the oncoming ones.

The second of the off-coming pilots speaks up, "You got seven-seven-five kilos on the fuel and four-zero-zero each on AP and FMJ on the Goncz. Not sure what the door gunners are at. And, of course, we haven't used an AGM in weeks, sadly, so your heavy ordinance is just how you left it yesterday."

The oncoming pilot nodded and said, "Nice. That's the ground pounder's job to keep the SAWs loaded. But I'll check when they come in, anyway."

I was interrupted in my droppings of eaves by a man looking quizzically at me; he was in pyjamas of all things, "...wait... who are you?"

I popped to my feet and smiled, "Hi! I'm Taylor Hebert. I'm here for a base visit. I got here a little early, so I decided to just sit and wait until the oncoming crew came to relieve you, out of the way here."

He gaped, shocked, "You mean... you didn't ring that ghastly doorbell and wake us all up?! Hahaha... preem, you must be a paramedic." He stepped forward and offered his hand to shake.

I shook his hand in a friendly manner and nodded, "That I am. How'd you guess?"

"Because every pilot and grunt always rings the bell on their base visits. Only people who have suffered the slings and arrows of emergency medicine know not to disturb the poor fools if they might be asleep. You get my vote just on that basis alone," he said, but then he glanced at me up and down. "You look a bit young, though."

"I'll have been working 911 calls here in lovely Night City for a year now in a couple of months. The hiring manager was impressed with my grades and test scores in the Paramedic program at the NCU Health Science Centre," I told him, but letting him assume what he wanted about my age. I wasn't even seventeen yet. The hiring managers didn't seem to care about my age at all, but it was a bit of a tender spot for me. Was I too young to be doing all this? Maybe, if I didn't have superpowers.

He nodded, "That's my alma mater, as well. I got my medical degree there." Ah, so he must be one of the Senior Med-Techs. They weren't always full doctors, but it wasn't that uncommon, either. The assistants were universally paramedics.

I asked him, curious, "Did the company pay for your tuition?"

He nodded, "Yeah. Worked here for two years, and then they offered. Had to sign a twenty-year contract, though, but it's not that bad. Definitely worth it. My pay is way more than double, and I can always pick up shifts in any hospital in town as a contractor on my days off, five hundred eddies a day doing that, minimum. Sometimes double that if they're really hard up."

I wasn't sure why I was so opposed to that, although twenty years was a lot better than Kang Tao's offer of thirty. It was an option, though, and probably the safest of all of the options. I would keep it in mind.

He motioned to me, "Come stand by me; when the two come in to relieve us, I'll introduce you. I'll also get your paperwork for the liability waiver and see if there's a spare MCU in your size you can use today."

Huh? What? "Liability waiver, for what? And what's an MCU?" I asked him, curious.

"It basically says that if you die today it ain't the company's fault, even if it really is the company's fault. Anyone that isn't a patient that flies on one of our AVs has to sign one," he said simply, "And MCU is a Medical Combat Uniform... I'm sure you've seen us responding to calls if you worked 911; it's the armoured flight suit us Med Techs wear. Completely different from the ACU!" The last had the feeling of an inside joke.

Wait, what? "I thought that was just supposed to be a 'base visit'," I told him, using air quotes, "It didn't specify anything more than that."

He laughed, "Yeah, that figures. I mean, that's true... but we provide you the opportunity to shadow a crew for a full twenty-four shift. If you want to." he emphasised that last point, almost blatantly indicating that it would be a good idea to do so.

I nodded, not just because it seemed like the correct thing to get hired, but because it sounded fucking nova.

"Preem. One of the oncoming pilots will do a quick fam with you on the airframe. You'll be solely an observer, mind you," he warns. That was obvious; they hadn't even hired me yet.

I was a bit curious, though, "Will the company issue me a firearm? I know you guys go to some pretty sketchy places."

He scrunched up his face and shook his head, "Nah. Hide behind the grunts if things get hairy. But they won't issue or allow you to carry weapons until you're both hired and have been qualified. Maybe they'll give you a pocket knife." That was a long shot, so I wasn't really surprised. I nodded. He glanced at me and said, "We're not supposed to say this, but they only invite people to base visits they're pretty sure they want to hire, so as long as you're not a total asshole, you pretty much got the job."

That made me feel a lot better, and it made sense, but at the same time, I didn't let it make me feel complacent. At that, people rapidly arrived in the room. I could easily tell the security guys from the medics as they looked like soldiers. Well, to be honest, all of the medics had a little bit of that look too, but nothing like the professional hard men that I had become familiar with working for my Alt-Dad.

After introductions, I sat aside as they conducted their morning briefing. They had a similar drug stocking machine as we did in NC Med Ambulance, but they didn't have to share it with twenty trucks. I watched them check in, then check back out their narcotics, do their daily cycle count, and talk a little bit about the patients they had the previous day.

The senior clinician on the oncoming crew was named Hideaki Anno, and seemed to be the clinical base lead. That made sense to schedule me on the day the line supervisor was working. He told me that I could call him Dr Anno, Hideaki, or Hey You but definitely nothing else. That must mean he had some sort of nickname that he didn't like.

He already had an MCU uniform for me, showed me how to get in it and recommended that I partially keep it on at least today whenever the light in the base indicated we were next up for a call because it took some practice to learn how to jump in it quickly, and they wouldn't wait on me if they got a call. When in the base, they were on ready-fifteen, which means they had to be wheels up within fifteen minutes, but their target was usually closer to seven.

Depending on the service level of the client, either the ready-five or ready-fifteen bird would launch, but even on the ready-fifteen calls, they averaged getting on the scene in ten minutes or less. If the ready-five bird was dispatched, the base next up to a call shifted to ready-five until they got back.

I thought the uniform was cool and was curious how they got my measurements until I remembered how many sensors I walked through downstairs. He told me not to worry about getting changed right now, that they were fifth up, so they probably wouldn't get a call for an hour or two. Apparently, there was something of an art to knowing how far away you could be from the AV based on what priority you were, as there were some facilities on our floor, like a workout room, that were available.

I sat with the two other Med Techs in the conference room, apparently, the first thing in the morning was a briefing from the day pilot, and then we would go check the supplies and equipment in the AV and test everything like I was familiar with from working in a ground ambulance.

"Yo, Savior. Who's the little girl?" asked one particularly bulky security man.

Anno growled, "I told you, I don't like that name." Oh, so that was his nickname. That would be a bit of a hard thing to live up to, but he must have done something pretty cool to get up to it. Anno glanced at me, "The pilots and security guys often give nicknames to everyone, the grunts especially. This is Mercy." He pointed to the biggest of the security guys, who didn't look like he had a merciful bone in his body.

"I-is that name... ironic?" I asked Mr Mercy, which got a huge grin and a nod. I thought so.

"Mercy, this is Taylor Hebert. She's a prospective new hire that'll be third riding with us today," Anno told him.

He gawked, "Her? I thought it was take your daughter to work day, but she doesn't look like a Jap, so I was curious." No one commented on the casual light-racism there, although I could see Anno's eyes roll slightly. He then reached out to... I'm not sure, grab my shoulder or something, but I simply reached up and grabbed his wrist, moving at about half speed.

The other security guy laughed, and Mr Mercy gawked, testing my grip before easily breaking it, and then he stared at my wrist. "Hey! Bandbox! She's got a bracelet!"

That caused the other security guy, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed adonis of a man that looked vaguely familiar, to blink, "Really? Mantis blades or the big gauge? I bet five eddies it's the big gauge. You know what they say, bitches love cannons." Well, that was true, but... "She looked a little... fast just now, you know, too."

The huge guy nodded thoughtfully and said, "Nah, hand's strong but 'ganic. Has to be a wire. I'll add the debt to your tab, choom." Then he stared down at me, "You know how to use that, girly?"

I coughed and said, "It would be pretty stupid to have it on my wrist if I didn't. I think we've all seen that clip from America's Most Violent Home Videos. I don't want to make anyone a bunch of money by being their next submission." The video in question was perhaps one of the most famous videos from that particular entertainment program, and I had seen the clip online of a supposed street samurai yanking out a monowire, throwing out some cool-looking moves and then decapitating himself instantly. It was set to a laugh track.

It was... very gross but very illuminating too. I redoubled my training with the wire software after seeing that. He nodded slowly at me and didn't say anything else because the two pilots walked in.

The pilots gave a pretty comprehensive briefing, from the AV status, any maintenance that was due today, in this case, a replacement attitude indicator was going to be installed, the weather and how that would impact any flights, ammo status, and then mentioned me. I waved to everyone.

After the briefing, the pilot walked me through both where I would be sitting in the AV, all of the emergency features and exits, how to talk on the intercom and radio (and, more importantly, how not to talk when I didn't want to) and then pronounced me good enough. I had to sign a piece of paper confirming I got the initial emergency training on the AV-4, another waiving any liability if I was injured or died pretty much under any circumstances, and a final one which was an NDA about any patient I saw, with pretty stiff looking penalties.

Curiously, I asked him, "How much fuel does this thing burn?"

That got a wide grin and said, "It burns a very economical one litre per fifteen seconds, on average." Holy shit, with the price of CHOO2, that was astronomical.

That must have shown on my face because he laughed and said, "That really is quite an economic burn. Forty years ago, this same AV-4 model with the older turbofans would burn twice that, at least."

He led me back into the base, and after that... we waited.
 
Last edited:
You mean I didn't even get paid for this?
It's the little things that you don't take into account when you're making plans. Like, for example, that you've never actually flown on an aeroplane before, to say nothing of a helicopter, and to say nothing of an AV. There weren't even any armrests for me to white knuckle grip; the spare seat was a fold-down jumpseat, so I just gripped the five-point harness that I was strapped into for dear life.

Hearing laughing over the intercom, I glanced over to assistant Med-Tech, a man named Alex Santos, but they called him Teddy Bear for some reason. I didn't like the cut of his jib, especially now that he was laughing at me, "Never actually flown before?"

I gritted my teeth but nodded the armoured helmet I was wearing. I had been looking through the heads-up display this armour system offered to try to distract me. "No, I haven't. But it should be fine." I told the clinician-only circuit on the intercom. I was just kind of nervous, but I wasn't actually scared.

I clicked over to listen to what the pilots were doing out of curiosity and to distract myself.

"Trauma Tower, Trauma 2, request clearance for departure, destination filed, but it's a 232 heading on the departure. We're going over to Pacifica..." one of the pilots said.

Very quickly, a bored-sounding woman's voice came back, "Trauma 2, Trauma Tower, departure from pad bravo at your own risk, IFF check okay, forwarding your squawk to Night City departure at this time, check in with Night City departure on channel 7, see ya."

The sound got loud as the ducted turbofans of the aerodyne spooled up, and then we gently lifted off into the air. The nose of the aircraft dropped a bit as we turned left and headed off into the distance. There were no windows to look out of, but I could switch the HUD on my helmet to show me an exterior view of wherever I looked. I think that was how the security people used the guns that were attached to the side of the aircraft, so I switched to the exterior view and looked down at the city below me.

I muted the pilot's net and asked over the clinician one, "So we don't know anything? You would think the client would have a recent biom that we could ping from here."

"Yeah... that is required for Platinum coverage, and most Gold-tier clients have that as well, but it isn't necessary for Silver, which is what we're responding to. We just have the complaint -- acute chest pain and shortness of breath. We can run an EKG when we get there like it was a hundred years ago, back in the pilgrim times," the man named Teddy Bear said.

I didn't think the pilgrims had paramedics or electrocardiograms, but I decided to remain quiet about that. Nobody likes a smart ass. I pulled up the client's information, which was listed as US2771212 Richard Gage, an employee of Fuji-Westinghouse, and a temporary three-month Silver-tier policy in Night City. Not a Night City native, then. We were flying directly to the Playland at the Sea amusement park.

An employee on a contract with the park, perhaps? I always liked trying to figure out the happenstances of a patient before we got to them, I had pretty good accuracy, but it was fun when I got surprised, too.

Anno glanced over at me, "Do you mind carrying the gurney, Taylor?" I shook my head; I didn't mind. It was pretty lightweight.

The co-pilot pilot got on the shipwide net and said, "Landing in two mikes."

That caused the big security guy named Mercy to get on as well, "Two mikes. Cold LZ. Weapon checks." That triggered everyone but the pilots and me to briefly pull out their weapons. The security guys had two small bullpup carbines while Anno and Mr Bear just casually pulled out their pistols, checked to make sure a round was in the chamber and replaced them in their holsters. Considering they already checked them before they got in the aircraft, I was pretty sure they took having your weapon ready and good to go pretty important around here.

As we approached the landing zone, the display on my helmet switched automatically to an augmented reality guidance system, with the patient's beacon listed as being eighty metres to the north-northwest, inside a building. That was pretty cool, as even if he didn't have a biomonitor, he had to have something we were tracking. One of the Trauma Team cards, perhaps?

As soon as the skids touched the ground, my five-point harness automatically popped open and was reeled up and out of my way so I could just jump out of the aircraft, which I did so after Dr Anno and Mr Bear. I grabbed the fold-up-style gurney and followed them behind the two security guys. They didn't run, and Dr Anno described the pace they set as "prudent haste."

It was interesting to see everyone around us get way out of our way. I mean, I knew Trauma Team had a reputation, and I had even seen them shoot a number of people on ground calls, but it's a lot different perspective. It must be like walking down the street, walking side by side with a giant pitbull dog or something.

The security guys gave the bum rush to the few people that were in the room with the patient, including one park security guard, and then allowed us to enter. My gaze went to the patient, and I was pleased to notice that my Kiroshi's automatically used near-field communication to interface to the helmet I was wearing, as the vision I was seeing zoomed correctly to take in the man's face at very great detail. I was a little worried I would just get a zoomed-up sight of the interior of my helmet.

They briefly introduced themselves to the patient, and I thought about what the park employees had told the security guy before they rushed them out of the room. He was an employee for a subcontractor, known for troubleshooting things on every end of the park, walking everywhere. It was the little things you heard that could help you the most if you needed to make a differential diagnosis. Although my power often let me cheat, that meant I had to pay even more attention to the little things to give a plausible reason for my diagnosis.

They used a small device I had never seen before that automatically and rapidly started an IV on the patient. That was seriously cool, and my power wanted me to look at it some more, but I shifted to glance at the patient again.

The guy already had his shirt off for some reason. Although that wasn't too uncommon, a lot of patients with chest pain did that, and I scanned his chest and abdomen, frowning, as the two clinicians quickly connected wireless sensor probes to a number of places on his body, with Dr Anno saying, "Taylor, right here is fine."

I nodded and slid the gurney out right in front of the patient. The EKG was already in process, and I saw the waveform from all twelve leads in front of my face, which caused me to frown some more. Mr Bear said to the patient, "Mr Gage, please lay down on the gurney, and we can delta." Already they had administered a healthy dose of pain medication, as well as something to get his blood pressure down.

The man nodded, looking very relieved already, and carefully laid down on the gurney. Both Dr Anno and Mr Bear grabbed one end and started carrying the man out of the door; we hadn't been in the room for more than thirty seconds. Normally ground assessments lasted at least five or ten minutes in a case like this, but I supposed they weren't in the business of wasting time.

As we walked, Dr Anno asked, "So, what do you think, Teddy?"

"MI or PE, maybe?" the man said, which caused me to shake my head a little bit.

Anno noticed that, and his curious voice came over our private net, "Oh? Taylor? You have an idea?"

Shit. I had intended to keep my mouth shut here. I coughed, "The waveforms of his EKG are inconsistent with an active MI; a PE is possible but unlikely due to the background info we have on his lifestyle. The biobed in the AV has a sonic scanner; I'd recommend activating it on the flight back." My medical sense was telling me that he had an aortic aneurysm, but I couldn't quite say that I believed he did because I saw the way his abdomen almost imperceptibly distended when his heartbeat; now, could I?

Rather than be pissed, Mr Bear just glanced back at me and asked, "You think he has a dissecting triple A?" I nodded at him. He considered that and said, "That could be. Five eddies say it's a pulmonary embolism, though." I nodded, accepting the bet. That was easy money.

Even Anno nodded at him, "You're on. I think Taylor is right. This guy probably has had chronic hypertension for months dealing with his job and a preexisting aneurysm for the same reason. That or amphetamine toxicity or an anxiety attack. If it's one of those nobody wins, deal?"

"Wait, I was talking with the patient and wasn't listening when the park employee told us about him. I thought he was a guest, sedentary lifestyle, sitting here in an interactive roleplay BD for the past eight hours," Mr Bear said, trying to walk back his bet. That would have made his guess of a pulmonary embolism much more likely. Any time you sat still for a long time dramatically increased your risk for blood clots.

Dr Anno tsked, "Too late, sucker! I'll tell the pilot to be easy on the flight back. The last thing we want is a bunch of turbulence causing Mr Gage to pop." I nodded; that was possibly one of the few things that they couldn't fix. I was pretty sure they could maintain oxygen to his brain for the flight back, but it would turn a simple milk run into a train wreck. And it would also vastly increase the costs involved to Mr Gage here. Depending on how long his body and organs stayed without oxygen, he might have to have much of it replaced.

As it was, he was looking at a cheap and simple arterial replacement. Probably with synthetic polymer options, as that was indicated in patients with past aneurysms and hypertension. Possibly a new or replacement heart might be recommended, depending on the state of his, and finally, a biomonitor would definitely be recommended at the Trauma Centre. If he had one and had known about his predilection for hypertension, he would have been told to go to the doctor as soon as the aneurysm started to develop, probably many months or years ago.

The helmets and armour we wore were designed for NBC protection, supposedly, but they definitely were soundproof. People outside could only hear us talk if we engaged the speakers, they couldn't hear us speak over our internal com net, which was good, probably if it was common practice to bet on the health status of the patients.

Returning back to the AV, they settled the gurney, patient and all, into the biobed, and we hopped back aboard. After making sure my seatbelt was secure, I fumbled for a few seconds looking through the drop-down options on the HUD before I found the biobed, pulling up its display.

As we lifted off, Anno said, "Alright, I'll start the ultrasound." The sonic scanner in the biobed popped out, and he directed it to the patient's abdomen. Although Anno called it an ultrasound, it actually used ultrasound, infrasound, and even audible noise to create images, so it was actually called a sonic scanner. I had a small hand-held version, about three generations out of date, back at my apartment.

"Fuck!" Mr Bear yelled privately, and immediately I noticed a transfer to my digital wallet of five eurodollars. He paid promptly, at least.

Anno chuckled and explained, "He doesn't like losing bets. He's gone to some extreme lengths to win some in the past." I nodded, but I wasn't as quick with this user interface as they were, so it took me a moment to pull up the images. Yeah, he definitely had an aneurysm, over seven centimetres wide and up pretty high in his chest too.

The armour and helmet I was wearing were pretty interesting. It connected to your interface socket and functioned almost like it was an implant. If it had a powered exoskeleton component, it would be considered a rudimentary ACPA, but as it was, it was just an interesting tool. My ZetaTech SelfICE didn't trust it, though, and was running a completely emulated virtual operating system and piping everything to and from it after sanitising everything. When the armour disconnected, that entire virtual OS would be wiped in real-time.

Personally, I liked the way it thought. Hopefully, I would be working for this corp, but I didn't really trust them.

I had four of six of the customisable ICE slots utilised in the Zeta-Tech now, and my power managed to help me transfer some of the electronic warfare components from the Dragoon into Zetatech-compatiable ICE boards. One of them, the last resort, was exactly the kind of fatal black ICE that I built netrunner suits to protect against. Generally speaking, if someone was trying to use a quickhack against me, this ICE wouldn't have enough of a connection to retaliate, but it could if someone ever plugged their personal link, firewall or not, into one of my interface sockets or if they tried a deep personal hack while we were both deep diving.

I couldn't examine all of the code as a lot of it was black-boxed with integrated electronics, and a lot of it I didn't really understand yet anyway, but I was optimistic that the netrunner suits I had been making would offer protection.

It made me realise that I shouldn't highly publicise such inventions, though. I was sure that I wasn't the first to build such a thing. And if it became something everyone had, then people would just stop using that type of ICE and spend a little bit more money on the type that could broil a person's brain, which I couldn't protect against. A lot of people would be pissed off at me in that case, both a lot of serious netrunners and possibly even a bunch of companies that had to spend a lot of money updating their security systems. I'd have both the black and the white hats after me, then!

So long as I only made a few and was discreet to the people I sold them to, though, I should be fine.

I held back as we landed on top of the hospital roof, watching how they delivered the patient to a waiting trauma bay. Since they had radioed in the patient's likely diagnosis, his acuity had been upgraded, and they had a whole team of people ready to work on him by the time we got there.

After our flight back downtown, we went briefly out of service, both to restock and also as the six-hour period where we were going to have to be sitting in the AV continuously was approaching, so they gave you an opportunity to take a quick shower. These six hours were going to be annoying. I didn't trust them well enough to use the braindance wreath installed in the helmet, so I would just be working on my cyberdeck or watching videos the whole time, although I was really interested in that superhero game now that I thought about it. If I got hired and got assigned a permanent uniform, I would be able to discreetly make a couple of modifications to it to ensure the BD playbacks weren't subtly brainwashing me.

It had found it pretty common for commercially available BD streams, even some you paid for like films, to do that, mainly just to make you slightly want any of the products that they were advertising, though. But I was pretty sure it would be possible to make a BD that induced a psychotic break or possibly even cardiac arrest, too.

"Alright, we're up for our six-hour ready-five period. Does anyone need to use the head now, before we start?" the pilot asked everyone, probably to be polite, but he was specifically looking at me. I shook my head rapidly.

"Yo, Taylor. If you get hired, you should play World of Heroes like the rest of us. We have a Trauma Team guild, and we'll help power-level you," the very attractive blonde-haired security guy told me as we got into the AV. That was the game I was planning on playing, too.

I looked interested, "Oh? Are you a heroic guild?" I asked.

That caused both of the security guys to laugh, "Yeah, fuck that! We're the in the top 20 global villain guilds. The guild name is Total Terror; get it, TT? We're a PK guild. All the security guys and most of the medics play. Pilots are hit-and-miss."

I coughed, surprised. Well, maybe not. If you were involved in EMS for longer than a week, you tended to get both a macabre sense of humour and very jaded about humanity as a whole. That was the main reason I didn't have more of an emotional reaction when I had to kill those four Voodoo Boys. "Okay, I'll think about it," I told him, although unsure. I intended to play a hero, of course.

It made sense that if Trauma Team had an unofficial guild, they would be pretty effective. The game was touted to be very realistic, and with a virtual area larger than North America, complete with millions of interactive NPCs, they called it a virtual world. The physics were somewhat realistic, with superpowers grafted on. As such, there weren't really hardcoded stats and a lot of numbers like a lot of games. As such, a lot of real-life skills did translate into the game, especially if it involved, say, small unit tactics and marksmanship. Superpowers changed a lot of the game, but really a bullet to the face was still a bullet to the face.

I settled into a long wait, pulling up the current stream for the local propagandists.

An attractive woman said on the video, "Welcome to N54; it's time for your local news. Unexpected political drama today at city hall as council member Lucius Rhyne fired back on proposed legislation suggesting that birds in the city be culled. The freshman councilman had ammunition to back up his opposition in the form of a peer-reviewed white paper on the likely outcome of such a law that was published six months ago, written by one of our own in Night City. Phil, what's your read on these developments?"

She turned to her co-host, a studious-looking fellow, who shook his head, "Sara, I've read the paper written by Professor Hidalgo of Night City University that was cited by Councilman Rhynes, and it's exactly as the councilman says. Deaths by avian flu may be reduced, but only at the cost of trebling the number of deaths from Malaria, West Nile and other mosquito-born pathogens! To say nothing of the quality of life issues. The historical examination bares out too. China, last century, tried this same policy, and millions died!"

I was watching with interest and a little trepidation. Hidalgo had sent me a copy of the published article. They hadn't widely circulated it, hoping to catch their political opponents just like this. A few months later, he sent me an update stating that their opponents had learned something and had delayed their plans, but it looked like they had restarted them now. Professor Hidalgo's political friend must be this Lucius Rhynes. I pulled up data on him. He just got elected for the first time in 2060 and was a member of the Devolutionist Party, which was a political party that was highly antipathic towards the centralised North American government. Interesting.

Really, such politics were all the same to me. I figured they were all crooks. From my perspective as someone who wasn't born here, it was like watching a sporting event where I neither knew either of the teams playing nor any of the rules of the game.

I ended up being the fourth author on that paper, which suited me just fine. Honestly, I would have preferred to not be credited at all, as it was less of an academic paper and more of a political grenade. Still, anyone reviewing the paper would assume I was some dogsbody if they investigated me. Although Night City was a dystopia, it wasn't quite to the point where someone would deign to shoot their political enemy's taxi driver for giving them a ride.

I sat back and continued to watch videos, occasionally transitioning to reading a novel for a while.



Something woke me with a start, a loud klaxon with the digitised voice saying, "SCRAMBLE. SCRAMBLE. SCRAMBLE. PLATINUM." I glanced around, seeing everyone else emerging from whatever BD they were experiencing. Already the pilots were flipping switches to spool up the internal turbofans, using the shore power connection and starter motors to quickly bring them up to speed.

Before I even had a chance to figure out how to pull up the patient information out of curiosity, we were pushed into our seats as the pilots didn't so much take off as throw us off our perch on the roof, all of the engines roaring to full power in the descent.

"Shit, multiple GSWs, multiple organs perfed, severe haemorrhaging..." Mr Bear said gloomily.

Mercy got onto on net and said, "It's an active scene, a hot LZ. NCPD reporting as a possible charlie papa inside the Biotechnica Hotel. Intruder, maybe? MaxTac may respond if there are any more casualties, but we'll get there first for sure. Hopefully, it'll be an in-and-out sort of thing. We'll be landing on the roof; our client is on the twenty-ninth floor."

Dr Anno glanced at me, "Stay behind Mercy and Bandbox, Taylor." I nodded, wishing I had a gun, and my left wrist suddenly felt itchy around that damn bracelet. They said not to remove it in the Trauma Tower, well... I wasn't in that building now, was I? Still, I didn't do anything for the moment.

The AV sat down on the rooftop pad, and all five of us hopped out, and I made sure to walk closely behind the giant wall of a man that was Mercy. Everyone had their guns out, and I was carrying most of their medical equipment. At least I was being useful, I supposed.

We went downstairs two and three at a time before reaching the twenty-ninth floor and popping out of the stairwell. There were clearly gunshots actively occurring on this floor, which didn't put my mind at ease at all. Mercy's voice over the net, "Client in sight. Hostiles in sight. Negative on the charlie papa; this is a Maelstrom death squad."

I wondered what Biotechnica did to piss off Maelstrom. It could be anything, really. Maybe they hired the gang for some terrible deed and stiffed them, or who knows what. Six red chevrons appeared on the screen in my helmet. Whatever the reason, it looked like the gang of cyberpsychos was getting some revenge.

I was also curious how they had snuck up to the twenty-ninth floor. They weren't exactly known for their subtlety, but they were known for their electronic warfare capabilities, though.

The group paused, but only for a moment. Mercy continued speaking. He must be in command of the ground team, "Verify AP ammunition is loaded, SmartLink connection active, break, flight two lift off and prepare to provide fire support. Floor two niner, east side. The cafe. We are going to be approaching from the south to the north." Everyone glanced at their weapons briefly.

"Roger, lifting now. Twenty seconds" came the voice from the pilot.

The twenty-ninth floor was only half apartments. What we were approaching was a combined indoor restaurant with large glass windows to appreciate the Night City skyline for the patrons dining inside.

"Targets selected in priority based on proximity to the client. They're 'Strom, so go for headshots. Go, go, go." Mercy said, and the team as a whole turned the corner, everyone but me firing. I felt pretty out of place, but I felt one of the safest places to be was probably behind the mostly bullet-resistant giant man.

Mercy and Bandbox killed the two Maelstrom guys next to the client, who was down on the ground and looking unresponsive. They were then using lots of automatic fire to keep the rest of the Maelstrom suppressed. A red flashing indicator in my helmet indicated the client had just flatlined, which wasn't good. Anno said over the radio, "Taylor, hold up. We're going to grab the guy and pull him around the corner so the AV can open up on them, stay there with the equipment and wait for us.

Ah, that made sense. I was wondering why the AV that I could see already descending and beginning to hover outside the large glass windows hadn't done anything. If the client became collateral damage, it kind of ruined the point of even coming out here. I worriedly looked at a few of the other people lying on the floor, but everyone I saw looked pretty dead already. In fact, the client, even after Mr Bear grabbed him and pulled him back behind the two security guys who kept firing at Maelstrom, looked pretty dead. Mercy's voice on the radio said, "Package secured; light them up."

Immediately there was a cacophony of noise as the AV began firing its twin 7.62mm rotary miniguns at a small cluster of the Maelstrom guys, then began sweeping it left to right to get the rest. I had dropped all the equipment I was carrying for Mr Bear and Dr Anno, who started working on the man.

I had pulled up my electronic warfare menu on my deck and was in the middle of establishing a connection to the biggest, most borged-out-looking of the Maelstrom guys, but he was turned into chunky salsa just like that. It was gross.

Anno reported, only briefly glancing at the state of the cafe, "Massive internal haemorrhage, death state one. Hey, Mercy. The boys pretty much wrecked this cafe; the windows are all shot out. See if they can hover outside, and we can transfer the patient directly onto the AV on this floor."

Mercy nodded, his weapon still ready for any of the Maelstrom, but they all appeared to be dead. "Roger. You hear that, guys?"

"Affirmative. We can," the pilots reported.

I watched both of them work on the guy, and they had managed to restart his heart already, but he hardly had any blood to pump through it. They were rapidly pinching off lacerated blood vessels and arteries while simultaneously introducing high-oxygenating synthetic blood replacement and trauma-based nanomeds, "Alright, we need to get him into stasis, stat." They were really quite good.

They picked the gurney up and started walking to the AV hovering on the exterior of the building, with the two security guys covering the rear. As they carefully loaded the guy in, I thought things were pretty much done and glanced back to see Mercy and Bandbox turning around to come to join us. However, just after they turned around, I saw one of the Maelstrom guys, who was not much more than a torso, start to move; he must have been playing dead.

"Behind you!" I said quickly, and both security guys started to turn, but it wasn't in time. The torso extended a hand, carrying an absolutely massive-looking revolver and had time to pull the trigger once before having its skull blown apart by a three-round burst from Mercy's small carbine.

Unfortunately, the slightly more diminutive security guy took a hit directly on the chest, the round so large it entered, penetrated completely, exited Bandbox's back and still pinged off the armour of the AV-4 next to us, with Bandbox falling over like a sack of potatoes and a number of medical alerts about a downed teammate.

"Fuck!" just about everyone yelled. Anno and Mr Bear glanced down at their own patient, then at Bandbox before Mercy growled, "You know SOPs. Fuck!"

They had already mentioned if one of their team was injured, then if it was a choice between the client and the teammate, they had to choose the client. I glanced around and said, "Go on without me. Maybe I can stabilise him for the follow-on team." Although they would leave a team member, they would treat them as a Platinum patient themselves for the follow-on team.

Mercy looked both sceptical and hopeful, which wasn't surprising as he saw the damage that single bullet had done. But he nodded, "Okay. They're scrambling the follow-on team now. But we were so quick here, it might take them five to ten mikes." That was true; it had barely been four minutes since we received the initial call. They were still probably getting dressed to take their turn as the ready-five bird.

I nodded, suddenly glad that all of the pockets on my borrowed uniform still had all of the equipment, even if I wasn't intended to use any of it. Mercy jumped in the side of the AV, and it didn't waste any time and started flying off to the north.

Running over to Bandbox, I flipped him over so that he was on his back and looked at the damage. Well, shit. He didn't have a heart anymore. That one-armed, no-legged torso of a Maelstrom was a good shot.

How could I stabilise... no fucking heart?!

I took stock of the equipment I had, which wasn't much, and I let out my breath in a slow relaxing pattern for a second, drawing deep on whatever superpower I had and the tools I had available to me.

Then nodding, I grabbed a small multitool of Bandbox's waist, flipped it to a cutting tool and carefully cut the uniform away, suddenly careful as I realised that if that knife on that tool wasn't monomolecular, then it was at least really close.

Then I grabbed some IV tubing I had in my pockets, lifting Bandbox up slightly to disconnect an electronic box on the back of his uniform and grabbing it, and flipping the multitool to a universal fastener removal tool. I only had a little time before he was well and truly dead.

I stirred from a light fugue. I called it a fugue, but I realised what I had done, even if not quite how. All of the Trauma Team armours had a built-in cooling system. They would just be too hot to wear otherwise. I had ripped out the coolant pump on his suit and then kludged together what was, in effect, a replacement heart with the coolant pump and a bunch of IV tubing.

The IV tubing was, besides being IV tubing, much too small in diameter to actually support sufficient blood flow without it being way too fast, so it wasn't really a solution. Still, after bypassing a lot of his arteries, it was enough to keep his brain and his core organs oxygenated. His internal biomonitor reported he was "alive" again, with acceptable levels of blood oxygenation, at least for now.

A second Trauma Team AV hovered exactly where the first one departed, and four people hopped out. One of the clinicians asked, "What's his status? His biom is reporting acceptable SPO2 now."

Uh. How was I going to explain this? I said, "The GSW totally obliterated his heart. I figured he was dead, but it was worth a try, so I pulled the coolant pump out of his MCU and kind of kludged together a bypass-heart pump." I checked the time; his brain had only been without oxygen for about two and a half minutes.

"What the fuck?" the other guy said as he looked down at the crime against nature and his armour's warranty that I had wrought.

"That's... one of the craziest things I've ever heard. Not the most, but maybe the fourth," the first guy said as both clinicians bent down to start working on him. I spent a moment pointing out which arteries I had bypassed, which I had just clamped shut, and how fragile the pump was.

"Alright. This probably is only going to buy him another ten or fifteen minutes. Already his brain SPO2 is inching down into the low 80s. Let's get him to Watson," the Senior Med-Tech said, and then glanced down at me, "Uhh... we don't have our jumpseat installed."

I had expected that as I had watched the pilot put in the extra seat this morning. I waved a hand, "I'll just call a Delamain and get a ride back to the Tower."

One of the security guys nodded and said, "The police probably won't hassle you, but try not to say too much to them. You might not, technically, work here yet, but they'll assume you do. MaxTac isn't responding, but both the NCPD and BioTechnica are. The latter shouldn't hassle you..." he trailed off, paused, and glanced around at the total devastation of the cafe, which was caused by a minigun attached to a Trauma Team AV, and then said, "...but uhh... maybe leave, now, before they get here. They don't have ready teams like us in town, so they won't be here for fifteen or thirty mikes. Just in case."

I nodded and watched them leave. I looked around and grabbed one of the pistols from one of the downed Maelstromers, slid it into the empty holster on my armour after checking it, and then grabbed one of the submachine guns and slung it carefully around my body. Then I briefly went around to each person that was down, looking for survivors. That and I wanted to know if the minigun was responsible for any of the deaths. Surprisingly, it wasn't. I wasn't sure if it was luck or the pilots actually being good shots, though.

As for survivors, I found three, one of which was unconscious and bleeding from a severed leg below the knee. I quickly wrapped a tourniquet around the wound and carried the woman to the front of the cafe so that she could be seen by the responding medtechs more easily.

The other two were acting dead, which I thought was a really good strategy under the circumstances, but when they realised I wasn't Maelstrom, they started sobbing and thanking me. One was seriously injured; in fact, he was slowly bleeding to death from a gunshot wound to his shoulder that had nicked his thoracodorsal artery.

I patted myself down and found a bleeding control kit in one of the pockets, and told him, "You aren't a subscriber, but I'm stuck here for the moment, and you're bleeding to death. Do you want me to help?"

"John! I told you we should have bought the subscription!" replied the woman, who must be his wife or girlfriend. Rather lucky that they both managed to survive the incident, they were in one of the corner booths.

He nodded very fast, "Uhh yes... am I? It doesn't feel that bad." Then he glanced at the woman, "Okay, you were right!"

I pulled open the bleeding kit and told him as I carefully cauterised the artery with a semi-disposable electronic ultrasonic wand, getting a wince from him as I did so, "Yes, the artery in your shoulder was nicked. It wasn't gushing out, but you still would have probably lost consciousness before the 911 EMTs could get here."

At about that time, the SWAT team threw a flashbang around the corner and rushed in. The grenade went off, but my helmet automatically corrected for it, and I didn't even hardly notice. If they had just exploded that lady who I had saved, I was going to be pissed. Still, I raised my hands in the air and quietly recommended these two conscious survivors do the same, and they did so.

"Trauma Team... what the fuck... only one of you?" asked the man in similar, although matte-black tactical armour after clearing the room, waving my hands down with a gesture. I wasn't supposed to say much, but I had thought of how to explain this, "Our AV took a hit from a giant fucking gun, and it couldn't take both the patient and me back, so I stayed around." That was true, too, after a fashion.

He nodded, the cops lowering their weapons, "You know what happened?"

I shook my head, "We responded to a platinum client, it was a suspected cyberpsycho, but when we got here, it was six Maelstromers. Everyone in the cafe, except these three, was already dead. We put down the Maelstrom and evaced our client; that's all I know. Corporate told me not to say much more than that or provide any speculation or inferences."

The head of the swat team sighed. That meant he had to intentionally make a sighing noise while indicating her wanted to transmit, which I thought was funny. "Yeah, alright. Thanks for flatlining these psychos. You gonna head out downstairs, or is another AV coming for you?"

"Send another AV for me? I'll be lucky if I can get them to pay for the cab fare," I told them, honestly, which caused three of them, including the leader, to snicker. I nodded at the man I had helped, stood up, and walked over to the guy who shot Bandbox and grabbed his giant fucking gun. My scanner activated and identified it as a Techtronika RT-46 Burya, a relatively new electromagnetic pistol out of the Russian Soviet Republic.

"Hey, that's evidence..." one of the non-SWAT uniform cops said.

The SWAT team leader yelled, "Fucking let her take it; that's probably what shot their AV."

It was, but the reason I was grabbing it was I figured Bandbox could use a souvenir. "Thanks. See if you can get the Med-Techs in here before that lady bleeds to death, okay?" She was in a pretty nice dress. An expensive one if the tag from Jinguji was to be believed. Yet she didn't have a Trauma Team membership. That probably meant she was either someone like me who tried to save a lot of money or possibly a call-out type escort whose clothes were a business expense. Either way, she didn't deserve to bleed to death.

He nodded, "They're on their way up from the elevator now."

I waited at the elevator; on the off-chance, it was Gloria, but it wasn't. Shame. I told them briefly the injuries and then got in the elevator going back down, walked past a group of uniformed police and hopped into a waiting Delamain.

"Why, if this isn't unusual... It is a pleasure to see you again, Miss Hebert. However, I will have to make a notation that we will charge a cleaning fee to Trauma Team if you get blood all over the back seat," said the genial voice of the AI driver.

"Hi, Del. Trauma Team tower, please," I said to him, a little tired. Not sleepy, but I was coming down from an adrenaline spike.

His animated head tilted, "Del? A diminutive of Delamain? That isn't actually my name, ma'am, but as I don't actually have a proper name, I think I approve of your appellation. Thank you."

Although we weren't actually that far away, traffic was a bitch today. About midway through the drive, I got a call from the Trauma Team hiring manager that had interviewed me; I picked up, "Hello?"

"Hey, Taylor. How are you? I heard what happened," he said, in a sort of feigned sense of empathy. It was polite, though, so I didn't hold it against him.

I replied, "Oh. I'm fine. Headed back to the tower now. I assume we're on a safety stand down for the rest of the shift?" There were only like seven hours left, and they had told me a base would go on safety stand-down for at least a half shift if a teammate was seriously injured.

"Yeah, probably. Are you still interested in the job?" he asked.

I nodded, "Yeah. I mean, shit happens wherever you work. A ground ambulance isn't that safer; at least you have a giant minigun on your side."

He smiled, looking a little relieved, "That's good! It's a little unusual, but after we heard about how well you did on your base visit today, we'd like to extend you a tentative job offer."

I blinked; this was a little unusual. I drew deep on my memories of Alt-Taylor and tried to phrase my responses as would be expected for a third-generation Corpo, "Well, I guess I tentatively accept then, with the caveat that I don't find anything objectionable in the contract after I have my attorneys review it." Although I didn't actually have any attorneys, I hadn't paid that online firm a retainer in order to call them that I was sure that they'd accept my repeat business. It may cost a couple thousand dollars or a little more, but it would be worth it.

"Excellent! I will forward you the job offer and contract now. Do you think you could have it reviewed and signed by Friday?" he asked.

I nodded, "Sure. But I'll have to give NC Med Ambulance two weeks' notice. Beyond the fact that it is the proper thing to do, much more importantly, it's in my contract with them, and I'm not interested in being held liable for a breach."

He chuckled, "We really like that you're willing to do the proper thing with your current employer. However, I've already reviewed your contract with them, and we will execute the buy-out clause. That only costs us five times your salary for two weeks. It will let them pay someone overtime to work your shifts, still have some money left-over and let us start you in the new class starting Monday. A win-win-win, I'd say."

That was unusual. But I nodded, "Okay. That's fine. Let's plan on that; I am calling the firm I use now. I may have it approved and signed by tomorrow."

"Excellent. As soon as you do, I'll send travel arrangements for your indoc class in Seattle on Monday. That's one week long, and then you'll start Basic the following week," he said, smiling.

Wait, what? "Basic what?"

"Well, basic training. All medics without military experience take an abbreviated eight-week course," he said mildly.

Fuck. I hadn't realised that. But I should have. But it kind of made sense. Certainly, both Mr Bear and Dr Anno were a lot more tactical than, say, Gloria was.

I sighed and nodded, "Alright. I'll call you tomorrow." Then I briefly reviewed the contract and arranged for the online law firm to review it as well.

Just what was I getting myself into?
 
Last edited:
Back
Top