Debt of Non-Blood - 3

Debt of Non-Blood – 3

Looking down at his body, I knew that Beetle had proven he was a hard man to kill one last time.  He'd survived a living hell, only to be killed moments after almost getting a chance at returning to the Light.  I said my good-byes to Beetle, then Doctor Sigurdsen, reminding the coroner that I would take care of Beetle's final rites.

He'd wanted cremation, with no remains left.  Too many nasties out there to leave anything behind he claimed.  He'd seen those nasties up close and personal, too.  I moved quickly out of the hospital, and outside where I could finally turn my commlinks on, and contacted the Seattle partners for my law firm.  I'd let them handle all the arrangements for the body.

I'd handle avenging his soul personally.
***
Setting the Comet to do random evasion pattern delta, I hunkered down in my seat, datajack plugged into the car, and jumped into my implanted commlink, a virtual conceptualization of the family hunting cabin back in Northern Ontario, and from there into the wireless matrix.  A virtual reality, shared hallucination that interconnected the computer systems of the world, the Matrix was home to pretty much any information you needed.

Trouble was finding it, and I needed information.  First, I set up a data search program to hit the underground drug blogs and 'zines, I scanned the legitimate ones, zooming through the storybook Emerald City that was the virtual landscape of Seattle, the news stands that represented the screamsheets looking like they were carved out of a single piece of jade, the worker there a munchkin in a fancy outfit.  Not and much came back from both.

Exhausting the legal ways of finding data, it was time to turn illegitimate.  I floated around the dark skyscapes of the Matrix in my damaged chromed suit persona, molten metal seeping from deep wounds, until finding exactly what I was looking for, the tainted dark emerald of ShadowSea, the illegal BBS that was Seattle's spiritual descendant of ShadowLand, which had been the heart of Shadow Lore before Crash 2.0 had crushed it, and a few of the people that worked it.

They fought bravely, and I hoped there was a digital version of Valhalla for them to be feasting in.

I proved my mood by brute forcing my way into the board, rather than my typical attempt at stealthing in.  There was no passcodes given to ShadowSea, no permissions given, only what you could hack for yourself.  Usually I slipped in like a silent snake, now I smashed in like a bull.  The icons therein that recognised mine saw the mood I was in, and either got out of the way, or gave the virtual equivalents of respect, offering help or a comforting shoulder.  The ones that didn't recognise mine either thought I was a newb, or that I was a ham-fisted hacker.  I was neither, actually, just a bare amateur with some wiz programs.

The wall behind me rerez'd quickly enough, and I semi-politely waved off a few of the messages for assistance.  I needed some special knowledge, and for that, I needed to hit one of the bars that ShadowSea hosted, the Milk Bar in particular.

Based off of some old flatscreen movie, it was a hangout of the drug cultured hackers in the Shadows, along with some Gonzo Journalists who covered the Shadows and underworld.  If anyone knew anything about new chips hitting the streets, it'd be these guys.  They'd find out about it before the paramedics on the streets dealing with ODs would.

I lucked out, DrugHunter was online and holding court.  He was a Blogger of the highest order when it came to anything drug related, and had an ear to the street better than anyone I had ever heard of.  I walked up to his icon, patterned after Ralph Steadman's image of Raoul Duke, the infamous and unforgotten Hunter S. Thompson.  He looked up from the Hooka Pipe that was sitting on the back of a porcelain table in the shape of a prostrate woman, and started to focus on me.  Virtual drugs were a nice diversion, all the highs of real drugs, none of the side effects, as long as no one tried to slip you a viral mickey.

“DH, need to talk to you about something.”  I said, sitting down next to someone that was out of a bad acid dream.  Across from me was a Rasta sucking back a doobie the size of an troll's forearm.  I rested my chrome suit-covered elbows on the knees of the womantable, and looked right at the characture, “Got a tick?”

“Sure, Money.”  He said.  We'd never met, but I was a known person to the ShadowSea regulars, I showed up enough, and posted a few items, along with my tag in the ShadowTalk, the peanut gallery comments on anything posted here for perusal.  “Want a hit?”  He asked, motioning with the pipestem.

“Later.  Ever hear of 2XS?”  I ask, going straight out.  He knew about the Berserker chips, having done a full write-up about them a few months ago.  Appears they came out again in some places, but they were just old chips that some punks had found.  Dangerous, but not long-term.

“2XS...  2XS...  Frag, man, that's old.  Might as well talk to me about PCP.  But, yeah, I know of it.  Nasty drek, but was only on the streets for a bit.”  DrugHunter replied, taking another hit.

“Can I ask something on the quiet-side?”

“...  Sure.”  He said, hitting a private conversation, “What you got goin' down?”

“Heard about anyone combining Berserker Chips with 2XS technology?”  I asked flat out.

Ever see a drug culture person sober in virtual reality?  Especially one that's patterned after a drug dream?  It's not pretty.  If he was in the flesh, I would be sure that he'd have been wetting himself in fear, or running to go puke.

“Holy...  Money, that's...  That's insane.  Dangerous!  That's...”  He was starting to stutter and ramble.

“What just killed a family member of mine, DH.  Some 40 kilo kid just beat a large, mean mother fragger of a tough bastard to death.  And wouldn't have walked away even if his heart hadn't exploded.”  I explained, keeping a firm grip on my emotions.

“I, I don't know what to say.  Only an idiot would make this stuff.  It was bad drek on the streets, killed the customers faster than anything.  And a drug dealer wants repeat customers, after all.  Just good business sense.  An idiot or a...  No.  You don't think...”  DrugHunter seemed even more sober now, and a lot more afraid.

“I don't know yet, but I'm going to find out.  And I'm going to show them what a true berserker is like.  I'm bringing a war on this stuff and it's makers, DH.  Because I can think of only one type of people that would make something like this...  And we don't need another apocalypse on our hands.”  I said through gritted teeth, voice full of conviction.