Fourth Quadrant, Derra Prime
A year before the score
The planet's urban districts were always steeped in cloud cover. The conditions were odd: the air was dry, yet you never saw the sun, and it was still warm. It was like walking inside a hot bag all day long.
"There you go man, your papers," said the employer's guy, handing Law a tablet loaded with various forged IDs that, in theory, would get him through customs.
"Alright, let's see… Lorne… Freelance?! The fuck is this?" Law turned to the guy. "Shit, you want me to get busted at the entrance? What was the other option, 'Johnny Crime'?'"
"Hey, beats me, I didn't have any part of it," the other guy shrugged. "How many other people you think would bring weird ass names to the place?"
"None?"
"Nah, man, many. You good. Anyway, the package is already in the false bottom of the trunk," explained the guy while tapping on the bottom. "Remember, man, it's routine. Don't look nervous, blah blah."
Law pushed himself off the hood of the hovercar and stretched. "Shit, I'll be a sunshine."
He got in and put his hands on the wheel. The other leaned on the door and eyed Law's left cybernetic arm. "Oh, and also, you could use the paycheck to get a synth arm or some shit."
"Why? What's wrong with this one?"
"I'm just saying, you wouldn't wanna look like a criminal."
They both snickered.
On the city's horizon stood the planet's Zenith Tower, one of ZenithCorp's buildings scattered across the Fourth Quadrant, all answering to the Orb, the corporation's headquarters.
Roughly seven thousand meters tall, the tower had multiple access points across every sector, all tightly monitored by customs. The job was simple: get in without trouble, hand the package off to someone else, and then it wasn't his problem anymore.
Easy. Hopefully.
The checkpoints ran in a line along a magnetic walkway spiraling up toward the tower. Through smoked glass you couldn't see much, but now and then you caught a vertical transport sliding past, or a drone sweeping the zone with a signature, irritating Zenith patrol buzz.
Law kept one hand on the wheel and the other on his knee. The cybernetic arm pulsed faintly, some sensory feedback glitching out, as always. Cheap stuff, you'd figure. A little something his old man left him, nonetheless, but the employer's guy did have a point: a synthetic arm wouldn't be bad.
"Don't look nervous," the guy had said.
No shit. Law wasn't nervous, he felt more inspected. The cameras tracked his vehicle like cold-blooded predators.
Yeah, people, I know. I could repaint it. Who the fuck drives a brown car? Do I also have to take shots for my ugly ass taste? Do I have to laugh nervously at customs jokes too? Shit.
An annoying beep signalled it was his turn.
"Documentation, please." It was a woman, ZenithCorp uniform in pearl-grey and yellow, and a transparent face mask. She read off a forearm visor and didn't even bother looking up.
Law handed over the tablet. Slowly, without looking too cooperative. Everyone knew that acting slightly inconvenienced meant you had nothing to hide. She took it with even greater annoyance. She definitely had nothing to hide; her frustration was just eight hours on shift.
The fake profile popped up on her retinas: Lorne Freelance.
Fucking hell, Law mentally slapped himself. He did his best to keep a straight face, which turned out to be harder than expected.
The profile claimed he was a, guess what, freelance transporter authorised in Sector 4-C, low-level clearance. Everything looked clean. The woman seemed to grimace behind the transparent mask, but said nothing. The grimace was probably for the name.
"Biometric scan, please," she said, almost on autopilot.
Law placed his biological arm on the scanner.
One blip. Then another. Then a higher-pitched tone. The woman raised an eyebrow.
"Have you registered that prosthesis?"
Fuck. The prosthesis.
By law, mechanical prosthetics, such a cybernetic arm, had to be registered in your biometric profile as special extracorporeal modifications. Synthetic limbs didn't count, as those perfectly emulated biology. And in Mr. Freelance's profile, there was no certification for any installed cybernetic arm.
She turned toward two agents behind her.
"Irregular registration. Extracorporeal modification not declared in profile. Call the supervisor."
Law gave a little smirk, the kind you wear when you already know the ending. "Um, so you're saying I don't get in?"
"For now, I'm just saying to step out of the vehicle."
"Yeah, yeah. But if you touch the trunk, technically you'd be violating the right to fiduciary transport, right?"
Nobody laughed.
"Step out."
You did have to give one thing to Corps: they took themselves very seriously. It was their bold not so little mission to stand out in quality from every other smaller organisation.
So the cell was immaculate, polished metal, disinfected surfaces. The neon lights pulsed every five seconds, like a reminder that boredom was monitored as closely as violations.
Mr. Freelance sat on the edge of the bench, resting his head on the only hand he had left, since they'd removed the cybernetic arm.
Shit, Law complained. Sorry, man, gift didn't last long.
Every so often, a drone or a patrol would glide past the reinforced glass door, checking that nobody was doing anything.
Not that there was anything to do.
The prevailing sensation was exactly that: endless nothingness under constant surveillance.
Law kept beating his nape on the wall on regular intervals. I guess it wasn't that good of an idea. What if I get out of here? Nah. Not worth the trouble.
He huffed and dropped his forehead onto the table. He stayed like that for who knows how long, until a metallic voice suddenly rang out:
"Additional detainee incoming. Physical altercations will be sanctioned."
Who the fuck do you think I am?
The door opened with a hiss of pressure. Law didn't move, until he saw the young man shoved inside: a leather coat far too big, cracked glasses on one side, long ochre hair, tanned skin, and a calm expression.
He smiled at his new cellmate with the air of someone who didn't mind breaking the ice.
Law grunted back. The other sat on the opposite side of the table. Silence held for a while, until Law spoke just to kill the awkwardness. He couldn't take it anymore.
"Yo, uh… you know how long we'll be in here?"
"Who knows?" The other shrugged, giving him a quick look. "Smuggling?"
"Yeah. What 'bout you?"
He lifted his hands. "We're in the same situation, friend. Where did they get you?"
"Shit, the first checkpoint."
"Oh, let me guess: false bottom, fake docs, questionable name?"
"'Freelance,'" Law said with contempt. "Fucking Freelance."
The other laughed outright. "Let's see… did Orren 'Three Faces' set you up?"
Law sat up fast. "Fuck me, you too?"
The young man shrugged again. "I see, so he hired a nice diversion. Took you, had you run the fake cargo while the real cargo stayed safe somewhere else. That's a shame."
Law's brow furrowed. "And how do you know that?"
He opened his arms. "Because the undersigned ran the real cargo."
"…"
Law leaned back and settled into the chair. "Well, shit."
"And that?" the other asked, noticing Law's left stump.
"Who even remembers prosthetic regulations?" Law clicked his tongue.
He smirked. "So how did you lose the real arm?"
"…An accident with sheet metal," Law dodged.
The truth was, he had no idea.
Hours passed. The two detainees were dissolving into boredom.
"…Do you want to play Dry Door?" the friendly guy asked.
"Hm. What's the stake?" Law replied.
"Two shots each. The first one to score gets the first question."
"Uh-huh"
"Oh, and don't bother lying, I'll know it."
Law scoffed. "Alright, man, whatever."
"No, no, I'm serious. Try me."
"Try you how, man? You'll say I'm lying to whatever I'm gonna say."
The young man chuckled.
Law chuckled too. "What? That's true."
"Okay, okay, then I want you to say two sentences, one true and one false. I'll guess which is which."
"What, in this order?"
"That would be dumb."
"In the other order?"
"Oh, come on, you're not taking this seriously."
"How the fuck am I supposed to do, then?"
"Choose an order!"
"It's TWO things, man!"
"Okay, then three. Whichever order you want."
Law clicked his tongue. "Alright, bet. Uhm… shit… yesterday I drank three beers."
"And the other one?"
"The lady at the checkpoint definitely checked me out."
The young man couldn't hold the snicker. "Okay, okay, I got it. Now I know when you lie."
"Oh, fuck you, let's just play." Law made a ring with his fingers in front of his nose, and the other guy prepared to toss a paper ball.
Swish. In.
"My first shot," he said with a grin. "So, how'd you lose the arm?"
Law shrugged. "Man, I told you. Sheet metal."
"Yeah, of course, sheet metal," the other said, already lining up the second throw. This time he missed: too far right. The ball bounced off the metal wall and rolled under the table.
"Performance anxiety?" Law commented.
The young man smiled and set up his "door." Law flicked his own paper piece casually and scored. The other lifted his eyebrows, impressed. "Well, thank goodness they didn't take your good arm…"
"Doesn't matter, I'm ambidextrous," Law said. "So, uhm, what's your name?"
"Amarel Sai. And you, Mr. Freelance?"
"Score again and I'll tell you." Law sunk the second shot easily. "Your turn: how'd they catch you?"
A pause. Amarel stared at the ceiling for a moment, embarrassed.
"Okay, so, there was this issue… encrypted route code, triple signature, all clean… only it turns out one of the signatories had been dead for two weeks."
Law's eyes narrowed.
"An old corrupt customs guy from Vega Cygna," Amarel continued. "He was my safe pass, but apparently he tripped over something bigger."
"Or someone."
"Indeed. So when I crossed the gate, the code shut off."
"And the cargo?"
Amarel smiled. "Score, and I'll tell you." He tossed, swish. "So. What's your name?"
"Law. Just Law."
Amarel nodded and tossed again. Another score. "So where are you from?"
There was a beat of silence. "…You wouldn't know it," Law muttered.
"Try me. I like reading," Amarel challenged.
"…Toa. Fourth Quadrant."
"…"
A bit of silence. Amarel gulped.
Yeah. That's right.
"Uhm… okay. Your turn."
Law threw again and scored. "Earlier question. The real cargo?"
"Well, it's still in transit, if nobody touched it. But the tracker's dead now. I don't know exactly what it was. It burned if you touched it, and it vibrated if you left it alone."
Law snapped his fingers. "Shit, you were hauling a microwave,". He threw again. Scored again. "What 'bout you? Where you from?"
"Solstice," Amarel replied. "Fourth Quadrant as well."
They kept going for a while, trading increasingly stupid questions. Neither of them intended to give up their past, Law figured.
When the game ended, Amarel pulled a small tablet out of his jacket pocket.
"The fuck…?"
Amarel shrugged. "My e-reader."
"???"
"Told you. I like reading."
"Yeah, man, you told me you like reading like six fucking times, but how the fuck did you get the thing here?" Law asked, almost offended.
Amarel smirked and shrugged again, then spent the next half hour reading.
Shit, thanks a lot.
Suddenly the cell's glass door snapped open. No alarm, no siren, just the irritated figure of an officer in a ZenithCorps uniform: the same colour scheme as security, but cut far more elegantly, escorted by two armed guards.
He wore orange half-moon glasses, an unusually aesthetic flourish on Derra Prime. Like the only shred of individuality he had left.
"Sai," he said flatly. "You're extracted. Released by superior order."
Law scoffed. "What 'bout me? Did I win the prisoner lottery too?"
The officer flicked him a bored look. "No, Mr. Freelance. Not you."
Law shook his head.
Amarel rose calmly, smiled at Law, and disappeared out the door.
Minutes later, the entire corridor's light flickered. Then died.
Silence.
Then a hum.
Then hell.
A muffled explosion shook the structure. A ceiling panel fell and shattered a few steps from the cell. Screams. Gunfire. Security drones passing overhead in flames, spinning out of control.
A broken alarm started trilling, repeating only the first two notes: "ATT— ATT— ATT—"
Law got up and searched the cell for anything sharp or blunt. Nothing. Then he remembered.
He moved to the door, peeked out, and when he saw nobody there, shoved the door sideways. With a dull thud, he forced it and cracked it open.
He stepped into the corridor. Smoke. Shouting. Alternating red and green emergency lights.
Two guards lay on the floor, one alive, one not. He took the dead one's pistol.
"Thanks, man."
A drone dropped in front of him. Law fired before he even thought. The drone burst into a spray of sparks.
Another siren began, this time real.
The same metallic voice announced:
"Gamma Protocol. Evacuate all personnel. Escapees. Threat level: 2."
Shit, someone messed up. And it's not me.
Not yet.
I don't think paper-ball tosses count.
Law started to run toward anything that felt like outside, then he looked at the stump.
Fuck, right. The arm.
For the next half hour, he went up and down stairwells blind, hunting for a storage room, dropping guards and drones along the way, but nothing. The building was massive; it would take forever.
He returned to the earlier corridor, disoriented and grim.
"Looking for this?"
Law turned, and saw him.
Amarel leaned against a wall, beer in hand, real beer, with an actual cap, a small case beside him, and a cybernetic arm on the floor at his feet.
Law frowned. Amarel extended the other beer. Law took it.
"You started all this…?"
"Yeah. I needed an exit," Amarel said. "And apparently you did too."
Law smiled.
They'd reclaimed the brown hovercar and were driving away from Zenith Tower like nothing happened.
"…So you remember the e-reader?" Amarel said.
"Yeah, what about it?"
"I used it to contact one of the other guys, the gentleman in the uniform who pulled me out."
Law whistled. "And the whole tower meltdown?"
Amarel shrugged. "Orren and his people planted explosives in the tower's cooling ducts a long time ago. For emergencies, you know. When I got out, I could access the detonators."
"Well, shit" Law said, while driving and listening, he fiddled with the car's player, trying to pull up his playlist.
"Oh, there it is. Listen." Law looked at Amarel, proud, as an aggressive rap track kicked in.
"Mhm-mhm, mhm-mhm…" Law bobbed his head and muttered along to the bars.
Amarel just sat there, confused, silent, judging him with his eyes.
Later they were on a dusty rooftop above a half-empty industrial district, neon bleeding through Derra Prime's smoky night. Below, a ZenithCorp convoy in transit. White noise.
Amarel sat on the edge, feet dangling. Law smoked something that tasted like plastic and synthetic tobacco.
"So now what?" Law asked.
"Honestly? I have no idea," Amarel replied. "You'll want payback on Orren, I assume."
"Man, I don't know. I'm trying to keep some low profile, you know…"
Amarel smiled faintly. "Well, I don't have anything against him. Getting jailed was my mistake."
"So we're done?"
"…However," Amarel went on, "I'm interested in that cargo."
"What, the microwave?" Law flicked away whatever he'd been smoking.
Amarel smirked. "The microwave. Worth as much as a small orbital station…"
"I'm listening."
"…And like I said, I don't know exactly what it is. But from how they talked about it, it's important. If you looked closely, the container had the Futura logo scraped off."
"Oh. That's why you said it felt alive. They cook up weird shit, I heard," Law said.
Amarel nodded. "I want to see how much I can squeeze out of it. And besides, it's a nice indirect way to make them pay, don't you think?"
Law shrugged. "Sure. If you want it, I owe you a hand."
Amarel beamed. "Well, yes, you definitely owe me a hand."
"Fuck you."