One of his partners had received a tip the day before, shortly after the kidnapping. Following the tip led them to a small salon in the city’s middle levels where the light only hit during noon, the creeping fingers of progress; thin skyscrapers reaching for heaven—men's cathedrals to their own glory—blocked out the sun for the other hours. David sat watching that same beauty salon from across the street. The street-facing façade glimmered in a shifting display of neon lights hovering a hand’s width from the flawless alabaster walls, the dancing lights advertising the store’s hours and patrons. Similar pop-ups were displayed intermittently in the windows, alternating between the store’s true interior and conjured visions of the salon’s magical experiences. He ignored the dancing lights swirling across his vision from his spot in the alley—fully shielded from the acid rain—opposite the front door.
A small stream of water languidly dribbled down the patchwork of tarps, sheets of metal, and rotten cushions shielding the alley from the weather. Half a dozen figures—with maybe more in the dark—sat hunched beneath small tents, calling out in hoarse voices peddling their wares. Empty cans and tins sat bare in front of them: one for money, one for water (should a generous soul stroll by). Both were empty.
Tuning out the noise, David focused on a man sitting inside, who hadn’t moved for hours.
He relaxed against the far left wall, the one bordering the adjacent alley. A clean forest-green jacket draped loosely over his frame, his shoulders not as broad as the original owner. His hair was slicked back over his scalp. The man stared blankly into the distance and frequently drifted in and out of a troubled sleep.
As the hours wore on, David read the many excuses for his extended presence in the salon off the man’s lips. An appointment at 10:00. A break from the rain. An appointment at noon. Visiting his sister. He was a patron. An appointment at 1:30. Excluding a stretch and a brief walk outside to smoke, he didn’t budge from his seat.
Eventually, David got a signal from his partner. The client had sent a counter deal to the kidnappers. Now to see if Navarro’s tipster was right. Green-jacket man stayed put, the same sleepy gaze boring a hole in the opposite wall, but movement in the alley caught David’s eye. A door, largely concealed by the salon’s gaudy lighting and architecture, sat nestled in a dark corner, and a pair of figures, both thin and lanky, ghosted down the alley. Both moved with awkward, nervous energy, casting frequent gazes over their shoulders. The tip was right. David sent the confirmation signal and settled in for another wait.
An hour later, just past the short window of time the sun would shine down into the city’s depths on days without such dreary weather, a pair of figures, reflections dancing off their sheer raincoats, hugged the sidewalk as they walked toward David. He raised a hand in greeting. The pair joined him.
Navarro, the senior of the three justiciars, was a short man, only reaching David’s shoulder. He wore a too small suit and tie pulled tight around his abdomen; his head was balding from the top, the remaining hair cut short on the sides. His eyes possessed a cold shrewdness at odds with the rest of him. Ailee, their junior partner, donned a clean black vest and coat, the end of a chord just poking above her collar.
“Cold, David?” Navarro asked as they joined him beneath the overhang.
“You know I can’t feel cold, sir.”
“That’s true. But you’ve never been one to huddle against in a rainstorm like this.”
“All this water and not a drop to drink, am I right?” Ailee said.
“Miss having a drink with every meal?”
“I miss the shower,” she said, “Can’t wait for them to fix the piping issue. The upper levels still have water, you know, David? Imagine all those people enjoying a nice cold shower while I’m missing out.”
David chuckled in response.
Navarro raised a hand to block the garish neon advertisements flashing across the door of the salon as the two joined David in the mouth of the alley. “It’s always so hard adjusting to the dark again after you head up to the surface.”
“Was the tip right?” Ailee asked as Navarro shot her a snide look. “I don’t want to come down this far for nothing. It’s filthy.”
“Rich coming from a girl who worked salvage for a decade. But don’t worry about my tip. It’s right. And they’re in there.” Navarro pointed at the salon.
David nodded. “Guard to your left against the wall. He’s been half asleep the whole day. Should be one or two more in the back.”
“Any movement when the offer went through?”
“A pair left through the alley door a few minutes afterward.”
“These kids really are amateurs, huh? Can you watch the side door?”
“Yes,” David said, drawing his pistol from its holster.
Ailee taped Navarro’s shoulder, “What did your tipster say this group was? Anybody we’re careful around?”
“Some group of eco-terrorists. Nothing to worry about.” He breathed as he smiled, greasy teeth shimmering in the light—flecks of gold and red glistening. Ailee grimaced, and, as he had thought many times before, David was glad he couldn’t truly smell.
“Ready?” Navarro pulled out his own handgun, an antique.
Ailee reached under her collar, pulled up the chord and the brown and gold stone dangling from the end, and raised it to her lips, mouthing a silent prayer.
“Why do you do that every time? What are you praying to?”
She remained silent, ignoring him.
“David, you familiar with what’s she doing? Anything in the database?” he asked, drawing the second question out with a lisp. He glanced at Ailee, looking for a response but finding none. Staring at David, Navarro clicked his tongue and shrugged.
“Perhaps you should ask her when she isn’t busy. Sir.”
“Ready.” Ailee straightened up, tucking the chord back down.
“Hear that, David, she’s ready now.”
“Shut it.”
Navarro smirked. “Here we go.”
The trio started across the street. Navarro and Ailee making for the front door, handguns held beneath their raincoats alight with colors. David made for the alley, carefully stepping over the trash scattered down the pathway, mostly clustered against the walls. He passed the door—the first shots ringing out inside as he walked by—taking up position on the far side of it. He could see the whole alley. Three more gunshots—two sputtering shortly, one a guttural blast, a scream following—rang out. No one would get by.
David watched as Navarro sprinted around the corner from the front. The door between them burst open, a young man—early twenties at the most, his hands not worn to the bone, bright electric blue hair, his face still soft—flying out and smashing into the wall, all hands and elbows, stopping his momentum. As he turned, trying to run, his feet got tangled amongst the rubbish, and he fell into a decaying pile of processed meats.
A half-second later, another man crashed through the exit, arms slamming against the door as it was swinging closed, gun in hand. His head immediately snapped between David and Navarro. A split-second decision. He raised his gun as he bolted toward the alley’s gaping jaw, Navarro alone blocking his escape. The wise choice. But David knew it wouldn’t matter.
Navarro shot once. The stranger fell to the ground grasping his knee. He howled in agony. Navarro pulled the trigger again, painting the wall red, the cry cut short, the alley filled with the sharp smell of ozone and burning flesh.
Stepping around the body, he grasped the arm of the young man, mouth agape, and hauled him to his feet. The man stumbled immediately, his feet unsteady. So, Navarro half-pulled, half-dragged him to the mouth of the alley, ablaze with bruised purples and radiant golds, before dropping him in a heap. The pair loomed over him, their gazes met with wavering eyes. Ailee joined a moment later. She paused a moment as she exited the salon, briefly pausing to scrape a stain off her boot.
Navarro hunched over, gun still in hand, to stare into the young man’s eyes. “Mind telling us where the bloody dog you kidnapped is?”
“And the sitter,” David added.
“Yes. And the sitter.”
The kid’s lip quivered, grasping for words to answer but failing to find them.
“The dog.”
“Give him a moment,” David insisted, “He just saw his friend shot.” Ailee sighed impatiently.
“We’re just thirsty. We just want mone—”
“So is everyone else,” Navarro said, “Just answer the question.”
“It’s do—”
“Where?” Navarro demanded.
“In the industrial sector.”
“See. That wasn’t hard,” Navarro said as he stood, cocking the hammer of his revolver back.
“Is that really necessary?” David asked.
“You want to let him run off and tell his friends? So they can bolt with the prize?”
“We can drop him off at the station on Level 673 on the way down.”
“It’s more time,” Ailee said.
“Only fifteen minutes,” David replied.
“Only fifteen?” Navarro asked, and David bobbed his head in response. After a moment of consideration, he holstered his gun. “Fine, we’ll drop him off on the way. We can pick up some equipment while we’re there.”
“How are we planning on descending?” Ailee asked.
“We don’t want to tip our hand,” David pointed out.
Navarro nodded. “Then we hitch a ride down to get close and walk the rest of the way.”
After a brief stop at the justiciar's station on Level 673 where they dropped the still shaken kid off and retrieved a heavy blue bag, which Navarro slung over his shoulder, David and Ailee followed him deeper into the megalopolis.
The address led them down into the lower city to the layers of houses buried beneath the gleaming landscape above where the jetsam—both trash and people—were thrown down from above. They descended into the parts of the city where only the barest hint of light managed to find its way through the debris and wreckage clogging the open spaces that reached from the peaks of skyscrapers above to the sewage far below. Though no light ever reached the very bottom. That is to say nothing of the people.
Bodies crowded the streets, stepping on toes, crushing arms, picking pockets, shooting warning glances, and fouling the air with a rank stench of filth. But with the drought, what was once bustling and alive now lay sickly still. The streets were clearer, not cleaner, absent from the masses usually navigating the city. Most were likely crowded in hovels too small for the number of bodies packed inside. The remainder huddled in the shadows cast by the overhang from the level above, their hollow eyes watching the passersby. Voices occasionally cried out for a drop to drink. Navarro met their gaze with steely eyes. Ailee couldn’t bear to look. David walked ahead, looking onward.
The lower city sat quietly on its haunches and watched the few souls, whether from foolishness or bravery, prowl the streets. The trio descended further, passing the residential blocks, until they reached the industrial sector beneath, the highest levels having been converted into a makeshift housing and commercial district. All against company law of course, but the law never did bother to visit the lower city much.
The trio halted across from a small fortune teller sandwiched between a shuttered grocer and some apartments (the building a remodeled warehouse). An ornate display of charms covered the building’s façade while a salmon awning hung over the door. A pair of drawn curtains—matching the awning’s color—blocked the view inside.
Hefting the bag off his shoulder, Navarro set it on the ground, unzipped it, and pulled out the shotgun. He unwrapped the butt-end of the gun, shifting the cloth aside until he could see the cavity for the magazine. Reaching into his coat, he removed the heavy battery and slid into the opening. The mag clicked into place, the gun humming to life a moment later.
Standing, Navarro draped the stray cloth back over the gun’s body, masking its shape, and handed it to David. “Here.”
The android casually took the gun, gripping it in the middle, the butt of the gun relaxing against his side. “Are we going to walk through the front door?”
Navarro nodded. “Do you see another way in?”
“No way,” Ailee said, shaking her head, “we’ll get buzzed immediately.”
“Which is why David is taking point. Not us.”
“If the structure was up to code, the back will have—” David started.
“We’ll be fine.”
“He just said there’s a back door,” she said, gesturing toward the building.
“We’ll be fine.” Navarro repeated as he pulled his revolver out of its strap, checking the magazine. “Make a break for the stairs as soon as we bust in there. We’ll run up, grab the hostages, and bolt while David cleans up the first floor.”
“And if the men upstairs are armed?”
“We hold the stairwell until David comes up from behind.”
“Alright.”
“In and out.”
“In and out,” Ailee repeated.
They walked toward the building, the other two flanking David. He pushed the door aside and stepped through, the building’s occupants turning to look at their new guests. A large table, people clustered around it, dominated the center of the room. Two moth-eaten couches sat by the door, aligned parallel with the front windows—a tight walkway running from one wall to the other. A doorway broke the tacky yellow color of the far right wall, a set of stairs just visible through the portal. The people crowding the room were primarily youths, an even split between men and women, all relaxed. A few hunched over games on the center table, with a few older folks—the leaders most likely—scattered in the crowd, the only people with weapons still on them. This wasn’t a group ready for a firefight.
As David entered the foyer, a man—a boy more like—waiting by the entrance turned from his game of cards toward the door.
“Hey there. What do yo—” The young man’s voice trailed off as he saw the shape in David’s hand. The android yanked the cloth off with one hand, balancing the heavy machine gun in the other, and pulled the trigger. The gun roared to life. And the room erupted in movement.
Navarro and Ailee immediately ducked to the right—Navarro pumping two bullets into the man who greeted them before stepping around David—as a cacophony of noise and light exploded around them. They hung low, crouching behind the sofa, as they made for the right-hand doorway. Two bullets and a laser flew through the backboard by their heads. Both missed.
Upon reaching the end of the long couch, the pair paused for a moment before darting into the side room, catching someone on the stairs by surprise, a shocked gasp echoing through the room. A shot from Ailee brough her down. The form crumpled in a heap on the steps, the gun clattering down to the bottom. The sound of curses and feet scrambling bounced off the walls from above. They cautiously worked their way forward, gun barrels trained at the second-floor landing, before pausing at the base.
“Do we hold for David?” Ailee asked.
“No. Let’s go.” Navarro stepped onto the first stair. “I’ll take point.”
“I think we sho—” Her voice broke off as she saw a small, rounded object flying bouncing down the stairs toward them. “Grenade!”
Navarro pushed Ailee behind him, turning away from the grenade and diving to the ground. It bounced twice off the body before landing at the base of the stairs, clinking off the deceased guard’s gun. The room held its breath, but there was no explosion. Navarro glanced over his shoulder. It was a rock.
Navaro leapt to his feet and began to whip his gun arm around, jerking the barrel toward the figures on the landing.
He never saw the bullet that killed him.
David found Ailee standing over a pulp of flesh and bone, her stained and splotched leather boots dyed crimson. Three bodies—a bullet in the head for each—lay at the top of the stairs, Navaro crumpled lifelessly at the base. Her shoulders heaved with every shaking breath. The silvered barrel of her gun shuddered, one hand grasping it unsteadily, the other faintly grasping a warped metal bar (akin to the ones used by the thugs downstairs), the end covered in blood. A moment later, the bar dropped to the ground with a dull metallic thud. Ailee stepped away from the battered remains of the something-that-was-once-human.
David slowly walked up behind her and opened his mouth to speak, but Ailee spoke before he could think of anything to say.
“Where’s the sitter and the dog?” Ailee asked, not shifting her gaze.
“The sitter is dead.”
“Oh.”
“But the dog is still alive in the cage.”
“Then let’s grab her and slip out the back before anyone shows up to investigate the shooting.”
“No one is coming.”
Ailee cocked her head, expression confused.
“There are no other justiciars stationed in the district.”
“That’s not who I’m worried about turning up.”
“Intergang?”
“Come on,” Ailee said, brushing past him, “Let’s hurry.”
“How could they do this to a living thing? It’s monstrous.” David stroked the dog’s fur gingerly, careful to avoid the electronic prongs and sensors embedded in its scrawny form. She wouldn’t budge from its crate, eyes heavy with fear and hunger.
“It’s not real.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s artificial—not a real dog. At least, it probably isn’t.”
“She’s not a synthetic. It’s all organic tissue—”
“Give it a rest, David.” Ailee waved his comments aside, her eyes fixed on her stained boots. She rubbed the toe of one sole against the other, smudging the not-yet-dry blood. “It’s just cobbled together from old cell samples.”
“I’m—”
“Can we get of here?”
“Of course.”
After a brief minute, David managed to coax the poor creature from her cage, get a leash on her collar (though her stiff movements indicated reluctance on her part), and lead her swiftly—but gently—from the building and into the alley out back.
“Come on. Hurry.”
“There is no reason to hurry.”
“That’s the exact attitude that gets you killed.” David frowned but said nothing. The dog pulled slightly at its leash away from the now abandoned structure. Ailee nodded at the building. “Can you get Navarro?”
“Yes.”
David walked back inside, carefully stepping over the carnage in the back rooms and the main foyer. A dozen young men and women, faces soft and rounded, watched him. Upon reaching the base of the stairs, he stooped down, scooped up Navarro’s cold form, and started back the way he came. He paused in the main room for a moment, looked into the lifeless eyes staring at him, and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Exiting the building, David joined Ailee in the back alley where she waited, pacing back and forth, with the dog, who sat patiently, ready to leave. Ailee looked up as he exited the building. “Let’s go and get out of here.”
David didn’t have the heart to point out the logo, an embroidered thyrsus, wrapped in ivory, stamped in metal on the main control device in the back of the dog’s head. The design matched the stamp on the original bounty sheet. He felt it would be too harsh—too cruel—to tell her, else she realized Navarro’s death was for nothing of significance. The entire endeavor was merely the return of stolen property. Nothing more.
The elevator ride to the top floor lasted longer than David had expected it to. He suspected the journey was purposely elongated by slowing the car down intermittently, drawing out the ascension, allowing time for the gaudy display of wealth and imposing view to overwhelm the occupants. The city stretched out in the distance, though the dozens of skyscrapers made it difficult to fully appreciate the scale. But David could still make out the far edges of the sprawling suburbs—mostly abandoned and left to rot—just scraping the horizon.
The elevator finally stopped. The doors slid open. David and Ailee stepped out, the dog following behind. A hallway, built from marble now glowing a soft orange in the sunset cast through towering windows lining the right wall, led to another door, simple yet ornate. A gilded thyrsus hung above the entry. Another android, her “nerves” exposed along the side of her head (in an aesthetic choice), greeted them with a bow. “Right this way.”
She led them into the main living area. Their footsteps echoed as they walked into the massive room, its architecture open and airy. The walls were white, the trims and accents gold. Light, streaming in from the walls of glass running from the left side to the front of the room, shimmered and danced across the floor, giving the space a hearthy glow. The pair took in the apartment, Ailee particularly dazzled by the design. David glanced around, looking for their employer, but the room was devoid of all life, the only sound from the scuffing of their boots on the clean floor and the clinking steps of the synthetic leading them.
A clatter of feet echoed off the walls behind them. The duo turned and saw a peacock, its plumage glistening in the maroon light of the setting sun, strutting down the stairwell to the upper levels. They watched as it walked to the center of the room, watching them curiously.
“Do you like our peacock?” A man walking down the same set of stairs asked. He looked ancient with leathery skin; dry, slicked back grey hair; and a pair of metallic artificial eyes, the apparatus extending around to his temples. A logo, the embroidered thyrsus, on the bathrobe wrapped around his frail form identified the man as Director Trask, a brilliant innovator in the field of robotics and their client.
“It’s beautiful,” Ailee said, wide eyed.
“It is, yes. We’ve managed to create a frame that mimics exactly what the original creatures acted like—all using archived footage of course.”
“Wow,” Ailee mouthed.
“What about the dog, sir?” David asked, “I know the Essex Corp already rolled out a model dog for the masses.”
“Bandit here is an actual dog. He’s a valuable specimen, and a personal project of mine. It’s why I wanted you to bring him here rather than just drop him off at the company building. If he’s lost, I lose years of research. I think I’m close to a breakthrough on a communication matrix for him. A few more years and Bandit could speak. Isn’t that incredible? Imagine that.”
David looked back at the metal grafting and wires embedded in his skin. “Quite brilliant, sir.”
“Pardon my manners by the way. Welcome to my humble accommodations.” Mr. Trask waved his hand up at the rack of drinks behind him. “Do you want something to drink? I don’t know if you two are amongst those affected by the piping breakdown and the ‘drought.’”
“We’d love something to drink,” Ailee said. It’d been a day since she’d last been able to. Her voice had grown thin and hoarse.
“Of course,” he replied, pouring three glasses of a sparkling, bubbling glass of liquor.
Bandit came and sat at his feet, tongue wagging, looking up expectantly. “Sorry, boy, I forgot how much you loved ice.” He reached into a bowl nearby, grabbed three cubes of ice, and threw them each to Bandit in turn, who slid to the floor, contentedly munching on the cubes.
David shared a look with Ailee, who looked frustrated, but, upon meeting David’s gaze, she bit her lip, shook her head, and didn’t say a word.
Mr. Trask came over with the drinks a moment later, handing a glass to each of them. “Do enjoy.”
After taking a long sip from her glass, Ailee cleared her throat. “On the matter of payment.”
“Ah, yes. I recall negotiating with another justiciar, yes? Will he be joining us?”
“He is indisposed,” David said, repeating the answer the two of them had agreed upon before the meeting, “I’m his justiciar shadow so I'll see him in the next couple of days. I’ll deliver his share of the pay then.”
“Very well,” Mr. Trask said, nodding, “My assistant has your payment.” He pointed to the synthetic who had shown them in, now holding a small black case.
“Go. Get it from her,” Ailee said, gesturing at David dismissively. He glanced over at where she stood, watching out over the cityscape, trying unsuccessfully to catch her gaze. After a moment, he walked forward and grabbed the case from the female synthetic. Setting the case on the counter, he popped the lid open, checking its contents.
David closely examined two metallic bars from the case, turning them over in his hands, looking for signs of counterfeiting. Satisfied, he replaced the contents of the case. “It’s real. All verified currency.”
"Ah. Pardon me, but are you a synthetic?” Mr. Trask asked, his eyes whirring.
“Yes, sir.”
“I could barely tell. You must be an older model cause I nearly didn’t realize.”
“I’m an old Arcadian model.”
“From before the buyout and the blackout a few years later?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fascinating. I’m surprised you still run so well.” He stepped closer, eyeing David.
“We’re ‘built to last.’”
“Quite so,” the man said, “Dr. Fortner often spoke on man’s ability to create incredible things in our own image and the importance of lasting impact. His work had a lot to influence my own. I’ve worked on continuing that legacy in improving the quality of life of us all and making our future an ever brighter, more convenient place to live for. Wouldn’t you say I’ve lived up to that legacy?” His eyes flashed and whirred, the shutter tightening. He stared at David, waiting for an answer.
David considered his answer carefully before replying. “Dr. Fortner talked more about how his work reflected man’s capacity for improvement and growth and our ability to surpass what preceded us. He spoke of wanting to make the world a kinder gentler place, though the world as it is would never allow that.”
“He sounds naive.”
“No. A realist.”
“Then David, I have a question: does it bother you seeing how your creator has failed? Do you believe in anything despite that?”
“I do,” Ailee said.
“Aren’t we beyond simple superstitions?” Mr. Trask asked with a snarl.
“What do you believe in, sir?” David asked.
“Myself. Nothing more,” he replied, breathing heavily, “Leave. Take your money and leave.”
Ailee grabbed the case from David and turned toward the door, David following close behind. As the elevator door began to close, they heard a deep, old voice cry, “All hail, God Mammon.”
The door closed. Their descent back to earth began.