Snake Eyes

“Listen to me, Johnson. You have to know who you are, you have to know where you are and you have to know when you are. You have to know what is real and what is not and you have to know it so well that you can lie about it under the influence of the most powerful drugs in circulation. This,” Beckeridge gestured around the cramped interview room, “is for the safety of the mission and for your safety too. More important than any of that, is how bad it will look on my record if you go out there and meltdown on your first mission. Get me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Let’s continue, shall we?”

Chapter 16

It was a simple arrangement.

The JHD gave him two card accounts, one for expenses and one for his salary. They provided an apartment just beyond the limits of the East Gate side of Tier Two. It meant he was living right on the edge of the action but could come home and sleep in ‘civilisation’. He didn’t need to show up for ‘work’—unless he was called in for debriefing. The less he was seen around JHD, the better. If he provided information leading to four dealer arrests in a year, he kept his job and got paid. Users were to be his pawns. More dealer arrests would bring bonuses. Any less than four and his contract would be terminated.

The relief of escaping his psychological endurance test was short-lived. What had seemed so terrifying while he experienced it was no worse in recollection than a simple nightmare. Instead he wondered if the experience had truly prepared him for the job.

The first night in his flat he opened a bottle of Wild Turkey and drank large mouthfuls to steady his resolve while he looked out the window at the city. He was on the fortieth floor and still he could not see the sky. Though it was technically dark, lights lit the rampways and streets, poured from uncurtained windows. Ads flashed from every available surface of brick or concrete and floated past every level of apartments on billboards that completely obstructed the view every few minutes.

People walked and used traction scooters on the rampways. Between the buildings, driverless buses and taxis followed beacons to programmed destinations. A few motorised vehicles still ran on the surface but they were more for show than serious use; they had no way to access higher levels.

There was enough activity in the air between him and the ground that it too was invisible to him from this height. The energy being used to sustain the city was immense; he could hardly comprehend the size and number of reactors that kept the city alive. It was a monstrous organism with a hidden heart. Parasites thronged in its every thoroughfare. The one thing he was happy about was that his windows had wave imitators which cancelled out every single sound. Inside the apartment it was as silent as a meditation hall.

The flat was decorated grey and black. The kind of masculine minimalism that offered no comfort from the city. Johnson decided he would change it as soon as he made his first bonus. It was something to work towards. Meanwhile, he hoped the dangers of the East Gate side would take his mind off the solitude his new job brought with it.

He drank more whisky than he should have that first night and fell into bed when he could no longer find any reason to stay awake. As his mind span him into a bleak stupor, he had the vague recollection that he hadn’t always slept alone.

In the morning, all such memories had faded. In their place, Johnson discovered a flat, sick feeling accompanied by an undercurrent of regret. It was the first of many hangovers.

Chapter 17

McLaughlin’s was a drinking cavern in the old style.

There were no waitresses to bring you drinks, you ordered them at the bar and to do that you had show real determination. Even during working hours it was busy; filled with scammers and gamblers, pimps and drunks. When everyone else finished their shifts the place really started to bounce. In the crush of bodies and under the thump of the latest Mantric Bass tracks, it was easy to become dislocated from everyone else; outside his apartment Johnson had discovered a different kind of isolation among the sweating hordes of potential leads.

After two weeks of working hard to make connections, however, he was beginning to break into the scene. McLaughlin’s was a Mecca for every kind of offender within forty blocks. Johnson found it fitting that the bar was located below street level. Shit might have floated but heavy shit sank straight to the bottom and that was where he went to look for it; every day that he could bear to.

Initially, the bartenders had been blind to him they way they were to all unfamiliar faces. That, too, changed after a couple of weeks.

“What’ll it be, Spider?”

“Draft Light. Turkey chaser.”

“Coming up.”