Chapter One: The Roxbury Bust
September 14th, 2089, 15:35
“Five thousand credits, do I hear five thousand credits for this beautiful generator?”
The auctioneer ran his hand across the blue-ribbed frame. Fast talk hung from his untrustworthy mustache. “Folks, this is the good stuff. Steel casing, just short of 200 pounds. If I didn’t have a daughter waiting for me in the Greenhouse, I’d be bidding along with you.”
The crowd ate it up. White placards slowly began to rise. Nothing sells like a sob story, thought Rhea, her tiny frame gliding through the audience of misfits. She was disappointed that the Right Hand would send top agents on such a low-level case. If everything went according to schedule, she could have this auction wrapped up in fifteen minutes.
Glittery epaulets and oversaturated perfumes twinkled in the lanterns’ glow. Rhea’s lips were bombarded by fake mink fibers. Moving through the crowd was an occupational hazard. The tapered strands collected along her gum line. She executed a careful maneuver around the blue fishnet skirt of a female guest. Bright colors saturated the damp carpeting of the Roxbury’s ballroom. Most of the attendees were “dead money,” and they certainly dressed the part.
Black market auctions were filled with the children of the recently uploaded. Any mourning period could be shortened for a few thousand credits. People made genuine efforts to be kind before their assigned departure, but it was rarely enough to secure same-day upload speeds. From the moment they hugged goodbye, opportunistic heirs scrambled to sign delay paperwork. A four-week processing time seemed inconsequential in the scale of eternity. Delaying their parents’ transport was an easy payday.
Rhea didn’t exactly approve of the practice, but the Grid Authority was willing to pay a significant premium for the decrease in traffic. Souls were an expensive business.
“Seven thousand! Eight thousand! Ten thousand, do I hear ten thousand credits for this illicit little powerhouse?” Marco beamed at his own showmanship as he stroked the gleaming skeleton. He was lucky to have found the generator on such short notice. The Preservation Of Western Environmental Remains Act made electricity a hoarded commodity. On Tuesday afternoons, Marco’s unique inventory made him a god.
Rhea struggled to cut through a dense patch of bidders. “Where are you, Blake?” she whispered into her earpiece. “I’m starting to get sick of this.”
Dandruff from one man’s shoulder pad brushed onto her bare shoulder. She shook it off in disgust. There were no criminal masterminds, just a bunch of oily, short-sighted teenagers.
“How do you think I feel?” answered Blake, “I’m sandwiched between about twenty discount gangsters. Say what you will, but these people know how to get the word out.” Blake sat in the seller’s box with the other half of the crowd.
Unlike the buyers, contraband dealers chose a more conservative look. They accented toothy grins with popped collars and half-baked Asian tattoos. Most of the sellers knew each other from previous deals and were trying to get a read on the new guy. Blake had approached the auction organizers with a 250 kW generator at the last minute. They could hardly turn him down. Every time its price went up, Blake got a friendly nudge from another “new friend.” He returned a cordial smile, dutifully ignoring the coagulating sweat.
Marco, on the other hand, was having the time of his life. “Ten thousand credits from the man in the striped suit! Not bad, not bad at all. This here girl is a beauty,” he lowered his voice, “and she runs clean.” A checkered grin swept across his face.
The placards shot up as fraught whispers echoed throughout the room.
Clean generators could hook into the Grid unannounced and siphon off power with the Grid Authority none the wiser. This type of item raised the profile of the event considerably. It also increased the chances of being picked up on the Grid Authority’s radar. The government of the Alliance of States had an unflinching perspective on justice. If the Grid Authority sent enforcers to break up an illegal trading operation, many of the attendees could lose their uploading rights.
But right now, the risk seemed palatable. The crowd was practically foaming at the mouth at the thought of heated baths. After all, giving up creature comforts was easier said than done. Rhea raised a placard.
“Twenty thousand, twenty thousand,” Marco boomed. “Going once, going twice to our lovely lady in red! Why don’t you come up to the front and collect your prize?” He gestured toward her with a feverish glint in his eye.
As Rhea stepped forward, the sea of misfits parted. The audience immediately sensed her otherness. Something about her was cold, steely, and uncomfortably distinct from their material fantasies. Her burgundy gown trailed across the vintage carpet. Camouflage was never her specialty.
“Let me help you up, sweet cheeks!”
“Got any sugar left for the rest of us?”
Stray obscenities grazed the dank atmosphere. The ballroom was spacious, but it reeked of the dealings of the underworld. The auctioneer held out his hand and pulled her onto the makeshift stage. Marco scratched his chin as he looked over the wild beauty. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”
A cockroach darted across her silk train. The global increase in temperature did nothing to reduce their mounting numbers. “See, I love to party as much as the next girl,” Rhea quipped, “but I have a feeling that the good old GA might be surprised to see my name amongst the regulars.” Her pale skin glowed beneath the crusty spotlight.
“And why is that? Sweet little girls like you come in here all the time. Asking for trouble. Asking for Marco.” He winked, and the audience roared with delight at the banter. Marco had learned long ago to both captivate his audience and mystify his customer.
He encircled her with slithering movements. “All of Daddy’s money and nowhere to spend it. Hell, I bet the Grid Authority is waiting outside, ready to rip off that dress and strap you to the operating table.” The auctioneer unbuttoned his sleeves and grasped the podium. His last jab was a touch more insidious. Marco wasn’t about to let an outsider invade their private affair scot-free.
Rhea reached into her bosom and the entire sellers’ box tilted forward with anticipation.
“You got the first part right,” she shrugged with a self-satisfied grin. Her badge glinted with the proud insignia of the Right Hand, official covert operations unit of the Grid Authority. Several audience members angled toward the door. Rhea drew the pistol strapped to her inner thigh without disrupting her delicately curled hair. It was almost too easy. “Special Agent Zhang. Everybody on the ground!” she announced, immediately adopting a much more aggressive stance.
The lanterns flickered as the guests dropped to their knees. Half of them were already missing their chips, but the other half began wordlessly bargaining to keep their last sliver of eternity.
Chips were the anchor to the Greenhouse, a digital paradise on the Grid Authority’s servers.
They were implanted at birth and stayed on the back of your neck until your upload date, slowly learning more about you until they could perfectly replicate your consciousness. Losing a chip was serious business. If the Grid Authority decided to fry you, you’d be stuck on a barren planet with no link to the other side.
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