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The Darkness and the Light by IAmDelta
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The Darkness and the Light - Chapter 1:
Date: 7 February 2004, 4:09 AM
Author's Forward:
I set out to write a story that had some components which others lacked. I am not sure I have succeeded. Pending positive or even neutral feedback, I hope to continue to write this, and I assure you that John Glascow's place in the Halo universe will become more clear as time goes on. However, if this is crap, please tell me, as I do not want to waste my time. I know this first chapter is a little slow, but part of what I wanted to establish was a more complete background of my character than one gets in most fics. As with any book, there has to be development before the action kicks in. As time goes on the story will become more and more action/event based and less detail/background based (at least this is how I see it in my mind). I did my very best to create a plausible and realistic story concept, and I for one think it has great potential. Hopefully you'll agree.
-IAmDelta
You could have cut the darkness with a knife. It was black as pitch, and the only thing that allowed John Glascow to navigate through it was a lifetime of existence in this element. He was on the prowl; at least this was how he thought of it. A razor sharp garrote hung at his side. He had a pistol slung in a shoulder holster under his jacket, another in a holster strapped to his calf, and three throwing knives hanging from his belt.
Elsewhere in the city this would obviously have been suspicious, but in the Rat's Nest, as this area was affectionately called, John was considered only lightly armed. It was the way he liked it. It was actually more than he needed, and it still allowed him to move freely, silently, and securely in a world where sound was more revealing than sight. Of course there was normally no need for any of it, when brute force and a mention of his name was enough to strike fear in most hearts. John didn't enjoy killing, and had done no more than what he considered his fair share of it in his life. He was a more discriminate killer than most of his enemies.
It was not a good life. He could not trick himself into believing that. There was no purpose to it really. One had to steal, but nobody in the Nest had anything worth stealing except people like himself, other thieves. Money came into the system on a very limited basis, and those who did not have it usually didn't survive. Yet ever since an enterprising cat burglar had first made his way out of the Nest, looting the homes of Upper City dwellers who had grown complacent after their subconscious decision to relegate the lowest class to the gutter, the money had been there, as well as the idea. One stole enough money inside the Nest to buy one's way out of the Nest for as long as a temporary identification card lasted. You looted and pillaged, buying the weapons and food you would need to do it all over again, and then you brought what was left over back into the system where it could be used to fuel the "collective good". The primary social units of the Nest - the burglars or Rats - had long ago come to an unspoken yet unanimous agreement that killing each other would accomplish nothing. They stole from each other, yes, but killing only reduced the cash flow in the system, which was beneficial to none. John supposed the ultimate goal was to escape from the system, but generations of trying had so far proven useless, and he didn't really believe it would ever happen. It was just a way to occupy the time.
The futility was depressing in scale. The formation of the New World Government had only further solidified social boundaries. For a large majority, life had improved. The rest had been shoved aside into the slums of whatever city they lived in, into labyrinthine corridors formed by the supports of buildings which a mile or two farther up housed wealthy citizens of a prosperous Upper City. They were no longer even granted the courtesy of electric light. Even those who managed to stowaway on passenger shuttles headed for newly discovered planets - as John's grandfather had - had found the same rigid class system in place. And so it had remained for the past century.
Inside the Nest, things had taken on a necessarily simplistic yet somehow fulfilling character. Socially, it was interesting to see that in the depths of depravity, where the single living to be made was as a criminal, society had finally found it's way back to the old ideals it had been searching for for so long. Honor, glory, chivalry, and loyalty were seen as admirable qualities. Honor and glory were found in having and using superior skills, and chivalry in respect for those less fortunate that oneself. For those Rats who employed hit men and guards, loyalty was a prized quality, and a guard who abandoned a previous employer was discriminated against and would often never work again. It was common and expected for somebody who could help somebody to do so in any way possible, and many people, including John, considered such actions a point of pride. It was for this reason that he quickened his pace as up ahead he heard the desperate screaming of a woman echoing back and forth in the concrete corridor.
After a minute at a cautious run, he was close to the source of the screams. He couldn't of course see anything. Those who had spent more time above and become accustomed to the light instead of the dark sometimes carried flashlights, but he considered a flashlight a hindrance and knew that his biggest advantage in a fight was his ability to see in the dark without his eyes. At this point, however, he was disgusted by what he heard. In many ways it was more disgusting to hear than to see. It was simply a man grunting and a woman crying, but somehow he knew. He crept closer. He was right.
In another situation John would have waited and made sure nothing was amiss. Even with the unspoken neutrality pact, there was always the chance that an enemy might spring a trap. But in this situation, his immediate instinct, indeed the only right thing to do was to charge right in. And John always followed his instincts.
He could see it in his mind. The woman was on her back in the filthy grime of the cement floor. Her clothes were torn, her eyes were bulging, and she was fighting a man who was trying animalistically to spread her legs... John let out a roar, grabbed the source of the grunts by what happened to be the throat, and threw him into the wall. He placed one foot on the rapist's head to hold him down and turned to the source of the crying. He reached out and found her hand, pulling her up. She slumped against his shoulder and sobbed.
"You son of a bitch," John said to the man in a low, dangerous voice. The woman was gathering herself now and her hand came to rest on the gun at his breast.
"Who...?" she began. For a second she stood stock-still. Then she sprinted off in mid-sentence, firghtened out of her mind. John couldn't have caught her if he had tried. She had never even said thank you.
The man on the ground was stuttering meaningless gibberish. "Shut up," John commanded in the same threatening voice. The man did. Now what to do with him? He was trash in John's eyes, the worst kind of person found in the world. The Nest didn't need trash like him. He deserved no pity, no mercy. And he would receive none, John decided.
He drew his pistol, aimed at the man's head, and was about to pull the trigger when he remembered another thing he prided himself on, one of the things that made up his honor as he saw it: no unnecessary killing. There was a better way, perhaps a more just way of making sure this man would never commit this crime again. John lowered his aim slightly and fired twice. The man screamed and writhed on the ground. He would live, but not as he had once. This was justice. John calmly reloaded his pistol and melted into the night.
Tony Harris, or the Silver Rabbit, since John liked to think of his enemies by their nicknames instead of their real names when he stole from them, had just recently returned from the Upper City. This is what had initially piqued John's interest. In a couple of run-ins he had had yesterday he had learned the probable location in which the Rabbit was currently headquartered, and he had liked what he had heard. It was a location familiar to him, and there was a secret way into it that he knew of and bet his adversary didn't. He had created it himself, and he never told anybody about anything he thought was of value. It was the first thing he had learned down here. Don't trust anybody.
Tony was, like all of the top burglars, a mutual acquaintance of John's, meaning he had stolen from him in the past, but over all he ranked near the bottom of his respected list. He was one of those who John thought did engage in unnecessary killing, plus the fact that he was excessively arrogant about skills which John did not believe he had. John would enjoy his hopeful success tonight, and it would be a good beginning to the fund collection for his next trip topside.
According to the petty crooks he had interrogated yesterday, the Silver Rabbit was supposed to be residing in one of the Nest's main centers of "commerce", the Jungle. The Jungle was a monstrous pile of crates that had been thrown down here at some forgotten time in some company's history. The vast majority of them were for a product called AcidClean, which was supposed to clean by dissolving a small portion of the surface being cleaned, along with the dirt on it. As far as John could gather, the company had botched up an already idiotic idea and made the product entirely too strong. It had cleaned by burning through the entire surface instead of just the top layer. For obvious reasons, it was not a big success. The company had gone under, and in an attempt to save a few bucks their garbage had been thrown into the Nest where nobody would ever find it anyway.
The crates had been a gift in disguise. The inhabitants of the Nest had stacked the crates up to get them out of the way and had simultaneously created a slightly more permanent living space. It was not an uncommon place to find a Rat, although John thought it was entirely too obvious. It was an unpleasant place even by the standards of the Nest, but the combination of fresh loot and a healthy dislike for the Rabbit convinced John to call upon him there. It was to the Jungle that he was now headed after his short detour.
John stood in front of a wall of wooden crates, part of the outer edge of the Jungle. Although it was pitch black, he knew the one directly in front of him was numbered 12044. This was one of John's well-guarded secrets. To avoid scum, water, and liquid waste, inhabitants of the Jungle did not live at street level, but about ten crate-widths off the ground. At this level the crates had all been stacked to the same height, creating an even plane on which to nail together the remaining crates and create building-like structures. What had resulted was a sort of wooden street flanked by many "residences" and "businesses", all about forty feet off the ground.
What to John had seemed like simple logic nobody else seemed to have thought up. In a structure made of hollow wooden crates, it would be a simple matter to travel through them and come up in any number of places inside the Jungle, taking enemies by surprise. When he was just starting out, John had carefully engineered just such a passage and used it to gain his first foothold as a Rat. He did not think it was very well concealed, yet as far as he could tell, nobody else had ever found it. The entrance was hidden behind a generic AcidClean box on the south side of the stack, its only distinguishing mark being a small knothole hardly large enough for a finger. At one point John had been in possession of a flashlight and had surveyed his box. It was serial number 12044.
He stuck his finger in the knothole and pulled. A pre-cut section of the wood came with it, and he wriggled through the opening it revealed before replacing the wooden cover. Inside the crate it was even blacker, if that was possible. The passage consisted of adjoining holes cut in the sides of the crates, carefully designed not to weaken the overall structure and to maintain support for the crates above. He made his way through laboriously, using his hands and his own instincts, now truly blind. He ignored the numerous rats and other animals which inhabited the area. The wood was also beginning to rot, and the stench was overpowering.
After five minutes of this mild hell John abruptly hit a wall. He felt above him, and discovered a medium sized hole cut in the crates directly above his head. It was here that the passage departed from ground level and moved up towards the surface. He reached up and, grasping the edges of the opening, hauled himself through. Now moving steadily upward, he met several forks and chose from memory the way that led him, finally, out into a small alley in the rear corner of the Jungle.
As he emerged, all emotion, all nonessential feelings were washed away, and he once again was on the prowl. He checked that the safeties on both his pistols were off and quickly removed and re-clipped his knives to ensure they would be easily accessible if he needed them. That done, he crept silently toward the street.
John struggled for several seconds to make objects out in the gloom, before he gave up and shut his eyes to allow his ears the least distraction. Information poured into his brain. There were muffled voices off to the left, and people moving all around him. Through a thin wooden wall he heard a distinctive click, the sound of somebody cocking a pistol. A grinding noise on the other side meant that somebody else was sharpening a knife. His ears were telling him that there were enemies all around, and it took a conscious effort to maintain calm and remember that he was invisible.
To his right John heard a knock, knock, knock, the sound of hard soles hitting wood. Somebody was approaching. John subconsciously calculated his target's path and then moved to intercept. He timed it perfectly and the man walked right into his crouching form. John grabbed the man's legs, pulled them out from under him, and then caught his falling body before it hit the ground. One hand was over the man's mouth, and the other held a gun firmly pressed against his temple. The whole motion had taken only a split second and had been almost completely silent. John quickly pulled his captive off the street and back down the alley.
At a safe distance from the street, John carefully removed his hand. "Who are you?" he began, careful to keep his voice a generic baritone.
"None of your fucking business," the other man growled.
"Shhh," John warned. "If anybody hears you you're dead."
"Oh go to hell."
"You first." John pulled a knife off his belt and pressed it firmly against the man's throat. "I only have a few questions and I'll let you go. You gonna cooperate?"
No answer. He pressed the knife harder, breaking the skin. A few drops of blood dripped on his hand. "In fact, I don't even need to know who you are. Just tell me where the Rabbit is."
"Ahhh...why?"
"I'm asking the questions here. Where is he?"
"Here."
"Now do you think I'd be here if I didn't know that? Where is he staying?"
"Same place he always stays."
"Which is?"
"End of the street, on the right. He's the only one here with a light. I mean honestly, how hard can it be? Now come on, what the hell is this?"
"I wouldn't worry about it," John said. "I imagine you'll find out tomorrow. Sweet dreams." He slammed the butt of his pistol down on the man's head and lowered the unconscious form to the floor. Creeping back to the Jungle's main thoroughfare, he took a deep breath, steeled himself, and stepped out into the street.
His soft, rubber-soled shoes were designed to be silent. He moved slowly, fully alert. Ahead and to the right, just as the man had said, there appeared a dim light shining out from under a makeshift door. The light was obscured as somebody on the street walked in front of it, and he quickly ducked into another alley. He waited for several minutes, then resumed his approach when all was clear.
The first time he reached the light he kept walking, although his eyes were glued to the door. Two dark forms stood outside the doorway, doubtless Tony's guards. They stared suspiciously at him, and John silently insulted the man. It was weakness to use other people. John always worked alone.
He walked a safe distance past them, then turned and began to approach again, one step at a time, completely silent. The first time he had intended them to see him. This time they would not. The way the light bled out from the inside created dark spots to both sides of the doorway against the wall, and John was careful to stay in them, creeping painfully slow until he was only about two feet from the guard on the left. The next part would require timing and skill.
With his right hand John slowly reached down and pulled a knife off his belt, glad that he had oiled the release only the day before. His other hand rested on the garrote at his side. He could barely make out the guard across the light from him, but was eventually able to discern the head region. And now it was time to do his fair share of killing.
The knife shot from John's hand like chain lightning, the long blade striking the guard's neck, cutting through his throat and muscle tissue, and severing his spinal cord. He dropped like a rock. The guard next to John turned to see what had happened to his late partner, and John had the razor-sharp wire around his throat before he had time to register what had happened. He lowered the limp corpse to the ground and re-hung the garrote. He made to grab the knife, then thought better of it. He could buy a new one later.
Now John was at a loss, and he paused to rethink his strategy. Obviously the light would have to go. He was not used to it, and the Rabbit was. That gave his enemy an advantage. But John was used to the dark, and Tony was not. If John put the lamp out, he would have the advantage. But how to do it? The best plan would have been to scope out the area around the Rabbit's hideout and find a way to sneak in. But then he had just killed two men so that he would be able to go in the front. He regretted the decision now. No unnecessary killing echoed in his head. There was nothing for it. In order for his latest action not to be a waste, he would have to enter through the entrance he had just cleared.
He stood and drew his pistol. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a silencer and slowly screwed it onto the end of the barrel. He was not worried about other people hearing. In fact in the Nest gunshots were a signal to stay away, not try to help. But immediately after his shot he would need full use of his ears. And this meant that it was better to keep it quiet.
The "door" was simply another crate pushed in front of the opening to the structure. Light peeked out all around it, and when John stepped forward and put his eye to a crack, he had a clear view of the interior. The room was lit by bright white light from a single electric lantern that was sitting on a smaller crate functioning as a table. At first the room appeared to be empty, but as he watched a figure momentarily blotted out the light as it walked across the room from right to left. As his eyes adjusted, John observed a bed pushed up against the right wall. There was a form on it, somebody sleeping, but there was no way of telling if it was the Rabbit. After waiting another minute, he concluded there were only two people in the room, one Tony, the other probably a guard. No problem.
He spent several moments memorizing the exact position of the lantern, then stepped back and allowed his eyes a couple minutes to readjust to the dimness. He would only have one chance to make a difficult shot, and wanted every chance to make it work. He held the pistol with both hands to steady it as much as possible, and went over what he had to do one more time in his mind. Then in one violent motion, disregarding all caution, he kicked the crate inwards and to the left, leaving him a clear shot at the table. Time slowed as his mind calculated the perfect aim and shot orders down his nerves to his muscles. The result was a single spit and a shatter, then complete darkness.
As he stepped into the doorway, everything accelerated into real time again. He was incredibly alert. Every nerve was on fire, every sense attuned to the sound, the beat, the rhythm of the night. A scrambling to his right and a string of expletives told him that whoever had been in the bed was now awake. Footsteps were heard off to his left as the other man scrambled around, and a dull thud was heard as the first man stumbled out of the bed. John was still debating what to do when he heard a sickening click-clack from the region of the bed, and barely had time to throw himself backward into the street before the night erupted in a cacophony of gunfire and flashes.
He heard the wood where he had just been splinter as multitudes of high caliber rounds tore into it. Yells and screams echoed in the night as people were abruptly woken. He swore at himself. He should have expected it; Tony was packing heavy weapons, something John disdained, although he could not deny their effectiveness in a situation like this. The man was still firing, and John could clearly make out the origin of the shots from the monstrous muzzle flash. It would have been an easy shot, but he could not risk killing the Rabbit, if it was he that was firing. He needed Tony alive to lead him to his stash.
The man with the gun was clearly panicked and wasn't thinking. He had expended an entire magazine into the same spot, and began to reload his weapon. It was now or never. John made his move. Any pretense of stealth was lost as he sprinted toward the doorway, leaped over the hole torn by the bullets, and ran headlong into the man holding the heavy machine gun. John grabbed the barrel and forced it down, saving himself as the man reflexively pulled the trigger. The gun spat out another half a clip before John was able to wrestle it from the man's grasp. A knife appeared next, slashing John's upper arm. He roared in pain, grabbing the man's wrist and twisting it until the knife clattered to the floor. John kicked it under the bed and twisted the man's arm behind his back, finally managing to subdue him. He shoved him face first into the wall, drew his remaining pistol, and held it to the man's head.
"Who the fuck do you think you are?" the man yelled. With this first cocky sentence John knew he was holding the Silver Rabbit.
"None of your business."
"Glascow. I'd know your voice anywhere, you son-of-a-bitch."
"It seems to me you're not in the position to be name calling," John observed. "Now I know you just got home yesterday. Where's the stash?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh come on, don't give me that crap. You're not gonna put one over on me. Tell me what you got and where you hid it, or I might get irritated with you. I've already threatened one man at knifepoint tonight, and I don't feel like doing it again."
"...Shit!" Tony exclaimed.
"That's right. You have no choice. Come on, it's all in a day's work."
"Shut up!"
John laughed. "Take your time then. What are your options? What else can you do?"
The Silver Rabbit growled vehemently. Through clenched teeth he said, "It's...it's under this room. Under the bed. Two crates down, one over."
"You telling the truth?" John asked.
"What the hell choice do I have?" Tony snarled.
John smiled. "Right you are. Well in that case, you and I are going to have to go fetch it." Tony remained silent. "Under the bed you say..." John used his body to keep Tony pressed into the wall, held the pistol to his head with one hand, and pulled the bed out of the corner with the other. "What next?" he asked.
"Who told you I was here?"
"What next?" John growled, pressing the pistol harder to the Rabbit's head.
"Ouch! There's a hole drilled. Stick your finger in and pull up." John did, thinking how frighteningly similar this was to his own secret passage. The top of the crate came up with it, and he threw the piece of wood on the bed.
"Now do you go down or do I?" If he went down, Tony would be able to ambush him when he came back up, but if he had Tony go down, there might be something he had stored below, a weapon or the like, which he could use against him. John would have to go himself.
But first, he drew a length of cord from a pocket, tying Tony's hands behind his back. Then he shoved his back against the wall, and shoved the handles of the garrote into two cracks in the crates that made up the wall so that they straddled Tony's neck. If he tried to run or even move too far he would slit his own throat. That done, John descended, ignoring Tony's pleas and carrying a flashlight he had procured from Tony's pocket.
The passage was similar to his own, although not nearly as much attention had been paid to maintaining structural support. He found two large and heavy duffel bags sitting right where Tony had said they would be. Too easy, thought John.
He expected to find some cash and a lot of valuables. The cash John could use, but the valuables would only be valuable if somebody could buy them, which didn't apply in the Nest. One normally pawned what they could and saved the rest simply because there was nothing else to do. He unzipped one of the bags to make sure.
What John saw took his breath away. The bag was filled with cash, bills neatly counted and wrapped no less. He opened the other bag. It was the same. How had the Rabbit stumbled across such a sum? Now John understood why he had been so upset over giving up his loot. This was more than John would make in a year or two, maybe enough to set him up in an apartment up top and break free of this place forever. He sat for several minutes, pondering the possibilities, until the sound of the Rabbit's whining up above brought him out of his dreams and back to reality. He quickly zipped the bags and tossed them over his shoulder for the climb back up.
When he emerged he found Tony with tears in his eyes and shaking visibly in his effort to stay still. John quickly removed the garrote. He had to admit it must have been a horrible feeling. His good will was short-lived, however, as Tony aimed a string of insults and expletives at him. "Why you ungrateful little wretch," he said. Patting the bags, he said, "Oh well. I got what I came for." He knocked Tony on the head with his pistol, then untied his hands. He hefted the two bags and prayed there would be no further problems on the way out. Just in case he kept his pistol out and ready. "Better luck next time," he said to Tony's unconscious form, and stepped out of the room.
The gunfire had had the desired effect and scared away any potential enemies. The street was empty. He walked quickly back to the alley where he had made his entrance, passing the still unconscious form of the man he had interrogated earlier. He reached the entrance to the passage and, as he lowered the bags down, pondered again how the Rabbit had gained so much money so fast. He had been in too much of a hurry to ask Tony where the money had come from, but now he wished he had. It didn't make sense. You simply couldn't make that much, no matter how good you were. And Tony wasn't that good. It didn't make sense.
Whatever it all meant, he had been lucky today, and his plans for tomorrow had just changed completely. He had been following his standard reconnaissance and attack, the method by which he normally accumulated funds for his futile but enjoyable periodical visit to the upper city. Now in a single night he had accumulated all his funds and more, which meant he could move the timetable up. Tomorrow John would be going topside.
He finished lowering the bags and started to descend himself. As he was lowering himself through the hole, he finally remembered the shadow that had momentarily blocked out the light before he had entered the Rabbit's hideout. He remembered the scuffling he had heard on his left. And he remembered using Tony's flashlight several times to survey a completely empty room. He had forgotten in the heat of the moment, but now his memory was crystal clear. Had it been fear...or something else? Once again things didn't make sense. But he was tired of speculation, and he didn't really want to understand. He had enough trouble with cold, hard fact. So there it was, a cold, hard fact:
The other figure was gone.
The Darkness and the Light - Chapter 2:
Date: 24 February 2004, 12:43 PM
"This is it, Mr. G."
John nodded and rose, hefting the two bags of money. A moment later, the door slid open with a hiss, and John stepped out onto a suspended walkway several meters across. People passed in front of him, hurrying about their business, as the broad expanse of the Upper City filled his vision. Innumerable suspended walkways similar to the one he stood on spanned the heavens miles high, as huge towers and spires looked down on all. The many lights affixed to them lit up the sky with an eerie, artificial glow, shimmering in the cool night air. Occasionally one saw a bright white snake streak through the darkness, an illuminated train on tracks obscured by the darkness.
John had shed any outward signs of his profession. The pistols still hung comfortingly next to his skin, but he had traded the many throwing knives for a single knife sheathed on the inside of his coat, designed not for throwing but for cutting and slashing. He hoped he wouldn't have to use it. Over his shoulder he carried the two duffel bags.
His first priority was of course to get rid of them. Beneath its veneer of safety and well-being, the Upper City was just as dangerous as the Nest, and worse because the presence of light leveled the playing field too much for comfort. The last thing he wanted to do was walk around carrying a large sum of money, with the chance that some petty mugger might by get lucky and steal his loot. Besides that, he couldn't use it in its present form, since virtually nobody took cash any more. However, he knew just the place to go.
He turned left and walked down the platform. In front of him a train sped into the station at the end of the walkway. Various loiterers suddenly took on an air of purpose, flocking to the car like moths to light, and John had to run the last few meters to the waiting train. He quickly swiped a card through a slot next to the door, and then stepped inside. It was the first of seven trains he would ride before he reached his destination. Placing the duffel bags at his feet, John took one of the few remaining seats and settled down for the ride, trying to look inconspicuous.
John emerged from the final train about an hour later. He was now at a much lower altitude, and the majority of the walkways and bridges stretched across above him. The platform he was now on was flanked by several businesses, and much more populated than the platform onto which he had first emerged. Towering over all was a building that was designed to look secure, a huge monolith of concrete and burnished metal. It was a bank, the proprietors supposedly direct descendants of the original Swiss bankers of Earth. It appeared that over several centuries of change, one thing hadn't. The Swiss were still known for anonymity and efficiency, and John knew that if it was safe anywhere, his money would be safe here.
He walked toward the bank and then past it. Watching the traffic around him, he quickly removed his pistols and the knife, placing them in a trash bag. He dropped the bag into the next trash receptacle - they were uniformly placed 200 meters apart throughout the city - and was glad to see that it was empty. That meant that it had been emptied recently, and wouldn't be emptied again for several hours. He didn't know how long this would take, and it would not do to have his weapons thrown away while he was gone.
John then turned and headed back down the street towards the bank. He walked up a short flight of broad stone steps that lead to a door, which slid open as he approached. He stepped through the opening, and the door slid shut behind him. He was now standing in a small, square glass room between the door he had just entered through and a second, inner door. Air jets blasted from left, right, top, and below, and he heard a hiss as pressures were equalized. He knew that simultaneously he was being x-rayed to ensure he was not carrying any weapons. If he had been, the airlock would have remained locked while the bank called the authorities and the guys with shotguns came. Instead, a few final pops were heard and the inner door slid open, admitting him into a large, spacious, yet economical room.
Padding on the walls suppressed echoes as John walked toward an open counter, and the only sound heard was unintelligible conversation from another desk, where a fidgety little man was talking absentmindedly to his clerk. In a dark corner John observed a man standing unobtrusively, wearing a perfectly tailored and expensive suit. Telltale bulges under his clothing told of an arsenal large enough to level a small army. The bank took security very seriously.
The single clerk standing at the desk when John approached did not bat an eye as he unzipped the duffel bags and began stacking the wads of cash on the counter. "I'm gonna need this changed over to international credits," John said gruffly as he worked.
"Certainly sir," said the clerk. "That will of course take several-"
"I know." Hard currency was becoming less and less used, and as such the bank took a while to process it. It would take anything from a few hours to days, depending on the state of the market at the time.
"You understand the procedures, sir?" the clerk asked.
"Yes," he nodded, continuing to stack. The bank would take the money and, after validating it and running it through several tests, count it. They would then use the current exchange rate to convert it into international credits, a purely electronic form of money that had emerged soon after the discovery of sub-space, when the world had suddenly been faced with maintaining money standards and steady markets throughout a network of many new colonies. The credits would be dumped into a buffer account known only to the bank and the customer. John could then retrieve the credits at his leisure from any of the innumerable consoles sprinkled throughout the city, designed for just such occurrences. He would never have to return to the bank, and the bank never had to know his name.
"We will have to count the money before we can place a handling fee-"
"I know. Take it out of the total."
"Of course, sir." The bank charged a handling fee on all of its transactions, based upon the amounts being handled and the difficulty of the transaction being performed. In the case of hard cash, and in such a quantity, John knew the fee was likely to be astronomical. He was better off not knowing.
Handing him an electronic keypad, the clerk said, "Please enter a random five-digit number. This will be the first part of your PIN." Thinking fast, John typed 12044. "Thank you," said the clerk, taking the pad. "One moment please." He stared at a computer console below the counter, tapping a pen impatiently. After several seconds, he saw what he wanted to see. He typed a few characters, hit enter, and a small printer on the desk squealed and spit out a small piece of paper. The clerk picked it up and handed it to John. "This is the second part. Please memorize it."
John read the paper. A5T3-L24E-1D76. There was no easy way to memorize the code, but he recognized that that was the purpose of it. He read it over in his mind until it sank in, then folded the paper and put it in his pocket.
"Ahem!" the clerk said sharply. He beckoned, and John withdrew the paper, placing it in the clerk's waiting hand. Picking up a lighter from his desk, the clerk brought flame to the paper. In a flash of brilliant white it was gone.
"I think that concludes our business," John said.
"If you have no questions, yes, sir. A pleasure doing business with you. Have a nice day." John offered the man a brief half-smile, turned on his heel, and passed through another airlock back into the street, leaving the clerk on the phone arranging for a crew to come down and pick up the stacks of cash that had been left on the counter. John found his weapons as he had left them, with only a few small articles of trash on top. He re-equipped himself, then dropped the empty duffel bags into the trash and headed down the street, looking for someplace to eat.
Turning a corner, he spotted a sign for a bar down the street, and headed toward it. He would grab a bite to eat, then go and find someplace to stay until the money was exchanged. After that...the possibilities were endless. For the first time ever, he was truly free. He could move out of the city, even leave the planet. One thing was for sure; he was not going back to the Nest.
But in the back of his mind doubts flourished. Crime was all he knew. The large sum of money would tide him over for a long time, but if he didn't supplement it, he would eventually wind up back in the Nest. His income was just not high enough as a criminal. But what else could he do?
John's thoughts were cut short as he entered the bar. The interior was dark, and melancholy music played over hidden speakers. There was a single man hunched over a drink at the counter, and the bartender sat on a stool with his feet up on the bar, watching TV. The place had the aura of an establishment that was past its prime. The barkeep jumped up when he saw John enter.
"What can I get for you?" he asked in a voice to match the appearance of the room.
"A burger, fries, and a beer...no make that coffee." John wanted his mind at its clearest tonight. He might need it.
"That'll be 9 ICs."
John reached into a pocket and withdrew a card. He handed it to the man, who took it and swiped it through a machine sitting on the counter. A loud beep was heard, and the man looked up at John with a half inquiring, half challenging glare. "What's the idea, mister?"
"Huh?" asked John, genuinely confused.
"We're not giving handouts here." He threw the card down on the counter.
"Empty?" John asked.
"Fine, act like you don't know. Just get out."
"But...very well." John had no desire to be involved in a confrontation, and submissively rose and walked out of the bar.
The barkeeper issued a loud humph! at John's departing form. Apparently, the card did not have 9 credits on it. John must have spent more than he realized on the train ride here. And now he observed was a perfect example of what he had just been worrying about. He just couldn't support himself. If he wanted to eat and sleep tonight, he was going to have to rob somebody. But then one did what one had to do. From the street, he stepped into an open elevator. The doors slid shut, and he rocketed up toward another platform.
John emerged from the elevator onto another platform, along which were many sets of individual sliding doors, each accompanied with a keypad. He could not have hoped for better luck. It was a residential neighborhood, and by the looks of it pretty wealthy. He just had to get inside one now.
A woman emerged from another elevator to his right and headed down the platform. John waited a few moments and then fell in behind her. As he stepped quickly but carefully, making no noise, he felt suddenly at home. This was his job. It was what he was good at; what he did.
The woman stopped at a door, inserted a key card accompanied with a PIN, and was admitted. As soon as she was inside, John sprinted for the door, reaching it just in time to pass his hand across the opening, activating a sensor that detected obstructions in the doorway. The door slid open again, and John was about to enter the apartment when he heard a questioning sound from inside. He instantly melted back into a shadowy corner, and moments later the woman stepped outside, looking curious but not especially wary. She stepped out into the middle of the platform, looking down it to the left and right. Then she issued a soft huh! and retreated into her apartment. By that time John was already inside.
He moved quickly through the place, looking for a spot to hide until the woman settled down. During his search he noted a computer terminal embedded in the wall in the kitchen. He would need it later. Moving farther down the hall, he entered a bedroom that seemed much too clean to be in use, and hid himself in the closet.
He listened for several minutes as the woman went about her business, changing clothes and getting a drink from the refrigerator. Then he heard a click and a hum. A moment later a strong, deep voice emanated from down the hall.
"And in universal news today, the UNSC has dealt the Covenant another crushing blow in a battle in the Beta Cygni system. After three days of intense action, the fleet under the command of Admiral William Jacobs was able to drive off the enemy and maintain hold on the system. Here with more is correspondent Jenna Peterson."
John knew that there was a war on. Recruitment posters posted around the city attested to that. The impression he had received was that the war was not going well for the humans, but this news report seemed to make it out to be otherwise. Still, it smelled of propaganda, and the "crushing blow" might very well have been no more than a lucky break. Truth be told, John knew very little about the subject. It had always seemed rather unimportant compared to the effort required for daily survival in the Nest.
John stepped out of the room and headed down the hall as correspondent Jenna Peterson began to read off battle statistics and other details. Ahead of him he could see the glow of the television set, but before he reached it he turned right into the kitchen. It was separated from the family room where the TV was by a waist-high counter. The woman had turned all the lights out, and the only illumination came from the TV. After making sure she would be occupied for the next few minutes, John reached out and tapped the screen of the computer, which instantly sprang to life. Pulling a card from his jacket pocket, he slipped it into a corresponding slot in the wall. The screen blinked. It was the only signal that the program on the card was doing its work.
It was a small AI, although hardly fit to be called that. Basically the program cracked into the system with the specific purpose of stealing any credits that were stored on it. One didn't obtain large amounts of money from doing this. People had secure bank accounts to hold the bulk of their money. A home system was the intermediate between an ultra-secure bank account and a highly vulnerable personal currency card (PCC), as well as the best way to extract money from the former. As such it usually contained some overflow and safety money.
John's skills did not lie in the computer realm, so he had purchased the handy little program to do the work for him. The developers had thrown in a genetic algorithm and a few intelligently selected options so that they could legally title the program an AI, but it was really quite simplistic, although effective. In fact, there was a rumor that the designers of the system it attacked had actually released it themselves so that their customers would have to keep updating the software. Either way it served its function.
As he waited, he focused again on the news report blaring behind him. "...and a combination of new equipment and new tactics lead to the ultimate victory. We managed to obtain a few words from the officer in command during the battle, Admiral William H. Jacobs. Admiral, how does it feel to win a victory like this?"
The admiral answered in a deep, gruff voice that John instinctively related to. "We all do what we have to do. I suppose it's all in a day's work. But actually, it wasn't quite-"
Jenna cut him off. "And is there anything you would like to say to the viewers about the war?"
The Admiral responded, sounding tired and mildly annoyed. It was obvious that the interviewer was purposely keeping him away from what he really wanted to say. John chanced a peek over the counter and saw on the TV an older gentleman, probably around fifty but with many more wrinkles than he should have had at that age. Again John instinctively related to and admired the man he saw. He listened closely to the Admiral's response. "Please help. I know you all have your excuses, but they won't matter if the Covenant comes and glasses your planet. It feels like we're all alone out here, and sometimes I'm not sure what we're fighting for. You don't understand what this battle really-"
"Thank you so much for your time Admiral," cut in Jenna once again. And then to the audience: "Pardon the Admiral's words. He has had a long day, and you know how irritable people get when they're tired." She laughed. A girlish, idiotic laugh John thought. "Back to you, Carl."
His attention was drawn away from the news and back to the computer as the program flashed on screen that it had found and stolen a total of 460 credits. John was satisfied. He removed the program card and then inserted his own PCC, to which the money was transferred. Withdrawing the card, he tapped the screen twice and it went black. Too easy, thought John. He slipped quietly out the front door, his footsteps drowned out by the voice of the anchorman as he moved to the next item. "In a rare statement from the Office of Naval Intelligence, all civilians are cautioned..."
Clear of the apartment, John assumed the attitude of a nonchalant citizen of the Upper City, somebody who belonged to the neighborhood. He walked back the way he had come, slipping his PCC into his pocket. Now he could grab a bite and find someplace to spend the night. It would take all the money he had just taken to accomplish this, but hopefully the bank would be able to complete the transaction by tomorrow. If not, he would have to go out looting again. The fact remained that he was done for tonight. He relaxed his mind and body and again tried to decide what to do once he had his fortune.
John approached the bank of elevators at the end of the platform, and was almost to the door when he heard an unnatural hiss from behind him. He began to turn his head, and out of his peripheral vision saw a knife-like beam of blue energy come slashing out of the darkness toward his head. There was no time to think. He just moved.
The blade passed his head by mere centimeters, singing his hair and eyebrows. Simultaneously he lashed out with his right arm, knocking into the arm that held the blade and sending the weapon flying. It landed on the platform, burning part of the way through before it deactivated. John prepared for another attack, but before he knew it his attacker was upon him from behind. His eyes searched frantically for his assailant as blows landed all around him. He couldn't see anything. For many moments he panicked, until in a moment of brilliance he shut his eyes and began to listen.
He could hear-and feel-which side the blows came from. He jabbed at the area with his arm and was rewarded with a grunt and a temporary reprieve from the blows. He heard footsteps approaching again and crouched down low. When his assailant struck, John wrapped his arms around him and pushed up with his powerful legs, throwing the attacker into the air and several meters back. John opened his eyes and looked where the body had landed. There was nothing there.
More than a little disturbed, he sprinted back down the platform, trying to put some distance between himself and this ghostly attacker. He scanned the platform again. Again, there was simply nobody there. But he heard footsteps approaching, and then heavy breathing as his attacker neared. John was not the only one working hard.
He feigned ignorance as he allowed the charging figure to approach, closing his eyes again to eliminate distraction as much as possible. Then, when they were right on top of him, he pulled his knife from its sheath and slashed horizontally in the region he had heard the assailant come from. Something warm gushed on his hand, and the figure let out a mournful cry. He opened his eyes to see that knife and hand were now covered with purple liquid, purple blood he realized, and he looked up to see that he had made a deep gash about a foot long in his attacker. It floated eerily in mid-air, a small strip of exposed flesh in the midst of nothingness. John was beginning to understand what was happening. His attacker had some sort of cloaking mechanism. The knife had slashed a small portion of it, and that section was now visible.
There was no time for further contemplation. The assailant apparently still had plenty of fight left in him. Before he could make a move, something impacted John squarely on the jaw, sending him sprawling on his back with stars floating before his eyes. He expected the figure to finish the attack at this point, but instead he heard footsteps retreating toward the elevators. Was the attacker running away? Then all was made clear as John saw that the mysterious weapon his attacker had used earlier had once again been activated. With a hiss, the blue beam shot out again, and now the creature advanced upon John with renewed vigor.
John scrambled up, unsure that he could get as lucky as he had the first time. He slowly switched the knife to his left hand, pulling a pistol with his right. He felt like he was in an old western duel as the two combatants stood about 20 meters apart, sizing each other up. He took a step closer, and watched as the floating energy blade did as well. They were both poised, ready to attack at a moments notice. The tension grew, and John was about to charge when a loud ding was heard and the elevator doors slid open. John wasn't distracted, but evidently his attacker wasn't used to such events. He turned to see what the noise was, and by the time he thought to turn back, John had covered three quarters of the distance between them.
The phantom enemy instantly charged toward John, bringing the blade back for a final slice. It arced toward John in slow motion, the blinding blue light searing into his eyes and leaving a fading streak in his vision. At the last second he dove, and the blade passed above him where his head had been just moments before. He hit the ground and took the assailant's legs out from under him, bringing him down on his stomach. John was now behind him. He placed his left arm on the mysterious figure's back and drove him into the ground to hold him down. He felt for the head with his other hand, found it, and, placing the pistol there, pulled the trigger. The round blasted through the skull of John's attacker, the soft bullet flattening out and bouncing around inside the skull, wreaking havoc on its brain.
A body suddenly appeared beneath John, the cloaking apparently automatically disengaged upon death. Flipping the figure over John took a sharp breath. His attacker had been no human. A distinctly different shaped skull framed the oddest thing he had ever seen, a mouth consisting of four mandibles that came together in the middle. The figure seemed oddly familiar, but then John had only limited experience with such things. Of course, if he had watched the news regularly, he would have known that the creature before him was one of the Covenant races, those known as Elite.
"Well..." said a deep, neutral voice. John turned his head toward the elevator. Three lights floated in mid-air inside the elevator. After a moment, they moved toward him, transforming into reflectively coated visors on the helmets of three monstrous green figures.
"Did he..." said a second voice, higher, a woman's.
"Yeah," answered a second male.
"But that's..." came the woman again.
"Enough," commanded the first voice. "Clean it up, quickly." He walked toward John, who was frozen with awe and fear. John was just opening his mouth to speak when the figure drew a pistol. "Sorry," he said, his emotionless voice giving no hint whether he meant it or not. He brought the butt of the pistol down on John's head.
Everything went black.
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