Rats swarm in the deserted alleyways of the Soho Archologies entertainment district, crawling over dustbins and used needles. Like the vermin, club-goers and ravers crowd the dancefloors, pumping electric drugs into their brains while gyrating to tuneless, banging music.

The Argonaut club is particularly pumping tonight, as the shooting occurred at Hikomi’s, two blocks over. This meant Vikus had to press his way through a greater mass of bodies than usual, making for the backrooms where the real business of Soho was done.

The underground aug market existed here, beneath the pulsating mass of bodies and electric cables, hidden beneath neon lights, sweat and drugs.

New generation, multi-potent stem cells were the recent product of choice, able to generate increased muscle power, rejuvenate punished bodies and even regenerate burned-out neurons.

Only for said customers to hook themselves up to the clubs’ cables and burn them back out again with cyber-space acid or crack.

Fek had once explained the workings of the nightclubs to Vikus when asked, “Why don’t they just go wireless? Why force people to jack in with a physical connection at all?”

As Fek typically would, he would suck on a blunt before replying, “Because man, if your business is on the net, any asshole can punch through into your product, and ICE is only good for so long. So, they keep it off the net. You must pay crypto for a physical connection, ensuring payment for a sweet, sweet time.” Fek leaned in conspiratorially, “Of course, they have to pay subscriptions for the music and drug programs, which they whisper the Algorithm itself owns, hands them out to keep us…” Fek tapped his head, “…Compliant.”

Reaching the basement, Vikus found that Fek was nowhere near as good a mood as when they had that last conversation. He paced and worried at his teeth, a collection of used blunts strewn around him like dead slugs, his eyes bloodshot and popping.

“Fuck, man. He’s been out for almost an hour. Seizure three fucking times.” Almost to back up Fek’s panicked report, Tanaka, the idiot Yakuza goon, began shuddering in the chair, still attached to the IV bag of illicitly produced stem cells.

Pushing Fek aside, Vikus got to work, pulling out a non-rebreathe mask that suctioned onto Tanaka’s face, cycling out carbon dioxide and pumping pure oxygen. Then, without waiting, Vikus found an ACF veinous port on the goons’ arm, injected diazepam into his system, and then hooked up a transducer line of IV crystalloids.

After a few more seconds, the tonic-clonic seizure self-terminated, undoubtedly authentic, Vikus decided, noting the deep blue of the Yakuza man’s lips and the unmistakable ochre smell of shit in his pants.

“Tell me he’s going to make it! He owes me a hefty amount of crypto, man!” Fek moaned, leaning over Vikus’ shoulder.

“Give me space; I got to work. Besides, whatever you get from this idiot, you’re going to use to pay off the hefty amount of crypto you owe me.” Vikus growled, splitting the IV line and pumping in an anti-histamine and corticosteroid.

This sort of reaction to the cells wasn’t so different from a blood transfusion reaction, the body giving a standardised inflammatory response to an unknown invader.

Disgustedly, Vikus checked the Stem cells bag, crudely marked with a felt pen.

I don’t want to know what sort of back-alley shithole these were made in. Vikus thought, noting that they were generation C-25 stem cells, a formulation three generations out of date. Thankfully, a relevant synthetic monoclonal antibody had been explicitly made to retard their activities and nullify the cells.

He selected the MAB from his satchel and ran it through Tanaka’s system. Finally, he slid out his spinal cable and connected it to the Yakuza drone’s internal system, monitoring his EEG waves.

The Neuro-doc programme pinged into his head; “Seizure activity noted but diminishing; advise standard treatment dosage of levetiracetam.”

Vikus did so, pulling the relevant drug from his bag of tricks, mixing it carefully into a bespoke IV and hooking it up to the veinous port.

After several long moments, with non-rebreathe attached to the impromptu patient’s face, doubling as a positive air pressure device keeping the airway open, he began to stir.

Vikus sat on a chair opposite him, satisfied as he watched his blood pressure stabilise with the fluids, the seizure activity settling into regular brain activity. Signs of general inflammation dying down.

Tanaka stirred, eyeballs rolling loosely in their sockets.

Fek advanced on him, “holy shit! Thank fuck you, stupid asshole! You owe me money!” Fek turned to Vikus, who sat calmly in his chair, watching his ecstatic celebration. “About your pay… Fancy slinging me an ‘I owe you?’”

Vikus shrugged, calmly reaching into his shoulder holster, feeling a ping as his linked augment marked Tanaka and Fek as targets for the smart pistol rounds. “You don’t have to. I got another way for him to make payment.”

Fek looked confused as Vikus nodded to Tanaka. “What?”

Sighing heavily, Vikus withdrew his iron and let it hang lazily between his knees; with the homing rounds, he only needed a moderate angle to hit his targets. “Don’t act dumb, Fek. Your brain is fried with all the drugs you do, electric and otherwise, but you’re not completely retarded yet. Did you really think I would believe a Yakuza man was coming to you for stem cells?”

Vikus nodded once again at Tanaka. “Yakuza can afford the real shit. They don’t need to come to some back-alley moron for half-baked, semi-cancerous shit like you churn out.”

Fek tried to pass as casual, but sweat began spilling out his forehead and running down his neck. “I don’t know why he’s doing the shit he’s doing; you just don’t say no to Yakuza.”

Vikus sat back, chewing Fek’s answer. “Yeah. Sure, I’ll give you that. He’s a genuine Yakuza. Ex-Yakuza. I spoke to Gran before I came out here and ran Mr Tanaka Suzuki through her system. It turns out he’s no longer popular with his old Yakuza friends. He’s stolen a whole lot of shit from them. Took a bullet for his trouble, fucked his spine, which is why he’s here for the stem cells and why he can’t afford the genuinely good shit.”

Fek licked his lips carefully. “Listen, man. I’ll let you in on our deal. Seriously, I’ll pay what I owe you this time. Promise.”

Vikus rolled his eyes. “Now you’ve just given the game away. So, you knew. What the fuck are you doing, Fek? Fucking with the Yakuza?”

“I need shit, man,” Fek said quietly.

Vikus threw up his hands. “I got you the hyper-methadone and the detox infusion to kick the physical shit! Yet you’re still hooked!”

“The electric shit ain’t got the edge I need, man!” Fek shouted, and the two ex-friends eyed each other carefully. Vik knew that Fek was thinking about going for his piece but, thankfully, wasn’t stupid enough to do so.

But Vikus had lost interest in Fek. Tanaka had been awake for several seconds and was glaring at Vikus.

“What? No thank you for saving your life?” Vikus teased casually.

“Go fuck yourself.” Tanaka hissed, then, turning to Fek, said, “fuck yourself too, you stupid junkie.”

Vikus clucked his tongue. “That’s no way to treat a friend. So, tell me where you stashed the good and the combination, and then we can all go our separate ways.”

Tanaka continued his glare, but Vikus noticed it flinched when he levelled the smart pistol at the goon’s head.

Feebly, Tanaka tried to lunge for Vikus, only to fall onto his face, breaking his nose and a few of his front teeth.

“That wasn’t very smart.” Vikus chided. “You see, I laced the fluid in your arm with insulin. You don’t know it, but unless I give you this hypo of glucose…” Vikus produced the relevant injection: “…Your brain is going to shut down, and you’re going to die.”

Tanaka looked up at Vikus, grimacing through what had once been a perfect gangster smile but was now a mess of jagged edges and empty gums. “Secure locker in Waterloo station. Code is Fifty-five, fifty-five.”

Vikus stood, glancing over his shoulder into the dark recesses of the stairs leading back into the pulsating, muted club. “Happy with that?”

A slender figure emerged from the shadows, dark hair drawn into a tight bun with fringe, face laced with exquisite tattoo work of flowers and dragons. When she smiled, her tongue was long and serpent-like, licking over teeth sharpened to steel-tipped points. “Yes. Quite satisfactory.” The woman, obviously a Yakuza razor-girl, cocked her head, listening to a private comm in her skull. “It is confirmed. Very satisfactory.” She winked at Vikus, “thanks, handsome.”

Tanaka prostrated himself on the floor before her. “Mishima, please know I was journeying to return your property.” He glanced to Fek, “as soon as my business with this viper was completed.”

“Oh, please.” Mishima purred, advancing on Tanaka, thin blades sliding from beneath green fingernails. " There are only two snakes here: you and me. Except that the bigger serpent eats the smaller one.”

Tanaka clasped his hands together in a symbol of prayer, head bowed. “Please. Don’t kill me.”

Mishima snorted. “That would be a waste of my fine nails. I’ve just had them done.” Retracting the blades, she made a show of inspecting the nail work. “No. We’ve sold your debt to the Blinders on the east end. They are rather keen on taking your eyes, and we’ve clarified they will face no retribution from us.” Mishima turned, looking Vikus straight in the eye, her cold pupils focusing on his. “Your work is exquisite.” Gently, she patted the side of Vikus’ face. “Perhaps we could make use of you.”

He shook his head in response. “Me calling this in was to avoid business with the Yakuza.”

Mishima gave a small, sharp smile. “That’s what they all say. Be seeing you, handsome.”

Mishima made to leave, passing between Vikus and Fek, who had glued himself to the basement wall. As she passed, Vikus caught sight of a flicker of movement.

With the line of sight momentarily blocked, his two adversaries lined up for him; Fek had decided to take his chance to flatline them, take the code and the goods, and then make for the nearest shooting range.

Acting on instinct, without a second’s warm thought, Vikus threw out his arm and fired, sending the shot wide so it curled around Mishima’s perfect porcelain features, homing in on Feks’ head.

There was a churning crack as the bullet fractured Fek’s skull, then a wet explosion as it burst out the back of his skull, decorating the wall with blood, brain, bone and hair.

Mishima paused, peering down at Fek’s slumping form, leaving a trail of viscera down the wall.

“He was your friend, wasn’t he?” She asked.

“I’ll get over it.”

The Yakuza razor girl turned to look at him with something new. A dark curiosity glinted in her eyes. “Indeed, “ she whispered. There is payment for you. But I suppose that now, it will be all yours.”

Vikus shrugged. “That’s not why I shot him.”

“And why did you kill him?”

Vikus found no good reason to lie. “If he had killed you, then your people would be after all of us. Me included.”

“Self-preservation... perhaps,” Mishima conceded before proceeding up the stairs and disappearing into the crowd's thumping rhythm.

The people of the future had been mistaken, assuming that cyberspace, the net, and the code would be where the world’s power lay. But they had been wrong. Instead, they had conned themselves into a glowing, electronic prison, the bars made of raw code instead of cold iron.

The real world was where the war was.

Where the exchange of power still was and always would be.

Except, with our neural-dive mods, memory was the most potent weapon and valuable intelligence. The mind made code, made weapon.

But it was easier to hide in the matrix, to disguise your form. In there, your fat, fifty-year-old paedophile could become the sweetest, bubble-gum-popping Japanese schoolgirl with your basic e-market mods.

In the real world, there were no such magical disguises. Instead, you were who you were.

And it didn’t help here.

Myself, Cell, Mort and Ziggy, with synthetic eyes, chrome-enforced skin and surgical scars, stood out amongst the organics of the fish yard crowds. What venom wasn’t spat at us skimmed along the tops of their minds.

“Fucking Borgs.”

Borg. The modern equivalent of nigger, kike, gringo or whatever assorted slur takes your gumbo.

“Report in. Tell me someone’s found something.”

“Only the usual.” A hundred metres away, Cell murmured, sounding like she whispered directly into my ears.

“Yeah.” Ziggy piped in. “A whole lot of horniness and hunger.”

Mort did little more than huff.

We had separated, collars pulled up, hoods over our heads, long coats spilling around us, hands in pockets, minimising every inch of augmentation on display. The last thing we needed was a crowd of chimps chanting, “ Kill the Borgs. “

“Keep steady. Send it through if any of these monkeys breaths about their wish for a fresh liver.”

“You got it, Boss.”

Chimps. Just as they called us Borgs, the unaugmented were called chimps. They were primitive, unevolved, and stupid.

Since the advent of 3-D printing in the twenty-first century, folk have been utilising new printable materials until any idiot with the proper hardware and malignant ideology could print himself an AK-52.

Then, with the advent of mass-produced pluripotent stem cells, printing had gotten squishy. The rich no longer needed some jacked-out, well-used organ from the latest road kill. Instead, they could print their own, fresh and sticky.

With every legitimate market, there was a black one, underground, manufacturing organs off old specs—the only issue: The smell. Helf cancerous organs kick up a stench.

Hence, the fish yards where it would be one rotten smell among many.

“Ugh,” Mort growled.

A spike of adrenaline rockets through my guts. “Talk to me, Mort.”

“Nothing, Boss. Some chimps spied my chrome and tried to jump me. One got a headache… The others got no head.”

I rolled my eyes. “Log it later and move on.”

Mort gurgled a laugh a bullfrog might make. “Yessir.”

“I’ve got a ping.” Cell cut in. “Thought-strand about a cellar in the back warehouse got a clear mental picture. Zipping it through now.”

Like a remembered, long-forgotten memory, an image floats to the surface of consciousness. Carcasses hanging from a ceiling, organs stacked wetly, fresh from filthy meat printers.

Scalpels, drills, cauterisers. A makeshift, underground clinic.

“Give me numbers.”

“Three guards, Xavier’s got somebody on the table. I can’t get an exact read, but it seems like a customer is being fitted with a new organ… Two kidneys and a spleen, I think.”

“I like those odds. Mort, work is done. Time for fun.”

Mort’s obscene, bull-frog giggle echoes around my skull. “Oh yeah.”

Cell wasn’t finished. “There’s one more thing. There’s someone else, unarmed. I can’t be sure. In there with Doc.”

“Could be a new assistant,” Ziggy suggests.

My metal teeth grind against my upper jaw, crunching the numbers.

“And our boy who gave us the ping?”

“He’s some tech jockey. Armed. But no criminal record on file, although allegations of some low-level financial tampering in lesser businesses.” Cell drawled all this as though reading from a prompter programme. Which, in a sense, she was. All citizens had a profile. All profiles belonged to the algorithm. Therefore, they belong to us.

“If we engage and shut down the organ printers, will he get involved?”

Cell was silent for a moment. “Don’t think so. He’s nervous, struggling to read him in the crowd… My money is he’ll bolt if we trash the place.”

“He doesn’t sound like a big player, Boss,” Mort growled. “Suggest we let this fishy swim away and zero the sharks.”

“Agreed. Tag him for later; he’s next shift problem.”

I get up from the food stand, leaving a steaming bowl of vat-grown crab and ramen smoking at the table. The trench coat flows around me; nestled within is the cold, grim pistol, weight reminding me it’s ready to work.

The Saberon Corp was run on a fuel of blood, sweat and synthetic proteins. An in-house slogan Rayn secretly carried with pride. Despite the company being nearly one hundred and fifty years old, Rayn was only the second generation of Saberon-Wardens to take the reins.

This fact filled her with sadness. In this day and age, the middle and upper classes afforded the treatments, synthetic organs, and grafts needed to extend life almost indefinitely. The only limiter was the brain itself, which seldom replenished its cells. Although, even now, that fact is old, with the latest, specialised stem cell infusions, even the brain could be re-grown.

The stem cells were Saberon Corp’s pride and joy. But, who would have known the company which first pioneered the mass production of lab-grown burgers would be the same people to push out into the solar system, to lead the charge in stem cell production and brain cell replication.

All these achievements… In a world where the Midnight City consumed everything below Rayn’s ivory tower, she could not help but feel these achievements would be void if they did not reach the populace. “Humanities reach truly does exceed its grasp. But the grasp and reach of some are lesser than many others.” She lamented to herself as she strolled around the media centre.

On this floor, many processors had their own cubicles, cabled not into the market networks like in the core but instead monitoring vast amounts of media data, analysing trends, and attempting to predict what products and innovations the Algorithm would favour.

Rayn loved this floor. Loved being disconnected and peering into the workings of these minions, who were inevitably the youngest of all employees at Saberon Corp, some as young as thirteen. None as old as twenty-two.

“Young minds embrace the new faster than the old.” She told the focused, meditative figures.

She went to the head office, where she could hear an intense conversation being parried back and forth.

“But what if we push the narrative on the new yak-flavoured steaks?” Squawked a young voice, smacking of spunk and naivety.

“Push the narrative? How many times have I told you, James? You can’t swim upriver!”

“But we’ve pumped so much capital and research into it! Surely, we cannot just shelve the project!”

There was a rapid burst of cursing in Japanese. “We can’t sell what people don’t see; the Algorithm is pushing synthetic sprouts right now. It simply won’t allow market dominance of meat products anymore.”

Quietly, smoothly, Rayn turned the office door handle and slipped in.

Immediately, the younger and older figures fell silent. The older man bowed deeply, but Rayn waved her hand. “Please, " she said, “don’t let me interrupt.”

The younger man and his supervisor exchanged looks, carefully and more calmly than before; the older man asked, " Do you have some method of bypassing the Algorithms’ media control?”

The younger man took a deep breath, casting cautious yet curious eyes at Rayn. He undoubtedly recognised her; she was the lead head of this massive hydra, unknowable and mysterious.

“I would like to suggest that we give some funding to the Ascension church, part of which we also provide food to their functions. We already have strong shares with their movement; it’s a form of self-promotion within our circles.”

The older man, Shiro Miyazaki, one of Corp’s longest-serving members, put a finger on his chin, tentatively turning the idea over. “It’s a small audience.” He murmured.

“But we get more and more initiates into the church every weekend. Also, we have a great number of transient members. So their recruitment drives will circulate the flavour for us.”

Rayn spoke up, “I think it is a novel idea. Old fashioned.” She smiled at the young man, who blushed deeply. “We are putting more funding into the church anyway; many of our processors and workers are a part of their movement. It would look favourably upon our investors too. Why not make it work for our product line?”

Miyazaki pushed his spectacles up his nose. “Far be it from me to doubt your wisdom.” He grumbled. “You win, James; back to your station.”

The young man bowed and made himself scarce, carefully edging past Rayn.

Miyazaki sat down heavily in his chair, Rayn sitting across his desk. They had been having these impromptu afternoon chats for years, ever since Rayn’s father had decided not to renew his synthetic organs.

He had died peacefully.

Miyazaki had been heading the media division for a year and was incredibly fond of his young proteges, as they were of him. Affectionally calling him the ‘old man.’

“What can I do for you, Madame?”

Rayn shrugged. “I would like a sub-communication put out on our internal media systems.”

Miyazaki clasped his hands over his belly. “What do you want me to say?”

“I’d like you to reach out to all of our employees who are members of the Ascension Church. I want you to release a regular bulletin, but I’d like you to put this symbol as a header.”

Miyazaki felt a ping as an image was displayed into his pupils.

“What… Does it mean?”

Rayn cocked her head. “They’ll know what it means. Can you put it out after twenty-four hours?”

“Of course, Madame.” Miyazaki leaned forward. “May I? Ma’am?”

Rayn inclined her head in confirmation. Then, taking a deep breath, Miyazaki continued, “Is it wise to have so many members of this…” Miyazaki had to choose his words carefully; his feelings were well-known. “…Religious movement, as part of our staff? We need to think independently from the Algorithm to do what is best for the company. Not to bend to the machines.”

Rayn put a ponderous finger to her cheek. “Cult. You meant to say Cult. You have spoken plainly with me for many years, Miyazaki; it is why I value your opinion so highly. There is no need to start being careful now.”

The older man’s glasses began their slow, constant slide back down his nose, and he looked over his lenses at her. “I know that you are rather fond of the church from a business point of view. They make for workers who are happiest when plugged into the net. But I cannot help but wonder if you are truly neutral or are beginning to join their beliefs. And now this symbol? What does it mean, Rayn?”

Slowly but with much affection, Rayn put her manicured hand on Miyazaki’s. “My friend. There is nothing wrong with wanting to look for a better world.”

The second religion that burns in the Midnight City is another that is owned by the Algorithm. The old beliefs were quashed under the weight of modern technology, dying out amongst a disillusioned and forever more jaded populace.

Now, the machine itself was a religion; with humanity no longer able to look to the heavens for salvation, they now looked deeper into cyberspace itself.

The Ascension Church broadcast on all mediums, preaching its truths to all peoples and creeds with the algorithm's approval. After all, the Church was pro-A.I. control.

In the centre of Oxford Street, an immense projection rose, rising amongst the now multiple layers of shops and tech hubs, clubs and bars, to be easily seen by all.

The projection was of an augmented monk, with a clean skull displaying all the neural ports and cybernetics required for a deep connection into the matrix. Then, animatedly, smoothly, the monk raised his hands, and his voice purred to the passers-by, who mostly ignored the sermon.

“The age of suffering is ended. We have seen the harmony embedded in the code of the virtual; our minds feel more connected in this age than any other. Yes, there is much suffering, but it is now shared amongst a network of individuals who become one. Our strength is multiplied when we are connected.

Know that you are not alone. Know that revelation, purity, and enlightenment lie in fusing with the machine. Together, we will all Ascend.”

The holo of the monk froze, and now projected words began to spin around his serene form, listing all their church sites.

The sermon continued, “Join now at your nearest Ascension church! All welcome! No subscription fees! Those without Augs who attend more than three sessions will have access to church accommodation and their first neural port installed free! Ascension, enlightenment, and community exist in the Matrix! Join with the Algorithm, the higher intelligence and live forever in the digital light!”

Most navigating the walkways and shops of Oxford Street should have paid more attention to these ramblings. Instead, the majority were engaged in the religion of consumerism, perusing the food stands, Aug dealers and clinics scattered across the now immense high street.

But some wondered aimlessly, whose stomachs carried a void of meaning. They slumped in the alleys between shops, hung their bodies over the railings and chewed methodically through bland, cheap food.

These people looked up at the monk's hypnotic face, seeming to possess all the answers, and felt hope.