BLACK SWAN - TECH-NOIR (WEB SERIAL)

A #vss365-driven tech-noir web serial.

(Scroll down for the latest snippet.)

PROLOGUE

84.1 #vss365 #tempest

The Dome had its own weather. At 4:00 AM, those bright minds at Control would let out the daily storm. On the dot: lightning, thunder, heavy rain.

From my narrow bed, I could hear the #tempest hitting the Buffer Zone, pouring down into the Lower Levels like a bag of knuckles, making the Sump worthy of its name.

It was 4:05 AM now, but trying to sleep wasn’t on my wish list. I wasn’t trying to get up, either. There was enough scrip in my name for me to pretend I didn’t have to work for a week. Maybe more, if I didn’t take any deep breaths. But I knew they – one of the clean-lungs from the Top – would be sending me a Black Card soon. It happened often enough. Divers like me didn't get many days off.

My mind sort of drifted with the water to the Sump. It always did. For the people struggling down there, the daily Wash, as they called it, was just a pause between the everlasting sticky drizzle they cursed as Dead Sweat.

They also had a name for what I did – and it wasn’t “diving.” It might also be a curse. I didn’t hold it against them. It was hard enough to survive down there without having fixers like me meddling in their business. But we all gotta earn the air we breathe. They knew that, too. The ones who mattered, anyway. The ones who prevented me from ending my diving career face-down in a cabbage tank without snorkel gear.

At 4:15, everything stopped. The storm was over. Until the next day.

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PART ONE

153.1 #vss365 #gamble

I knew a place in the Lower Levels where people used O2 rations as poker chips. That’s where a clean-lung from the Top with a gambling addiction (and down on his luck) would be. A big oxygen whale in the Sump. He might lose both lungs before midnight.

The woman holding the Black Card was still looking at me. Her eyes were the color of hydroponic asparagus. Dead green and serious.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll dive tonight. But I don’t like doing it this close to the storm. It’s too much of a gamble. No pun intended. So it’ll cost you twice the usual rate. More if you want to keep this whole thing under the radar.”

“I don’t care how much it’ll cost,” she said. “Just bring him back safe.”

That’s what they all said – until it was time to pay up.

154.1 #vss365 #victory

Let me go back and give you a bit of context:

The scheduled nightlight had just turned everything blue and I was lying in bed trying to convince myself sleeping couldn't be more boring than that day had been, when a shadow on the landing outside the unit made me sit up.

A tall woman clad in black was standing there, staring straight at me through the glass door, her hair tinted cobalt by the light.

She didn't say anything. Didn't have to. I could see what she was holding in her ebony hand: a card way darker than her skin.

A clean-lung with a Black Card at this hour usually meant a diving job in the early morning – no more than two hours after the Wash. This would be no different.

At least, that's what I thought at the time.

My grandfather used to say, “All black swans are beautiful from midnight until dawn explodes in your face.”

The old man enjoyed saying that kind of crazy stuff, as well as using fancy words like “unfathomable” and “splendor” as if everyone could still understand what they meant.

He was a diver for more years than anyone else. The best of us.

The chem-bends got him in the end. There’s a limit to what a body can handle, even when you’re a legend. The house always wins. His only futile victory against that fate had been to keep diving for as long as he could.

Grandpa was a crazy old diver, no doubt about it.

That doesn't mean he was wrong about those black swans, though.

158.1 #vss365 #cradle

Cradled in the recharge bay, Dronie opened one red eye. It scanned the woman, then the Black Card, before giving me a low whirr. It was the same warning rattle it made right before I walked into a blind alley down in the Sump.

“It’s okay,” I said, pulling on my house overalls. “Just another customer.”

Dronie whirred again. I wonder if the tiny bot knew – or could somehow predict – how things were going to turn out. Still, it cut the red scanning beam. It didn’t go back to recharge-slumber, though. Its eye went caution-yellow, throwing just enough light to stain the scheduled blue of the room.

160.1 #vss365 #horror #mother #deadfall

“I need to find my son,” the woman said, entering the unit as if she owned it. “He’s in the Lower Levels. I don’t know where.”

There was urgency in her voice, though not exactly the kind of horror I would expect from a mother trying to rescue her son from the Sump. But then again, I was raised by my grandfather. For all I knew, she might have been falling to pieces inside. Besides, clean-lungs are not like the rest of us.

“Fungi addiction?” I asked.

“Gambling,” she answered.

“How much scrip is he carrying?”

“Next to none. Apart from his O2 allotment,” the woman said.

Her tone left no doubt she knew exactly what could happen to a clean-lung in one of those underground deadfalls. Still, she decided to hammer it home, adding in that bossy Upstairs voice that always made me want to go feral:

“This can’t wait until after the storm, diver. He has to be extracted now.”

163.1 #vss365 #dawn #forbidden #consuming

I shook my head. “Not going to happen.”

“What do you mean?”

“Diving before the Wash, do you have any idea how dangerous it is? My grandfather used to say that going to the Sump before the break of dawn was like playing inverted Russian roulette.” The woman frowned. "Five bullets, one empty chamber? Deadly. Fatal.”

“Yet, he did it anyway, didn't he? Your grandfather. More than once. So it can't be exactly fatal.”

“Is that why you're here? Because my grandfather managed to survive the Wash down in the Sump a couple of times? In case someone forgot to tell you, he's not around anymore.”

The woman's frown deepened. “I'm here because my son is down there and he won't survive to see the next dawn if I do nothing. And, yes, I know it’s forbidden. Unofficially, of course. Some sort of taboo upheld by divers. By most divers, anyway.” Her eyes didn't look like hydroponic asparagus anymore. What was consuming her had lit some green fire there. “I also know that you've done it before.”

There it was, at last: the reason she had come to my door after curfew. A regular diver wasn’t enough. She was looking for someone who had done it before. Fine. I could live with that. Or so I thought.

#165.1 #quietus

Believing I knew why the woman needed me didn't exactly make taking the job more appealing. Because she was right: there was a taboo among divers. For good reasons, too. Going to the Lower Levels was already a crucible without the extra risk of a short countdown. The twenty-hour gap was the golden rule: you went down two hours after the Wash and came back up at least two hours before the next downpour. Start early, get out as fast as possible. Never ever go down less than twelve hours before the next storm. No matter what. That was the divers’ creed. Breaking it would just help embolden clean-lungs to ask for riskier and riskier jobs, putting the life of every diver at risk.

Accepting this job would mean going for an exfil op less than six hours before the Wash. Close to suicidal. And pointless, if the kid had already been relieved of his O2 and turned into compost fodder.

I glanced at Dronie. My tiny bot was still charging while keeping a yellow eye on the woman. I could guess the kind of alarmed whirrs it would make if I took the job.

Yet, for a second, all I could hear was the old man's voice in my head: “A man must live up to his moniker, son. Especially when that name means something to him.”

And yes, just as I wrote a few snippets earlier, I did know the kind of place where that kid would be gambling his O2 away, and what could happen to him down there if no one helped him get out.

Almost as if she were reading my thoughts, the woman asked: “Would your grandfather let a boy die down there just because saving him went against some unwritten code?”

Her question placed a quietus on my resistance. That's when I uttered those lines about accepting the job while putting my foot down about the fee – my only argument against being deemed a complete fool by all the other divers.

Dronie’s eye turned red. For some strange reason, however, it remained silent as a ghost-mouse. That was odd.

166.1 #distant

I thought of asking the bot for a full scan report, but there was something else going on in a distant corner of my mind, getting closer every second and waving a red flag the size of a bedsheet.

It must have been messing with me ever since the woman entered the unit: her smell.

Clean-lungs forced to come down to The Buffer Zone carry the acrid exhaust of all the antibiotic and antifungal mix they covered themselves with before leaving the nest.

That was definitely not the kind of mix this woman was wearing.

I'm pretty sure my grandfather would have used the word “perfume” to describe it.

Whatever it was, whatever the woman's reasons for wearing it, that scent made me want to put my nose to her neck and inhale deeply. Made me think of other things, too.

She trained her dead green stare on mine and said: “Later. After we get back from the Lower Levels.”

I startled and started stammering like an idiot. “What? What are you—? I don't—That’s not—” I stopped talking and gave my brain a chance to resume thinking clearly.

Fortunately there had been a face-saving word in her sentence, and I clung to it like a diver to a breathing bag down in the Sump.

“‘We get back’?” I echoed. “We? There's no way I'm taking you to the Lower Levels with me. I've agreed to try and get your son out of whatever gambling mess he's got himself into. But that's it. This is not a travel agency. I don't do tours to the Sump for clean-lung mommies who can't keep their kids on a leash.”

Her hand slapped me across the face before I even had a chance to avoid the blow. “What the—?” My cry was more about surprise than actual pain.

“Focus,” she said, cold as a server-room. “Stop wasting time. I have to go with you. Otherwise, you won't be able to identify him.”

“Of course I'll be able to identify him. All you have to do is give me his PC.”

“His Personal Code won't help you identify him.”

I had to let her words sit there for a moment while the obvious and terrifying question battled its way to my mouth. “He scrubbed it?” I asked.

The woman nodded.

“He scrubbed his PC and he’s still breathing?” I shook my head. “Are you sure?”

Another nod.

“And he’s managed to keep his clean-lung access to O2 reserves?” I didn’t have to wait for her nod. The truth had just hit me. Like a million high-voltage lightbulbs. “Your son is a Tacker?”

166.2 #vss365 #gift

The woman looked at me as if I had just cursed. In a way, I had. Tackers, short for O2 Hackers, were not supposed to exist. Not anymore, at least. The word had become synonymous with "black swan." But in a way that made people spit after saying it.

“Keep your voice down,” she commanded, glancing at Dronie. My bot was still silent, but its eye kept cutting a red line through the blue.

“Don’t worry about the scan-drone,” I said. “It’s not connected to the Dome’s mainframe.”

She blinked at the bot, then swiveled her green gaze to me. “That word you used… It’s ugly Sump slang. Don’t use it again.”

“So what do you call… People like your son?”

“Gifted.”

I didn’t mean to raise my right eyebrow, but it happened anyway. Gifted. Well, I guess being able to hack the entire Dome’s O2 reserves could be seen as the ultimate gift. For those into death wishes. And if this boy was a Tacker…

Boy? Young man? How old could he really be? His mother didn’t look a day over forty, but I knew people at the Top did all sorts of things to their appearance, so maybe she was fifty going on seventy and her son was a guy in his thirties with an addiction?

I couldn’t tell, and it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that there was someone with unrestricted access to clean air reserves, possibly using them as chips at some gambling dive down in the Sump. All the ways that could go wrong were starting to give me a headache.

Ignoring my expression, the woman asked: “Do you now understand the urgency of this mission and why I need to come with you?”

I nodded. “Sure I do,” I said. “But that doesn’t change the fact I can’t take you with me.”

“How much scrip do you need to change your mind?” she asked.

Her tone made me squint. I could still feel her slap. But the way she smelled had already rented a place in my brain.

“It’s not about scrip.”

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TO BE CONTINUED