Excerpt

Earth: D-Town – May, 2239

Eighteen months before my terrible failure on Mars, my son Clint and I stood before the great gates of Diamond-Town. My humanity was still intact. My life was as it should be.

We had just returned from a salvage contract on the Moon. A somewhat indifferent gig, but thankfully profitable enough to earn us a few weeks of downtime back on Earth. A couple of months, if our auction went well.

I often took Clint on low-risk missions, prepping him to eventually join my crew once I was able to afford my own ship. He was on the young side for salvage work, but the practical experience was invaluable and he had real talent for the job.

We finished our work early on, giving us some spare time for private salvage – presenting a chance to earn some extra money on the side. Our client was a typical risk averse dig-scout who was disinterested in what we were up to in our time as long as we fulfilled his contract. Luckily, our efforts had paid off and we discovered several small but interesting Trickari artifacts (some I intended to study, others to sell), as well as a good number of human valuables. I was itching to get home in time for the auction later that day, keen to see how much our haul would fetch, but first we needed to pass through customs.

Our lot was due in the late afternoon. I liked being present when our items sold – partly out of professional pride but also because I valued the chance to mingle with others in the business and catch the latest gossip. Either way, I was impatient to enter the city and get on with my affairs.

Unfortunately, we were stuck in the customs line for residents, moving with all the speed and urgency of a lethargic snake. Still, people in the other line (for visitors and other unfortunate creatures) envied us our progress which was at least measurable. Their line barely moved at all.

It was sweltering; the body heat of hundreds of tired and sweaty travellers mixing with the warmth of the afternoon sun, beating down on the corrugated iron roof of the customs building. This was the boring and unpleasant part of coming home.

To kill some time I studied both customs lines, scanning for differences between the people, trying to read their idiosyncrasies, honing in on interesting or telling aspects of their lives. It was a favourite pastime of mine when at the mercy of customs officials.

The visitors line was full of people with sharp edges, cold stares and hard faces. They were people haunted by fallout from the countless Icarus incidents that had plagued humanity in recent decades.

I saw the usual TrickMem junkies (there were more of them every time I returned to Earth), souped-up Mod-Fighters looking for quick cash and a smattering of Corp wannabees. It was easy to identify the different types of desperate people. Some were doing better than others, but all were looking to catch a lucky break in Diamond-Town. Most of them would gladly give up their right arm for permanent residency rights.

I noticed a woman to my right, further back in the line, who could have been my spitting image had I grown up outside the gates, on the streets of Greater London. She was of medium height, muscular, alert and vigilant, but without advertising those qualities too brazenly. Her physical appearance dwelled on the right side of lean, in that space just shy of haggard, but only just.

Hardship wrinkles danced around her face as she surveyed her surroundings, shielding her eyes from the low afternoon sun with hands which looked far too old for her age – a sure sign of a tough life. She probably spent the last of her money on some rejuvenation treatment, hoping that Diamond-Town would allow her another throw of the dice – another chance at a better life.

I compared her appearance with that of a man in front of me. A D-Town resident, but I suspected only recently so. He still exuded that sense of relief that new residents carried with them for the first few months after gaining residency rights. His clothes were colourful and street smart – brash hues with attitude in abundance. He was obviously augmented – made abundantly clear by the barcode tattoos on his neck, clearly visible behind his collar. I concluded that he was both a proud and vain man, qualities which would likely get him in trouble with the local gangs who weren't too squeamish to extract Trickari Blue from any device as long as it made them a profit. Even if that device was an augment inside a living human body.

Barcode man was oblivious to this potentially gruesome fate and smiled salaciously at me, thinking I was checking him out – which I was of course, if only out of boredom. He conformed perfectly to a type I had seen countless times before; his face had that uncanny quality that comes from too much body-sculpting. Once people modded themselves too many times they would never look natural again, unless they took on a fresh body – a solution out of reach for most people. Barcode's smile deepened as I openly studied him.

As the line moved I shuffled close enough to catch the smell of him. Even his body odour was fake; I was sure he had some kind of musk gland augmentation going on. A tendril of disgust wriggled in my stomach.

'Business or pleasure?' he asked.

I ignored him, studying the other people around me, but he misread my expressionless face, thinking I hadn't heard him.

'Business or pleasure?' he tried again. 'Because pleasure is my busin–'

'What are your augments?' I asked, startling him. 'Stamina? Speed? No, wait … I bet you went for a standard gigolo package, didn't you?'

He laughed nervously, unsure how to react. 'Well … yes, but it was the best choice available and I–'

'How old?' I asked impatiently.

'I'm not sure what you … I don't understand?'

I sighed, already tired of him.

'When did you get the augments done?' I asked, speaking slowly as if to a dim-witted child. 'More than a year ago? Before the government introduced ARAG?'

Clint, shuffling along to my left, threw me an exasperated look. I winked at him in return.

'ARAG?' asked Barcode man, thoroughly confused.

'Yes. ARAG. The Augment Regulation-Authority Guidelines?'

Barcode man looked worried now, concern written on his face. 'Was it in that back-alley chop shop in the North London Warrens?' I caught the flicker of recognition in his eyes and dug a bit deeper. 'It was wasn't it? Did they use a surge-buffer? These days they're mandatory for all Blue augments, you know? And with good reason …'

Clint kept throwing me disapproving looks, looking more and more embarrassed. Barcode man on the other hand was slowly getting worked up.

'Look luv, if you aren't interested I'm OK with that,' he said, puffing up his chest. 'I don't need the hassle or–'

'Do you have any idea what happens when a Blue power-source fails?'

'I … No, I don't know, but they said it would be OK. Right?' His default cocky attitude fought briefly with the doubts I had carefully planted in his head, and lost. Worry and a touch of panic took over, eventually breaking through his cosmetic veneer of cool. He ended up looking genuinely nervous. I could even smell it. His musk augment must have been working overtime.

'Of course they said that it would be OK,' I said. 'They wanted your money.' I sighed, suddenly tired. The guy was a pain in the arse but he had clearly been conned, which was never fun. 'OK listen… Trick-Blue doesn't just gradually lose power and then neatly wind down – it's nothing as pretty as that. No – it swerves all over the place; too much power… too little… it runs hot, it runs cold… all kinds of badness happening, inside you. Not nice. And then, just before it goes, it'll start spiking real hard. Random power-surges, heat flashes, faster and faster, until ZAP! It shorts out with a massive final surge.'

I glimpsed Clint rolling his eyes at me as I leaned in close to Barcode man's face. 'Now, imagine all of that, but happening right next to your vital organs. Doesn't sound too great now does it?'

The shocked expression on his face told me that I'd probably overdone it a bit. Maybe it was time to ease back a bit – throw him a lifeline. 'Look, don't worry too much about it, just go to a proper augment clinic when your gear starts misbehaving, and then get a buffer fitted. You'll get plenty of warning believe me. Anyway, you know what it's like. Trickari Blue can last decades if you're lucky. Just keep an eye on it.'

The man nodded slowly. He started to say something to me, but abruptly thought better of it – probably a good call.

Clint elbowed me. The line had reached the customs officer who, recognising us from many previous occasions, promptly waved us through.

I glimpsed from the corner of my eye that my counterpart in the other line was trying to suppress a smile. She had been close enough to have heard my exchange with barcode man. She gave me a sly look. I grinned in response, briefly wondering what her story was.

Then we stepped through.

After spending several tiring months in space – much of it in low gravity – entering D-Town felt like a huge relief. It was comforting to wear street-clothes again, instead of my clunky (and by now quite smelly) space suit. And although it was arduous to once again carry my full weight in Earth's gravity, that discomfort was countered by a deep sense of freedom and rightness. It was a feeling well-known to Earth-born people; a powerful biological reaction telling us that this was where we belonged. Terra Firma, at last!

I glanced sideways at Clint. He was grinning expansively, sharing my exhilaration at being back home.

'Stop looking at me like that. It's weird,' said Clint, but he kept smiling.

'You've grown again. You'll have to shave next.'

'Stop it. I shave.'

'Handsome young man, smart… I should probably give you the talk before you get some downtown hussy in trouble.'

'"Hussy?" Really? What's the matter with you mum?'

'Ok, so, about those birds and bees–'

'Please. Just stop,' Clint huffed, cheeks red.

I laughed, happy, excited – proud. It was great to be back, but I knew it wouldn't last. Eventually that old itch would return and I would sign up for a new salvage mission. The money was simply too good, and reclaiming Trickari artifacts was always rewarding and exciting.

But, for now, we were home, back in the dubious embrace of Diamond-Town, and ready to sell our precious cargo at auction. I caught myself smiling at the city streets, in anticipation of the many little pleasures on offer. Despite stinking alleys cluttered with food stalls selling exotic and sometimes dubious dishes, despite the all-pervasive air of hectic desperation, I felt as if surrounded by nothing but space and glorious opportunity.

Whenever I returned home, every inch of me reached out to take in the sights and sounds of the city, absorbing the tacky neon signs, the edgy thrift-core street wear (mother of pearl was back in fashion), the constant background rumble of competing sound systems. It was all delicious food to my starved senses. My work as a Xeno-archaeologist demanded great attention to detail, and had made me extra sensitive to sensory input.

I took a deep savouring breath but couldn't take it all in fast enough, making me feel jittery. I got like that after lengthy salvage missions, spending too much time in cramped zero-g quarters, consuming (I won't call it eating) stale food rations and driven to extreme boredom by daily, mandatory exercise on tortuous fitness machines like some demented lab-rat. Still, despite the discomforts, there was nothing I loved doing more.

Once, many years ago, I took on a purely research-based office job. No time in the field whatsoever. It was an utter disaster. I ended up feeling like a ghost; a hollow version of myself, wondering if I was a real person, an original, or a deluded replica of somebody more substantial than me – somebody true.

That's why I became a Xeno in the first place – to anchor myself in the only kind of life that meant something to me; salvaging ancient Trickari artifacts, rediscovering lost valuables, exposing secret data caches … it all served to define my own place in the world.

I knew who I was, and what I was capable of.