A Fragment of Chrome
The Carbon-Steel Divide, Book 1
by Miikka Rautioaho
Chapter 1
Scene 1
The toxic haze clung to Ocean City's skyline like a chronic infection, untreated so long it had spread to the bone. It hung motionless in the dead air, too heavy to rise and too stubborn to fall. Below, the smog performed its nightly alchemy, transforming the garish glow of advertisements into something almost beautiful—a kaleidoscope of broken promises filtered through chemical rain.
The digital billboards offered salvation through silicon and chrome, their blazing gospels painting the clouds in audacious claims. "UPGRADE YOUR LIFE," they commanded. "TRANSCEND YOUR FLESH." "BECOME MORE."
Meanwhile, in the shadows they cast, the unaugmented masses huddled in doorways and beneath overhangs, their unmodified lungs laboring against the poisoned air. Their eyes, natural and fallible, squinted up at paradise dangling forever beyond their reach, their faces illuminated by the same light that deepened the darkness around them. It was getting harder to tell which was more suffocating: the atmosphere or the lies projected onto every available surface.
Given time, the neon-drenched rain would wash away everything but our sins. It was like the tide, cleansing the filth of the city but never quite touching the darkness that lingered within us. And like all tides, it would claim everything we weren't strong enough to hold onto or everything we were ready to let go of.
I navigated through Ocean City's underbelly, each step sure and silent despite the slick pavement. The city's upper spires disappeared into the chemical clouds above, their glittering penthouses sheltering the corporate elite who'd never set foot down here. Not that I blamed them. The streets reeked of desperation, synthetic alcohol, and vomit. Down here, money couldn't buy immunity from what we had become.
A public display mounted on a utility pole flickered to life as I passed, showing the tidal schedule in harsh red digits: HIGH TIDE 0347 - FLOOD RISK ZONES 3, 7, 12. The warning had become so routine that nobody bothered to look anymore. The Atlantic kept its own schedule, indifferent to human inconvenience.
Ocean City. The name suggested pristine waters and coastal glamour, but delivered only the slow drowning of dreams. The Atlantic didn't border the city but swallowed it, one street at a time. Nothing here stayed afloat for long, and everything eventually succumbed to the undertow. On the streets, the city was called The Sink.
My cybernetic left arm remained steady as rain drummed against its metal plating, creating rhythm beneath the distant thrum of bass from underground clubs. Golden optical implants scanned the surroundings automatically, highlighting potential threats in crimson overlays only I could see, marking kill zones on every figure that moved. My hand adjusted the katana across my back without conscious thought.
A group of street kids loitered beneath a malfunctioning advertisement for Onisaga Neuro-Boost implants while chrome-toothed scavengers watched from doorways, and a junkie with exposed neural ports tracked my movement from across the street. The projection flickered, casting the kids' gaunt faces in alternating shadows and garish light. They watched me pass, eyes lingering on my arm, calculating its worth, weighing their chances.
I met their stares, expressionless. They looked away.
An ad-head shuffled past, eyes glazed and unfocused, mouth moving soundlessly. Corporate jingles played directly into his neural implants, audio and visual feeds consuming every sense. He'd sold too much of his senses to the ad networks. Eight hours of forced consumption traded for enough to eat for a few days if he was careful. Now advertisements were all he could see or hear, product placements overlaying his vision. His hands groped blindly, navigating by memory while his brain absorbed conditioning he couldn't resist. When the rental expired, he'd regain his senses, his credits, and an overwhelming compulsion to purchase everything they'd burned into his brain.
Then he'd need more credits, and the cycle continued. The corpos made sure of that.
The street kids ignored him. So did the scavengers. No point robbing someone who'd already sold everything worth taking.
Another product of Ocean City's propaganda. This place had once aspired to so much more. Built on promises of technological utopia just before the world outside the megacities had turned into a noxious wasteland, it had been a shining beacon on the Atlantic coast. Now, it was just another corporate feeding ground where the poor sold pieces of themselves—literally—to survive another day.
The rain intensified, streams of acidic water pouring from gutters above. It mixed with the ankle-deep seawater that never fully drained from this part of the city. I didn't quicken my pace. The rain didn't bother me anymore.
Ahead, the infamous Red Light District blazed through the downpour, a lurid collection of pleasure dens and black-market chop shops. Beyond that lay my destination: nightclub Abyss.
I flexed my metal fingers, feeling the hydraulics respond with machine-like precision. With each new piece of cyberware, I became a little more and a little less. Another job, another step deeper into the machine. In The Sink, we were all for sale, and everything had a price. The only question was what currency you paid in.
Chapter 1
Scene 2
Abyss pulsed like an artificial heart in Ocean City's chest cavity. It looked like a scene from the glitterworld ads they played when more colonists were needed for the next interplanetary escapade: iridescent lights, holographic displays, and a sea of hopeful faces. Inside, the bass thumped through reinforced walls, shaking the very foundation of this technological Mecca. Neon hues danced across exposed wiring and metallic surfaces, casting an eerie glow on the crowd of revelers.
The nightclub's entrance was guarded by twin bouncers, their hulking frames almost as much metal as flesh. They recognized me immediately—or rather, they recognized the particular way I moved. Predatory. Deliberate. Machine-like.
"Psyche," the left one grunted, neural tattoos flashing across his shaved scalp as he opened the door.
I nodded, passing between them into Abyss' sensory assault. The club was a monument to synthetic excess—a three-storey cathedral of vice where the city's mid-tier players came to forget they weren't at the top.
On the floor, bodies moved in rhythmic unison, glistening with natural sheen under the strobing lights. The air hummed with energy, generated for most of the revelers by the loud electronic music, the projected beams of light, and a drug-induced euphoria. In dimly lit corners, illuminated by undulating neon strips, patrons indulged in forbidden substances that altered perception and heightened sensation.
Holographic dancers performed impossible routines above the crowd, their translucent bodies phasing through patrons who reached up with drug-numbed fingers. Above it all loomed a massive dome-like ceiling adorned with fractal patterns that shifted and morphed to the beat. The smoky neon jungle of Ocean City's skyline glowed through its translucent surface as an enduring demonstration of human ingenuity amidst a world gone mad.
"Hey, slug bait, you're blocking my view!"
I turned toward the gruff voice, my cybernetic eyes adjusting instantly to the darkness. Ward stood there, looking like he'd aged a decade in the two years since our last job. His short, red hair was the same, but his face was a topographical map of new scars, and he'd replaced his left eye with something that looked intimidating. The iris glowed faintly crimson against the club's oscillating backdrop.
"Ward." I clasped his outstretched hand. We exchanged the old merc greeting: grip, shake once, release. "Didn't expect to see you still breathing."
He laughed, the sound barely audible over the thundering bass. "Takes more than a Saharan death squad to punch my ticket. You look... functional."
A blunt assessment, typical of Ward. Like reading a status report. I noted the fresh chrome on his right arm, a newer model than mine, probably corporate-sponsored. His hands still bore the faint burn scars that came with handling explosives, the hazards of his trade.
"Who's bankrolling the hardware?" I nodded toward his arm.
"Same people paying for the drinks tonight." Ward gestured toward a corner booth where four figures clustered around a holographic display. "The crew's here. Jaguar op went sideways last month. We're celebrating survival."
I recognized them all: Twist with her signature blue mohawk; Hollow, whose fingers never stopped moving, even at rest; Cipher, whose face remained as expressionless as my own; and Wraith, the ghost in the machine who'd bailed me out in Khartoum.
"They've been asking about you," Ward said, voice dropping to a register his vocal implant knew only I could hear. "Word is you've gone solo. Independent."
"Word travels."
"So does trouble." Ward's artificial eye whirred as it focused. "Come have a drink. For old time's sake."
I hesitated. Attachments were dangerous. Memories were worse. Yet something in Ward's invitation pulled at some old, nearly forgotten part of me.
"Another time," I declined. "Have somewhere to be."
I made my way through the heaving crowd towards the bar. Behind the bar stood a thin man with artificial arms at least two decades out of fashion, worn and squeaking with age. The bartender looked up from his task of mixing a glowing cocktail.
"Tera Parse," I said simply, my deep voice cutting through the music. "She's expecting me."
The bartender nodded, his arms squeaking as he reached for a sleek touchscreen on the bar. "VIP room 3. The stairwell's to your left." He pointed towards a glitzy corridor strobing with the beat. I nodded and headed toward the private rooms.
Standing at the entrance to VIP room 3 was a hulking figure known as Carlos the Wolf. His imposing frame was barely contained in his tailored suit, muscles and a hint of a stomach straining against the seams. A distinctive large moustache curled over his lips, giving him a feral look that matched his moniker.
"Mister Vega," he rumbled with a crooked smile. "Go on in."
A frosted glass door opened to a small room with a table in the middle, a sofa, and three comfortable chairs. A woman stood by the glass window overlooking the dance floor below. Mixed Asian heritage, dark hair falling straight down her back, the kind of figure that turns heads and derails negotiations. She'd built a career on that.
Her attire was deliberate: tailored leather that emphasized curves, high heels that added height and changed her gait to something hypnotic, carefully applied makeup with glossed lips and shadowed eyes. Every element was calculated for impact. She moved across the room with grace, each step a performance she'd perfected over years of using beauty as leverage in rooms full of dangerous men.
I processed the visual data tactically: proportions optimized for attraction, movement patterns designed to draw the eye, presentation refined to maximum effect. Effective tool. Well-maintained.
Tera Parse settled into the chair at the table's end. Three empty glasses stood before her, a fourth dangling from manicured fingers. Her dark hair caught the pulsing lights as the glass door closed behind me, the music fading to a distant noise, and her eyes—sharp, calculating—tracked me as I sat.
"You're late," she said, the words smooth, though vexation edged the sultry tone.
"Traffic," I replied flatly.
Her painted lips curved into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Funny. Always the comedian… Corren."
"What's the job, Tera?"
She leaned forward, her expensive perfume cutting through the club's chemical haze. "What, no small talk first? No 'How have you been, Tera?' or 'You look stunning tonight, Tera?'"
I stared at her, expressionless, golden optical implants reflecting her face back at her.
She sighed dramatically. "This is why I both love and hate working with you. You're all business." She slid a matte black data chip across the table, hand lingering on it for a moment, before turning to pour me a drink. "Investigation and retrieval job. Risk assessment pending, based on your investigation."
I didn't touch the chip but reached for the drink. "Client?"
"Anonymous. But verified through three separate channels."
"Target?"
"Prototype tech called the Obsidian Key stolen from a secure storage facility." She paused, watching my reaction. "Located in Ironshire."
That got my attention. Ironshire was corporate territory. Military-grade security. Lethal response protocols. I held Tera's gaze for a few moments after she finished speaking. Ironshire. Anyone daring enough to pull off a heist at that place had some serious guts.
A low chuckle rumbled from deep in my chest. "Ironshire? Damn, Tera. Doesn't sound like our usual stomping ground."
Tera's lips curved into a satisfied smirk. "Didn't think you'd turn down a chance to test your new hardware."
"I'm not," I replied and downed the drink she'd poured for me in one gulp, savoring the burn as it slid down my throat. "But I might need more than just a chip and a prayer to find someone capable of pulling off a job there."
Tera steepled her fingers. "I've made you an appointment in Ironshire. Go take a look and let me know who you need. You're free to divide the remuneration as you see fit. And the client's willing to pay double, so long as you find the item within the window."
"What's the window?"
"Seven days to locate, payable upon delivery of the acquired merchandise. And an advance payment." She produced a credit stick from her jacket. 50k. It was more than generous.
"The client understands how these things work. Finding it is detective work—fast, clean, low risk. Taking it from whoever stole it? That's a whole different job. They're willing to pay for both, but realistic enough not to think you can do both in a week."
I raised an eyebrow. "What aren't you telling me?"
"There's a lot I'm not telling you, Corren," Tera replied smoothly. "That's the biz, remember?"
I studied the chip on the table for a long moment, then glanced up at Tera. Her carefully crafted expression betrayed nothing. She leaned back, crossing her legs slowly—leather sliding against leather in a creak that cut through the faded music.
"You sure you're ready for this?" she asked, her voice low, almost intimate. "You've been out of the game for a long time."
I stared at her for a lingering moment, sighed, and picked up the credit stick and the chip, slotting the latter into my cybernetic wrist where hidden readers would extract and encrypt its contents. "I'll take it. Got nothing better to do."
Tera uncrossed her legs, stood smoothly, and stepped towards me. Her scent - that expensive perfume - enveloped me. Her hand came up to rest on my chest, sharp nails scratching lightly against the carbon-fiber weave beneath my shirt. This close, I could see the individual lashes around her eyes. Grey as a summer storm, her eyes framed obsidian pupils focused solely on me. Her lips, painted the colour of old blood, were slightly parted.
"One more thing," Tera added, her voice dropping. "I hear that the Key was not the only thing stolen. Some experimental neural scramblers were also taken. The kind that can fry even military-grade implants."
I met her gaze. "Worried about me, Tera?"
For a brief moment, something genuine flashed across her face—concern or annoyance perhaps. But it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
"Worried about my commission," she replied. "Dead mercenaries don't pay fixer fees. Just... watch your back."
"I'll be fine," I said, standing. "I'll ping you once I have a lead."
Tera nodded and watched me go. It felt like déjà vu. It felt like the time I had left her in a room similar to this and never pinged her. It felt like going to war all over again.
The glass door parted, and the sounds of the nightclub hit me on full blast.
"Carlos," I said to a crooked grin and a moustache.
"Good luck, Mr. Vega," the moustache replied.
