Baz was right to count on Langston monitoring the Fang. They didn’t need to access its central nervous system—

  They’d just hijack Wirecrime’s.

  FANG.GRID : Outer-Ring

  >surveillance suite<

  Langston scanned the wireframe of the Fang spread across the holo-display in front of him and took command of two platoons of agents and Wutani Warrior.Xs stationed a block away.

  “Deploy both squads on opposite sides of the perimeter. I want them standing by at the front doors and side entrance.”

  Styne nodded without question or hesitation.

  Langston was precise. Methodical. Automatic.

  >BREACH<

  “Fuck was that?” Langston growled.

  The entire holo-display started skipping frames as its data feed cached and its intel slowed to a crawl.

  Styne ran an analysis. “I don’t know. Someone’s hacking our hack.”

  “Someone?”

  OVERRIDE

  encrypt

  “Who the fuck do you think, Cowell?” Ken Cates eyed the exact same glitching feed in his Cupertino penthouse office. “It’s Ria Rose.”

  He didn’t want his data or his voice on the record tonight any more than Langston wanted him in his wetwire, but neither could help it. Tonight was gonna break one of two ways: either Cates and Langston would move on Otto and take down his empire . . .

  Or something way more violent was coming.

  Fed.Surveil.Splice

  >substage<

  Eddie focused on the Feds’ virtualized signal as hundreds of Bot-IDs and ghosted SSS’s materialized in his wetwire, then turned to Baz. “If Wirecrime’s surrounding this place, how the fuck are we gonna make a getaway?”

  “Just leave that to me and Carlo, okay?” Again, with that relaxed smile.

  Baz grabbed the Flyboy a few minutes later as Carlo unspooled his Ring of Fire, but their escape plan wasn’t what he struggled with. It was what they’d never said.

  “You know . . .” Baz inhaled, searching for the right words—when a thought crossed his augments. If they’d figured out earlier what was really locked inside that vault? He’d be griftin’ Street Meat right now.

  “I’m sorry I got your sister killed.”

  “Brutha. I’m not gonna say, ‘Shut up and let’s do this for my sister.’” Carlo stepped in, eye to eye. “So shut the fuck up. And let’s crack this muthafucka for Kara.”

  Baz broke a sly grin . . . and headed out.

  Eddie couldn’t hear what they’d been talking about, as he dialed up Ria and Otto’s signals in his wetwire. But he hoped it had a little to do with the past and a lot to do with slipping outta the Fang. ’Cuz if Baz didn’t have some serious ace up his sleeve . . .

  They were all seriously fucked.

  >backstage<

  “Hey.” Baz whispered from the wings, cloaked in shadows.

  Ria spun. “The hell are you doing here?”

  He glanced at her, then through a seam in the curtain at Otto on stage. “Just wanted to make sure you’re ready.”

  “Uh, I’m fine.”

  “K, good.” He stole another glance at Otto. Then at her glistening chrome legs and ink-black outfit.

  Ria’s eyes narrowed. “Are you jealous?”

  “no.” Baz stammered in denial, as Ria glared at him annoyed. “Just, you know—be careful, okay?”

  She finally broke and cracked a coy smile. “Don’t you have a bank to rob?”

  Then Baz smiled too—so sprung—and ducked out.

  As every house light went dark.

  >main stage<

  “Tonight we celebrate our seventh birthday!” Otto roared.

  His voice echoed through the rafters, and the crowd’s answer thundered with it. Some of ’em had been at every one of these parties, from “One to Grow On” to last year’s sixth anniversary, “The Faustian Bargain.”

  “So now . . . boyos and swish!” A nod to Akira.

  Who nodded back and slid open a crash-case on her babies . . . “We gonna blow the roof off this muthafucka?”

  Twin Technics SL-1200 direct-drive turntables, circa 1999.

  Unsheathed a vinyl disc.

  “Then we gonna do this on wax.”

  Otto lowered his eyelids, dreaming of his Warrior Queen and 22 Murder Bot battalions bringing his most violent fantasies to the world, ever. “Would you please give a warm welcome to—”

  Ria’s locket thumped the mic.

  Feedback whined through a packed house on eggshells.

  Otto stopped. Opened the locket to behold his Queen as a 13-year-old princess one more time. Young Ria Rose was just so beautiful. And so was . . . her . . . twin . . . ?

  How had he not noticed they were identical before? Then he remembered a dead baby brother.

  Who the fuck was Ria Rose, really?

  MEM-DRIVE-RECALL

  >substage<

  Eddie watched as Otto’s neurals activated and images cycled. The photos in Ria’s locket guided his augments to the flash of a woman named “Olivia,” holo-feeds of carnage in the Glitch, and a blurry but focusing image of Dave Roselli, the Underground Butcher . . .

  >main stage<

  Otto stared at that photo in Ria’s locket—as she watched from the wings.

  Her telescopic retina cranked in on his silhouette, flaring in the spotlight from overhead, and her heart stopped beating completely, as he came . . . so . . . close—

  “C’mon, dude!” a kid howled. “The Show Must Go On!”

  Otto wanted to hunt the kid down. But those words triggered his own P. T. Barnum impresario eyes, as a self-carved behavior inhibitor—Otto’s own reverse Pavlovian response—kicked in.

  So he snapped the locket shut on all of his past—

  And Otto went on the attack: “To the Queen Beeeeee . . .”

  DJ Akira slammed down on the house lights, and the whole club went pitch black—a roar rumbled through the rafters, as her fingertips graced the delicate vinyl surface of King Fantastic.

  “. . . and the Chrome Domes!!!”

  Akira spun loose “Stop Fuckin’ Playin’”—and on the track’s thunderous down-drop—the crowd exploded in ovation—

  “Game time.” Eddie whispered.

  And the curtain rose . . .

  Synthetic silver ankles emerged underneath—perfect calves shining. Not a single muscle wasn’t form-pressed from a smash-certified mold. Coded with Vegas gyration and Brazilian accents, sex-addict-level promiscuity under black light—

  Each Chrome Dome looked like a bald Grace Jones.

  >dungeon<

  Baz came strolling down a flight of stairs into the Fang’s Dungeon, whips and moans echoing down the hallway through slick cellblock walls: “You’ve been a bad boy! Kiss the fucking leather!”

  Baz rolled his eyes as a Dominatrix Bot named Marquisa emerged and focused on his cheery grin. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “What’re you in the mood for tonight, sweetie?” as two Nubotica Warrior.5s activated behind her.

  “How ’bout . . . A lil ultra-violence.” The impact from his Ultra-G launched Marquisa off her feet and pounded her into the back wall. Baz leaped over the leather banquette and yanked open a floor locker, revealing the pack of gear Ria’d stashed for him hours (if not, a lifetime) ago and one helluva weapons cache: M9 automatics, two RPG-Vampirs, a handful of Jester-9s, and the one he was specifically looking for—a massive .950 Inferno rifle.

  Baz grabbed it and pulled the trigger—decapitating one Warrior.5—before discharging another round and deactivatin’ the other.

  “Now that’s a cannon.”

  >surveillance suite<

  “We got lethals in the Dungeon!” Styne’s holo-display glitched and garbled with Executive Action warnings.

  “Good,” Langston shot back, his blood up.

  Styne watched his CO’s signal move down Hyde, clear of the suite and leading two platoons of Wirecrime shock troops in carbon-fiber riot gear towards the Fang . . .

  “Let ’em get suicidal with that AI.”

  >substage<

  Carlo sparked the Ring of Fire, and data pumped through its spliced I/O—as his tictation construct mounted an encircling holosphere.

  Eddie cracked his knuckles, amped for the challenge of a cortical hack. “We’re hot, Rain Man. Let’s get twitchin’.”

  “You realize if Otto shuts her out while I’m mid-run . . .” Carlo just trailed off.

  “Easy, Z. If shit goes south, I’ll pull you out.”

  “Don’t.”

  Eddie realized what he was saying.

  “You guys’ll need that kill switch clipped, or we’re all dead.”

  Down to pay the ultimate price.

  “Just make sure if I do flatline . . .” The Flyboy’s eyes rolled back and his chair revolved into position. “. . . you speak of me well.”

  Holographic tentacles of code snaked outward from his temples, shoulder blades, and hips as he slipped into his spectrum state—fingers twitching slowly, then gaining momentum—in rhythm with his eyelids—before breaking sequence and firing independently, ’til even his teeth joined in.

  Tiers of data started scrolling vertically from the Ring of Fire, in sync with Carlo’s accelerating spasms, and Eddie whispered into everyone’s wetwire:

  “Flyboy’s Run is on.”

  >main stage<

  “You’re up, Ria,” Eddie rang in her wetwire.

  Ria stared across the crowd at Otto, who sat like a king in his throne at the far end of a catwalk runway.

  Her locket hung round his neck, defiling the last memory of her family and fueling Ria like never before. “Dance . . . like no one’s . . . watching.” Then she hollered at Akira:

  “Let her rip, Deej!”

  DJ Akira applied milligrams of pressure to her two classic faves: Daft Punk’s “Digital Love” on one side. Jungle Brothers’ “True Blue” on the other.

  “What up, muthafuckin’ Fang! Who got an itch that need ta be scratched?” The crowd roared, as her fingers, hips, her whole fuckin’ body dug into the count: “Then on me . . . one . . . two . . . three—get loose now!”

  DJ Akira dropped the one—and the Jungle Brothers shook the rafters—

  Ria’s silver serpentine legs stretched onto the runway . . . muscles tightening—gazes captured—toes driving into the catwalk, she slid out towards her target, a single individual . . .

  Otto reclined at the end of the runway and pulled out two wafers of Chill—and with a double-slot—everything slowed down . . .

  All the kids were Chill right now, watching Ria strut the runway, her movements languid. Every curve, every flare, every flex—glistening in black light . . .

  >substage<

  “That’s it, Ria.” Eddie whispered. “Open him up.”

  Then he turned to his partner’s wetwire signal:

  “You ready, Baz?”

  Descending stairs beneath the Dungeon, Baz’s muscle memory came back to him from the Caracas skinshop, as a railgun-holstered Sentry came round a corner. He pounded it across the hallway with a thundering Inferno concussion.

  “Been a long time, Eddie.” Baz couldn’t help it. He was just real good at killing shit. “Since I’ve been this ready.”

  Eddie turned from Baz’s signal and focused on Carlo and the Ring of Fire, as the Flyboy’s Run opened up, layer upon layer of code rose to meet code, his IRL body twitching spastically . . .

  >data space<

  . . . so his digital soul could fly like a hawk. Sailing into the infinite night of Data Space—a hexadecimal galaxy: every patron in the Fang, every android—anatomy, bionics, convos, wetwire thoughts and emotions—exabyte after exabyte, all pulsated past Carlo, shimmering in his avatar’s eyes.

  Tentacles of code conjoined to form wings as Carlo eyed his target approaching: a swelling massive, throbbing white light . . .

  The core of Otto’s consciousness.

  “I can see Rex’s wetwire!” Carlo screamed. “On you, Ria!”

  >main stage<

  Ria closed in on Otto, the crowd throbbing on all sides. Sweat started runnin’ across every muscle like oil down a chassis. Hips thrusted. Heels planted. Each strut carved into muscle memory—moving on instinct—flexing with gut impulse—

  Inspired by Mom’s last dance, long ago.

  All twelve Chrome Domes mirrored her routine on the stage behind her—a furious DJ Akira scratched ’til her fingers bled, avenging her dead first love.

  And a thought crossed Otto’s augments—that maybe this wasn’t his EliteX.9 after all? But the real Ria coming for him . . . He rubbed that locket like Aladdin’s lamp, but the only apparition he could summon, was the chrome goddess before him.

  . . . as Ria’s skin softly grazed his . . .

  She eyed her locket between his fingers, its chain loose around his neck, and she leaned in close, so Otto could inhale her deeply . . .

  And his reptilian brain took over.

  HEART-RATE TEMP ANTICIPATION

  121bpm 101 91%

  >surveillance suite<

  Styne watched Otto’s wetwire redline, Ria’s signal moving over his, with Baz descending deep into the Fang.

  “Sir, their team’s vectoring.”

  “So is mine!” Langston countered, hollering at the Wirecrime agents around him, “I want that entrance open—now!”

  With a nod, an agent triggered a fusion-thermite charge incinerating the Fang’s locked-down hydraulics . . .

  “go!” and Langston led his team inside.

  >substage<

  Eddie saw the Wirecrime agents storming the club, then turned to Otto’s wetwire and one crucial level, deep in the red . . .

  “You got him pinned, girl.”

  LIBIDO-99%

  “How’s she doin’ up there, D?” Baz asked from downstairs.

  “She’s hideous, bruh.”

  Baz groaned. Fired headshots into a pair of Sentry Bots at the sublevel atrium and dropped the enormous weapon.

  “Wirecrime’s in the house,” Eddie chimed.

  “Good.” Baz shouldered the M9 automatic, wrapped round a corner, and lit up the last Sentry Bot, clearing the area surrounding. . .

  The bank vault door. “ ’Cuz I’m at the vault.”

  >main stage<

  Ria straddled Otto, grinding into him—his fingernails ran along her outer thighs—she traced the skin of her neck across his cheeks . . . Arching her back, she inhaled, her chest expanding, a silver siren, owning the gaze and libido of everyone in the club.

  As Ria’s eyes rolled back, remembering . . .

  MEM-DRIVE-RECALL

  That final Gemini recital—Aleja’s leg on the barre. Dani smiling en pointe. The last happy memory of her childhood . . .

  ever.

  Young Ria and Dani sneak a cigarette—’til the doctor dings.

  Ria’s muscles flex—like her mom’s when MissPop inserted the IV.

  Otto’s eyes were saucers—like that first night with Olivia.

  Otto was sure now that this was his Queen, his Ria Bot—the real Ria would never open herself up so completely—Otto let her in, allowing himself to finally be as vulnerable as a child—

  TRUST-97 ... 98 ... 99%

  “That’s it, Ria,” Eddie whispered.

  The chrome on Ria’s skin ran bare from sweat, her neck nearly touching the saliva on his lips, but despite the riotous crowd, Ria’s augmented eardrum could distinctly hear Otto open up and say, “Ahhhhhhhhhhh . . .”

  ww.Sync-Attempt

  ACCESS GRANTED

  Otto’s memories exploded across Eddie’s wetwire, images from his lifetime—his home in Detroit, Olivia’s birthday, massacres in the Water Wars—fuckbot after wafer after murder, compiling . . .

  >data space<

  Carlo caught Otto’s wetwire dim in Data Space—

  “I’m in, here we go . . . !”

  His wings unfolded, tips turned fire red—nosediving straight into Otto’s cortex.

  Carlo’s eyes devoured the kingpin’s cerebral landscape soaring underneath him at a million neurons per second, and he couldn’t contain the adrenaline pumping through him anymore:

  “Owwwwwwwwooooooohhhhhaaahhhh . . .”

  >substage<

  Carlo’s muscles twitched at near-seizure speed—Eddie vectored synapses, prepped algorithms, navigated nerve grafts—one eye on his wetwire, the other on the Ring of Fire—autistic stabilizers and dopamine-inducers redlining into the spectrum:

  “Einstein’s makin’ it rain!”

  >lobby<

  “They’re hacking Rex’s wetwire,” Styne reported as Langston stormed into the Fang.

  “Good. They disarm that kill switch, and we take ’em all for Grand Theft AI!”

  His eyes blazed with the same Holy Spirit that’d consumed his mother 35 years ago in Evangelical spirituals and MAGA rallies. All connection to duty and protocol gone, Langston signaled Ken in his wetwire:

  “Cates, I need your authorization on this . . .”

  >StimSoft-ENCRYPT<

  From his executive suite in Cupertino, Cates could feel the adrenaline of a gambler with heavy action on the line.

  Holo-signals sparkled in his retinas like virtual dice in the air as he realized he’d be willing to sacrifice anything, as many souls as necessary, to end this tonight:

  “Lethals authorized everywhere.”

  >substage<

  Eddie just smiled.

  He remembered that feeling of complete helplessness every time he uploaded his intimacy, his privacy, his deepest secrets to the parole board.

  He activated his wetwire’s high-capacity drive and started recording. Eddie’s life had been tormented by the authorities he’d had in his head for years. Well, tonight he was turning the tables on ’em.

  “Who’s got nothing to hide now?”

  Tonight Eddie was inside theirs.

  >entry lobby<

  A pack of club kids raised their hands before a swarm of onrushing Wirecrime agents, guns trained first on Slim, then his squeeze Jace, who panicked—flinched—and a pump-action blast launched the poor girl out of her boots and down the hallway—