The Glitch

The rain had found a new way to be annoying. It was coming down in thin, greasy needles that seemed to bypass John’s new coat—a heavy, waxed canvas number he’d picked up in a surplus market—and go straight for his joints. 

John stood by a flickering neon sign for a noodle bar that hadn’t served actual food since the thirties. He was tucked into the shadows of the Victoria Mag-Lev Station, feeling like a lighthouse in a fog.

—Lilli, John whispered. —I feel like a thumb. A big, sore thumb.

—You are a very large man, John, Lilli’s voice crackled. She sounded like she was eating something crunchy. —You do not ‘blend.’ You just exist loudly. Like a wall. 

—I’m being discreet, John protested. 

He adjusted his flat cap, which was struggling to contain his massive head. 

—Where’s this ‘Glitch’ then? The shuttle from the States landed ten minutes ago.

—She is coming through Gate 4. And John? Be careful. —My scanners are picking up high-end encryption signatures all over the terminal. —Colbart Industries didn’t just send a welcoming committee. They sent the heavy mob.

—Right. Professional muppets, John said. 

Then he saw her. 

She was a slip of a thing, barely five feet tall, wearing a puffer jacket three sizes too big and a pair of goggles that glowed with a frantic, pulsing violet light. She didn’t walk so much as vibrate. As she moved through the crowd, the holographic advertisements on the walls flickered and died. A vending machine spat out three cans of caffeine-sludge for no reason.

—That her? John asked. —The one causing the electrical fit?

—That is her, Lilli said. —Her name is Mouse, but they call her The Glitch. Her neural lace is so hot it leaks data. She is a walking EMP.

John stepped out of the shadows. He blocked the girl’s path like a brick wall that had suddenly decided to grow legs. She looked up, her goggles whirring as they adjusted their focus.

—You Mason? she asked. 

Her voice was pure Sprawl—fast, nasal, and sounding like it had been put through a blender. 

—You’re bigger than the file said. The file said ‘large.’ You’re ‘geological,’ man.

—Nice to meet you too, sunshine,” John said. —We need to move. Now.

—Wait, she said, tilting her head. —I’m picking up… oh, wow. You’ve got mil-spec K-series actuators in your knees? Those are vintage, man. Pure retro-chrome. Respect.

—My knees aren’t a museum, love. Move.

They started toward the exit, John looming over her like a protective mountain. 

—John, Lilli’s voice went sharp. 

—Six o’clock. Three men. Tactical haptics, suppressed smart-pistols. They are Colbart ‘Liquidators.’

John didn’t turn around. He didn’t need to. He could feel the hum of their targeting lasers on the back of his neck. 

—Lilli, I need a distraction. Something loud.

—I am on it. Mouse, give me a hand? I need a port into the station’s fire suppression.

The girl grinned, showing a mouthful of silver-capped teeth. She reached out and grabbed John’s massive forearm. 

—Hold on, Big Rig. This might tingle.

John felt a jolt of static electricity shoot up his arm that made his teeth rattle and his vision go blurry. Suddenly, every fire alarm in the station went off at once. The overhead sprinklers didn’t just spray water; they erupted in a deluge of thick, fire-retardant foam.

—Bloody hell! John roared, as the station turned into a giant bubble bath.

—Go! Left exit! Lilli shouted.

John grabbed the girl by the back of her puffer jacket, hoisted her off the ground like a handbag, and bolted. He crashed through a set of reinforced glass doors, not bothering to see if they were unlocked. 

They burst out into the alleyway. A black sleek van with tinted windows was idling there. The side door slid open, and two men in grey tactical gear stepped out. They weren’t carrying pistols; they had high-frequency blades that hummed with a deadly, blue light.

—Colbart, the girl squeaked. —They’re fast, Mason. Real fast.

—I don’t care how fast they are, John grunted, setting her down behind a dumpster. —They’re still made of meat.

The first Liquidator moved like a blur. He was a ‘twitcher’—overloaded with reflex boosters. He swung the blade at John’s throat. 

John didn’t dodge. He couldn’t. Instead, he raised his left arm. The blade hit the heavy chrome plating under his sleeve with a shower of sparks. It bit deep, but it didn’t sever the limb. John ignored the pain—it was just a red light on his internal HUD—and swung his right fist. 

It wasn’t a punch; it was a wrecking ball. He caught the Liquidator in the chest. The man’s tactical vest shattered, and he was launched backward, denting the side of the van.

—Lilli! John yelled, ducking as the second man lunged. —The van! Kill the van!

—I am trying, John! Their firewall is—wait. Mouse is helping. She is… oh fuck. She is very good.

The van suddenly went berserk. The headlights strobed, the horn began to blare a frantic rhythm, and the electric doors started slamming shut and open like a pair of angry jaws. The second Liquidator hesitated, distracted by his own transport trying to eat him.

That was all John needed. He stepped in, grabbed the man’s head in his massive hands, and gave it a firm, professional twist. The man went limp.

—Is that it? the girl asked, peeking over the dumpster. —Are we dead?

—Not yet, John said, breathing hard. 

He looked at his arm. There was a nasty gash in the synth-flesh, revealing the dull grey of his reinforced ulna. 

—Lilli, tell me we’ve got a clear run to the Ministry.

—Not quite, Lilli said. 

—Colbart has flagged your biometric signature. —Every police drone in Central London is looking for a ‘very large man with a small, vibrating child.’ —You cannot take the main roads.

John looked at the girl. She was vibrating again, her goggles spinning. 

—Right, John sighed. —The sewers again, is it?

—The sewers, John, Lilli confirmed. 

John looked at his new coat. It was covered in fire-foam, blood, and grease. 

—I’m sending the dry-cleaning bill to the government, Lilli. I mean it.

—Just move, John, the girl said, grabbing his hand. 

—I can hear the Yakuza’s encrypted comms bouncing off the satellites. They’re annoyed. Like, ‘cut-off-your-head’ annoyed.

John Mason, six-foot-eight of battered chrome and muscle, looked down at the tiny netrunner. 

—Come on then, Mouse, he said, heading for a heavy manhole cover. 

—Let’s go see a man about a dog. Or a dodgy bank. Whatever it is you’ve got in that head of yours.

—It’s data that’ll burn the world, Big Rig! she chirped.

—Great, John muttered, heaving the manhole cover up like it was a frisbee. 

—Just what I need. A fire. I’ve already had a bath.