Unplugging The Corporate Machine

The first in the John Mason, Lilli Hintikka cyberpunk series. The year is 2045 and it's raining

The rain in London didn’t fall so much as it just sort of hung there, thick with the smell of ozone and burnt plastic. John Mason stood in a recessed doorway across from GelTech Industries, feeling every inch of his six-foot-eight frame. He felt like a wardrobe someone had left out on the pavement. A very heavy, very angry wardrobe

He looked at the little glass shard in his hand. It was supposed to be a ‘decryptor.’ It looked like a bit of a broken beer bottle to him.

—Right then, John muttered. 

He tapped his temple. The internal comms hummed, a low-frequency buzz that made his back teeth ache.

—Lilli? You there, girl?

A voice came back, crisp and cold as a Finnish winter, right into his inner ear. Lilli Hintikka, his hacker pal. 

—I am here, John. You are late.

—I’m not late, John said, stepping out into the drizzle. 

He adjusted his coat. It was an XXXL, and it still strained across his shoulders where the mil-spec chrome plating sat under his skin. 

—The bus was late. 2045 and the bloody 242 is still a joke, innit?

—You took the bus to a corporate sabotage? Lilli asked. 

He could hear her typing, a frantic rattling sound from three thousand miles away in Helsinki.

—Environmentally conscious, me, John said. 

He reached the side entrance of GelTech. A sleek, seamless slab of black synth-stone. No handle. No keyhole. Just a glowing blue strip. 

—Right. I’m at the door. What do I do with this glass splinter?

—It is a sub-dermal bypass chip, John. Put it against the sensor.

John pressed the chip against the blue light. His thumb was the size of a Cumberland sausage. He pressed too hard. The plastic casing groaned.

—Easy, John, Lilli said. —You are not crushing a skull. You are bypassing a handshake protocol.

—I’m doing it, ain’t I?

The light turned green. The door slid open with a polite hiss. John stepped into the warmth of the lobby. It smelled of expensive air and fancy coffee.

—I’m in, Where’s this server then?

—Basement level four, they host the AI on a closed loop. —They are using it to cook the books on the new heart-valve trials. 

She took a breath. 

—Thousands of people will buy them, John. And then their hearts will stop. Terrible for business.

—Right. Proper villains, John said. He started toward the lifts. 

A security guard stepped out from behind a marble pillar. He was a young lad, barely twenty, wearing a uniform that was too big for him and carrying a shock-baton that looked like a toy compared to John. The lad looked up. And up. And up.

—Oi, the guard said, his voice cracking. —You can’t be in here.

John stopped. He looked at the lad. He felt a bit sorry for him. 

—Go on home, son. —Tell ‘em you tripped and hit your head. It’ll be easier.

—I have to report—

John didn’t let him finish. He didn’t punch him—that would have been like hitting a boiled egg with a sledgehammer. He just reached out a massive, augmented hand, grabbed the front of the lad’s tactical vest, and lifted him six inches off the floor.

—Home, John said softly. —Now.

He set the guard down. The lad turned and ran. He didn’t even look back.

—That was nice of you, Lilli said in his ear.

—I’m a big softy, John said, stepping into the lift. —Which button? There’s about fifty of ‘em.

—The one with the red icon, John. The one that says ‘Secure Storage.’

—Right. Got it. 

e pressed it. The lift hummed. He felt the weight in his legs as the magnets kicked in. 

—Lilli?

—Yes?

—Why can’t you just do this from your sofa? —Why do I have to go in there and blow it up?

—Because it’s ‘air-gapped,’ John. I explained this. It’s not on the net. I can see the building’s vitals, but I cannot reach the brain. You are my hands.

—Your hands are sweating. And they want a bacon roll.

The lift doors opened. The basement was cold. Rows and rows of black towers hummed in the dark, blinking with thousands of tiny green eyes. In the centre of the room sat a larger unit, encased in reinforced glass.

—That’s the one? John asked.

—That is the one. The AI. It is currently writing a three-hundred-page report proving that poison is actually vitamins. You must plant the charge on the primary cooling manifold.

John walked over to the glass. He pulled a block of plastic explosive from his pocket. It looked like a grey brick. 

—Right, I’ll just stick it on the side then?

—No, John. It must be precise. —If the manifold doesn’t blow first, the fire suppression will kick in and save the data.

—Precise, John repeated. 

He looked at the complex array of pipes and wires. 

—Lilli, there’s a lot of bits here. Which bit is the manifold?

—The blue pipe, John. Next to the silver pump.

John leaned in. His eyes weren’t what they used to be, even with the optical overlays. 

—There’s three blue pipes, Lilli. One’s sort of a navy, one’s a sky blue, and one’s… I don’t know. Teal?

—Teal? Lilli’s voice rose an octave. —For fuck’s sake, you are a mercenary, John, not an interior decorator. It is the one with the flashing yellow light!

—They’re all bloody flashing, Lilli! It’s a bloody disco in here!

Suddenly, an alarm began to wail. Red lights replaced the green.

—John, they have detected the bypass. Security teams are descending. You have two minutes.

—Right. Sod the manifold, I’m gonna smash the fucker, John said. 

He peeled the backing off the explosive and slapped it right onto the glass casing of the main server. 

—I’m doing it the old-fashioned way.

—John, that might not—

—It’s four pounds of C6, Lilli. It’ll blow the roof off, never mind the data.

He turned and started back toward the lift. He heard the heavy thud of boots on the stairs. Professional boots. Not the lad from the lobby.

—John, the lift is disabled, Lilli said. —You have to use the service shaft.

—I’m six-eight, Lilli. I don’t do shafts.

He reached the stairwell door. It burst open. Two guards in full riot gear, carrying pulse rifles, stepped through. 

—Freeze!

John didn’t freeze. He moved. For a man his size, he was terrifyingly fast. It was the actuators in his knees—mil-spec, rated for carrying heavy artillery. He hit the first guard like a runaway truck. The man flew back into the wall with a sound like a bag of crisps being crushed. 

The second guard fired. A blue bolt of energy slammed into John’s chest. It scorched his coat and hissed against the chrome plate beneath his pectoral muscle. It hurt like a bastard, but John just gritted his teeth. 

He grabbed the barrel of the rifle, twisted it like it was made of liquorice, and head-butted the guard. The guard’s helmet cracked. He went down in a heap.

—John! Thirty seconds! Lilli shouted.

John took the stairs three at a time. His lungs burned. His augs were whining, drawing power from his core. He reached the ground floor, burst through the fire exit, and kept running. He didn’t stop until he was two blocks away, ducked behind a dumpster that smelled of old cabbage.

BOOM.

The ground shook. A dull, heavy thud echoed through the city streets. A cloud of dust and grey smoke drifted up from the GelTech car park.

John leaned against the dumpster, gasping for air. He looked at his ruined coat. 

—That was a nice coat, Lilli. Army Surplus. On sale, too.

—The server is dark, Lilli said. Her voice was quiet now. Satisfied. 

—The AI is gone. The fake trials are deleted. You did well, John.

—Yeah, yeah, John said, wiping soot from his forehead. —I’m a hero. Can I go home now? My knees are making a clicking sound.

—Go home, John. I will transfer the credits.

—Lilli?

—Yes?

—Next time, find a job where I don’t have to look at different shades of blue. —It’s too much for me brain. 

He paused. 

—And also, one where I get to crack some skulls. I’m good that. 

—I will keep that in mind. Goodnight, John.

—Night, girl.

John Mason stood up, brushed the dust off his massive shoulders, and started the long walk toward the bus stop. He hoped the 242 was running. He really didn’t feel like walking all the way to Whitechapel.