“Come-come, luv. Ol’Rubberhorsie is here to gather your ransom, let’s make tis the fun way.”

  Realization is like cold water oozing down Rachel’s spine. It sobers her, for some hobo is here. The man is turning furniture over, searching for something to steal, no, searching for her. Rachel curses, Narcodome is about killing, and it’s the epitome of her bad luck to have some criminal pick her as a target in the short time before the computer mistake gets fixed.

  Rachel has no weapons in her person, she has zero martial arts skills, and the bathroom window is too small for her to fit through. She looks around, looking for inspiration or anything that could be counted as a weapon.

  “U rich girl got one of those exotic dancer suits? Thinking you can do better than t’girls at the bars? I’ll make you dance for me, an ugly death dance for Rubberhorse.”

  A familiar click and whirr tell Rachel the man has taken the harness belonging to her extended simulation pack and is rolling the suspensor cables out from the socket in the living room roof. The system allows limited real-life movement when inside the simulation: it is great for situations involving swimming or flying, but has other uses too. Similar systems are found in some erotic clubs, where simulated sex with the paying customers is performed live on the stage.

  Rachel grabs the shower head and turns the water as hot as it gets, ready to attack the man the moment he opens the door.

  “Service cancelled - usage forbidden. You have five seconds to release the property. One,” a female voice informs from the living room. Rachel believes it comes from the harness and is not surprised for her license having been cancelled the moment her ID got the dreaded CRI prefix. Reapplying for the license and explaining why some hobo has misused the equipment are one more nuisance added for today’s setbacks.

  “Let’s saddle you one more time,” Rubberhorse says behind the bathroom door. He must still be holding the harness, and Rachel doesn’t want to think what he is planning to do with it, and she has no time to think as there is a deafening boom, the door shakes, and its locking mechanism bursts inward as Rubberhorse shoots at it.

  Rachel shoots the lanky man with a jet of lukewarm water as he appears in the doorway. Rubberhorse wears dirty jeans, threadbare combat boots, a bright blue shirt, and, on top of it, a puffy vest of shiny, blue material. An old implant circles behind his head like a backward visor, running from ear to ear. He has old and new scars, inflamed marks around the much-used hypo port on his arm.

  Wild, bloody eyes regard Rachel behind pink-shaded glasses, under a black Cousteau cap. He drags the harness with him, having dragged its cables as far as they extend and on his right arm…no, not on his arm, for the metal and composite thing is the arm, a cybernetic implant not even pretending to be of human origin. The shotgun barrel protrudes out, having popped from its socket in the forearm. The implant is a spare part, an old military model intended for the battlefield.

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  Rachel screams out her defiance and hits Rubberhorse with the shower head. The man blocks with his monstrous hand, not caring about the spraying water. He laughs, baring pastel-colored teeth -pink, baby blue, mint and yellow- but his grin turns to a grimace when his chest sprouts an ugly red tentacle and the splurge of blood paints the opposite wall red.

  The harness drops from Rubberhorse’s lifeless hands and gets slowly dragged back to the room, the automation doing what it has been programmed to do. The man falls against the wall, oozes down, spreading more blood, and lies motionless between the toilet seat and the bathtub.

  A whispered announcement from under Rachel’s chin informs: “Rubberhorse–dead.” She shivers, hearing the androgynous voice and understanding that the collar talks to her. She can see a similar collar on Rubberhorse’s neck. It is the Narcodome collar, announcing her first kill.

  “Come out without touching the equipment,” a sharp female voice calls from the living room. This is not the harness’s automated talk, but a human who barely controls the tenseness in her voice.

  “They are burglars high on something, and you just shot her boyfriend.” The second voice is but a whisper, but Rachel is high on adrenaline and panic, and she could hear anything.

  “I have it under control. We have a tape of him stealing the company equipment. The harness gave a warning, and I warned the blue guy before shooting. Remember the dirty work bonus,” the female whispers and continues with a louder voice: “Come out, hands up, and you can go as long as you don’t touch the harness.”

  “I am coming out,” Rachel says and steps over the dead Rubberhorse. She sees a pair of mechanics who have come to retrieve her harness. They wear armored working clothes, tool belts, and pistols. Open helmets with visors cover their faces. The woman has curly, dark hair flowing under the helmet, and she holds an assault rifle in corporate colors in her hands.

  “I’ll just take my bag, okay? This was my place. I just got evicted.” Rachel stands in the doorway as the man gathers the equipment from the roof and packs it all in a black plastic box.

  “You just sit down and don’t move a muscle,” the woman says, and Rachel can only agree with the gun.

  The mechanics do their work, packing the company property, and Rachel has too much time to sit and watch as they write a virtual receipt and file a report on their visit. While waiting, she makes a mental list of what she needs to survive the night. She needs clothes, something that doesn’t stand out on the street. Anything she can sell or exchange for food or shelter. She doesn’t believe Eli accepts her as a guest after this.

  Rubberhorse’s body has a pistol strapped to a holster at his back. When the mechanics are gone, Rachel gets up and walks to the dead man. His body is still warm when Rachel yanks the pistol free.

  It has an aggressive look and a picture of a wolf’s face with its mouth full of lightning bolts on the slide. Holding the weapon, standing over its previous owner, whose blood is on the wall, feels like stepping into another world. Rachel accepts she is in an unknown territory, and she must play by Narcodome rules until her case has been cleared.

  Otherwise, the apartment has only little that she can use. Rachel collects her hair in a ponytail, takes a black fake wool jacket, and slings an almost unused gym back on her shoulder. The corporate police is gone from the yard when she leaves the building that was her home for years.