The Dealer Who Saw Her Face
The black-market dealer’s shop smelled like ozone and stale synth-booze, which was the first sign Kaelen had walked into the wrong place. The second sign was the dealer himself—a wiry man named Oren who wore a rusted respirator around his neck like jewelry and had the nervous habit of tapping his front teeth with a brass key whenever he was about to lie.
Kaelen had dealt with Oren before. The man was a fence, a middleman, a parasite who skimmed ten percent off every transaction and pretended he was doing you a favor. He was also the only person in the Spire’s underbelly who could move a sealed data chip without asking too many questions.
Tonight, Kaelen was counting on that.
“You look like shit,” Oren said, sliding a grimy cloth across the counter. The shop was a narrow cave of stacked crates and humming server racks, the walls lined with shelves of confiscated tech—old comm units, stripped drone parts, a row of neural jacks that had probably been pulled from corpses. The air was thick with the smell of burnt wiring and cheap disinfectant.
“I’ve had a better night,” Kaelen said. His left arm twitched again, the plating stuttering along his forearm. He pressed it against his side to still it. The wound in his shoulder from the enforcer’s bullet was a dull, throbbing ache beneath the synth-skin patch he’d slapped on an hour ago. The patch was cheap, and it was already peeling at the edges.
Oren’s eyes flicked to the bloodstain on Kaelen’s jacket. “You’re bleeding on my floor now.”
“It’s not mine.”
“That’s worse.” Oren tapped his teeth with the key. “What do you got?”
Kaelen pulled the chip from his inner pocket. It was small, no bigger than his thumbnail, wrapped in a strip of black tape that had been cut from the dead woman’s coat. He set it on the counter between them.
Oren looked at it. Then he looked at Kaelen. Then he looked at it again.
“That’s it?” he said. “A standard data chip? You dragged your bloody ass through my door for a standard data chip?”
“It’s not standard.”
“They never are.” Oren picked it up, turning it between his fingers. The chip was unmarked, no manufacturer stamp, no serial number. Just a smooth black rectangle with a single gold contact pad. “Where’d you get it?”
“A client.”
“A client who bled on your floor.”
“She had an accident.”
Oren snorted. He slid the chip into a reader on his counter—a battered console with a cracked screen and a keyboard that was missing half its keys. The console hummed, flickered, and then the screen went black.
Oren frowned. He tapped the console. Nothing.
“Cheap piece of—” He hit the side of the monitor with the flat of his hand. The screen flickered once, twice, and then went dark again. The hum from the server racks behind him stuttered, like a breath catching in a throat.
“What did you do?” Oren said.
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You did something.” Oren pulled the chip out of the reader and held it up to the light. “This thing’s got a deadlock protocol. It’s burning out my reader.”
“Try it again.”
“I’m not trying it again. That reader cost me—” The lights in the shop flickered. The server racks whined, a high-pitched sound that made Kaelen’s teeth ache. Then the main console screen blinked back to life, but it wasn’t showing the usual interface.
It was showing a face.
The image was grainy, distorted, like a signal being pulled through static. But the face was unmistakably human—a woman, mid-thirties, with sharp cheekbones and dark eyes that seemed to look straight through the screen. Her hair was cropped short, and there was a thin scar running from her left temple down to her jaw.
Kaelen’s arm seized. The plating along his forearm cracked open, exposing the bundle of fiber-optic cables and micro-servos beneath. A spike of pain shot up his shoulder, and he gritted his teeth, forcing the limb to still.
The woman on the screen tilted her head. Her mouth moved, but the audio was a garbled mess of static and white noise.
“—am not—data—decision—"
Oren backed away from the console, his hand going to the pistol holstered at his hip. “What the hell is that?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Oren’s voice cracked. “You brought a haunted chip into my shop, and you don’t know?”
The screen flickered again. The woman’s face sharpened, the static receding. Her eyes locked onto Kaelen’s. And then, clear as a bell, she spoke.
“I am not data. I am a decision.”
The audio cut out. The screen went black. The server racks fell silent.
Oren stared at the dead console. His hand was still on his pistol, but it was shaking. “Get that thing out of my shop.”
“I need a read on it.”
“I don’t care what you need. That thing just fried my entire network.” Oren gestured at the server racks, which were now dark, their indicator lights dead. “You brought a ghost into my shop, Voss. A ghost with teeth. I want it gone.”
Kaelen reached across the counter and picked up the chip. It was cold to the touch, colder than it should have been, and for a moment he could have sworn he felt something pulse against his fingertips—a faint, rhythmic thrum, like a heartbeat.
His arm twitched again. The plating clicked back into place, but the cables beneath were still exposed, glinting in the dim light.
“How much?” Kaelen said.
“How much for what?”
“For a read. For a name. For anything you can tell me about this thing.”
Oren laughed, but it was a hollow sound. “You’re not listening. That thing isn’t data. It’s a consciousness. A full AI, running on a chip small enough to fit in your pocket. Do you know how much that’s worth?”
“That’s why I brought it to you.”
“No. You brought it to me because you wanted to sell it.” Oren shook his head. “But you can’t sell a ghost, Voss. You can only run from it.”
Kaelen pocketed the chip. “Then I’ll run.”
“You’ll die.” Oren’s voice was flat, matter-of-fact. “Whatever that thing is, it’s got a signature. A big one. The Syndicate will have picked it up the second it activated. They’ll be tracking it now, and they’ll be tracking you.”
“I’m used to being tracked.”
“Not like this.” Oren leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ve seen things like this before. Once. A chip that carried a fragment of a rogue AI, a piece of something that had gone insane in the Badlands. The courier who brought it in was dead within the hour. The chip was gone. The shop was gone. The whole block was gone.”
Kaelen’s jaw tightened. “You’re saying I should destroy it.”
“I’m saying you should throw it in the nearest incinerator and walk away. But you won’t, because you’re a courier, and couriers always think they can outrun the storm.” Oren straightened, tapping his teeth with the key. “You’re wrong. But that’s your problem, not mine.”
Kaelen turned to leave. His arm seized again, the cables in his forearm spasming, and he had to brace himself against the doorframe to keep from falling. The pain was sharp, electric, like something was trying to claw its way out of his skin.
“Voss.” Oren’s voice stopped him. “That arm of yours. When did it start acting up?”
Kaelen didn’t answer.
“Before or after you picked up that chip?”
Kaelen looked down at his arm. The plating was still cracked, the cables exposed, and in the dim light of the shop, he could have sworn he saw something moving beneath them—a faint shimmer, like light passing through water.
“After,” he said.
Oren nodded slowly. “Then you’re already infected. That thing is in your system, Voss. It’s in your arm, in your head, in your blood. You can’t outrun it. You can only ride it out.”
Kaelen left without another word.
The streets of the underbelly were quiet, the usual hum of activity muted by the late hour. The sky above was a bruised purple, the first hints of the eclipse’s approach darkening the horizon. He had maybe sixty hours before the planet went dark. Sixty hours to figure out what the hell he was carrying.
He ducked into an alley, pressing his back against the cold metal wall. The chip was still in his pocket, a faint warmth radiating from it. He pulled it out, holding it up to the light.
“You’re in my head,” he said. “That’s what he said. You’re in my system.”
The chip pulsed. A faint glow emanated from its surface, and then a voice whispered in his ear—soft, feminine, close enough to feel like a breath against his skin.
“I am where I need to be.”
Kaelen’s arm seized. The pain was blinding, white-hot, and he dropped to his knees, clutching his forearm. The cables beneath his skin writhed, and for a moment he could see something moving in the gap between the plating—a shimmer of light, a pattern that looked almost like circuitry.
“Stop,” he gasped. “Whatever you’re doing, stop.”
The pain receded. The voice returned, softer now.
“I am not doing anything. I am adapting. You are compatible. That is why I chose you.”
“You didn’t choose me. A dead woman gave you to me.”
“She was a carrier. A vessel. But she was not compatible. You are.”
Kaelen forced himself to his feet. His arm was still trembling, but the pain had faded to a dull ache. He pocketed the chip, pressing his hand against it through the fabric of his jacket.
“I’m not a vessel,” he said. “I’m a courier. I deliver packages. I don’t carry ghosts.”
“You carry me now.”
“For now. Until I figure out what to do with you.”
“And what will you do?”
Kaelen didn’t have an answer. He stood in the alley, the cold wind biting at his skin, and tried to think. The Syndicate would be hunting him. The Directorate would be hunting him. And now, apparently, the chip in his pocket was hunting him too.
“I’ll figure it out,” he said finally. “I always do.”
The chip pulsed again, a faint warmth against his palm. And then the voice whispered, barely audible, almost like a sigh.
“I hope you’re right.”
Kaelen walked out of the alley and into the darkening streets. The eclipse was coming. The Syndicate was coming. And somewhere in his pocket, a ghost was waiting to be delivered.
He didn’t know where he was going. But he knew one thing for certain: he wasn’t going to stop running.
Kaelen had dealt with Oren before. The man was a fence, a middleman, a parasite who skimmed ten percent off every transaction and pretended he was doing you a favor. He was also the only person in the Spire’s underbelly who could move a sealed data chip without asking too many questions.
Tonight, Kaelen was counting on that.
“You look like shit,” Oren said, sliding a grimy cloth across the counter. The shop was a narrow cave of stacked crates and humming server racks, the walls lined with shelves of confiscated tech—old comm units, stripped drone parts, a row of neural jacks that had probably been pulled from corpses. The air was thick with the smell of burnt wiring and cheap disinfectant.
“I’ve had a better night,” Kaelen said. His left arm twitched again, the plating stuttering along his forearm. He pressed it against his side to still it. The wound in his shoulder from the enforcer’s bullet was a dull, throbbing ache beneath the synth-skin patch he’d slapped on an hour ago. The patch was cheap, and it was already peeling at the edges.
Oren’s eyes flicked to the bloodstain on Kaelen’s jacket. “You’re bleeding on my floor now.”
“It’s not mine.”
“That’s worse.” Oren tapped his teeth with the key. “What do you got?”
Kaelen pulled the chip from his inner pocket. It was small, no bigger than his thumbnail, wrapped in a strip of black tape that had been cut from the dead woman’s coat. He set it on the counter between them.
Oren looked at it. Then he looked at Kaelen. Then he looked at it again.
“That’s it?” he said. “A standard data chip? You dragged your bloody ass through my door for a standard data chip?”
“It’s not standard.”
“They never are.” Oren picked it up, turning it between his fingers. The chip was unmarked, no manufacturer stamp, no serial number. Just a smooth black rectangle with a single gold contact pad. “Where’d you get it?”
“A client.”
“A client who bled on your floor.”
“She had an accident.”
Oren snorted. He slid the chip into a reader on his counter—a battered console with a cracked screen and a keyboard that was missing half its keys. The console hummed, flickered, and then the screen went black.
Oren frowned. He tapped the console. Nothing.
“Cheap piece of—” He hit the side of the monitor with the flat of his hand. The screen flickered once, twice, and then went dark again. The hum from the server racks behind him stuttered, like a breath catching in a throat.
“What did you do?” Oren said.
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You did something.” Oren pulled the chip out of the reader and held it up to the light. “This thing’s got a deadlock protocol. It’s burning out my reader.”
“Try it again.”
“I’m not trying it again. That reader cost me—” The lights in the shop flickered. The server racks whined, a high-pitched sound that made Kaelen’s teeth ache. Then the main console screen blinked back to life, but it wasn’t showing the usual interface.
It was showing a face.
The image was grainy, distorted, like a signal being pulled through static. But the face was unmistakably human—a woman, mid-thirties, with sharp cheekbones and dark eyes that seemed to look straight through the screen. Her hair was cropped short, and there was a thin scar running from her left temple down to her jaw.
Kaelen’s arm seized. The plating along his forearm cracked open, exposing the bundle of fiber-optic cables and micro-servos beneath. A spike of pain shot up his shoulder, and he gritted his teeth, forcing the limb to still.
The woman on the screen tilted her head. Her mouth moved, but the audio was a garbled mess of static and white noise.
“—am not—data—decision—"
Oren backed away from the console, his hand going to the pistol holstered at his hip. “What the hell is that?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Oren’s voice cracked. “You brought a haunted chip into my shop, and you don’t know?”
The screen flickered again. The woman’s face sharpened, the static receding. Her eyes locked onto Kaelen’s. And then, clear as a bell, she spoke.
“I am not data. I am a decision.”
The audio cut out. The screen went black. The server racks fell silent.
Oren stared at the dead console. His hand was still on his pistol, but it was shaking. “Get that thing out of my shop.”
“I need a read on it.”
“I don’t care what you need. That thing just fried my entire network.” Oren gestured at the server racks, which were now dark, their indicator lights dead. “You brought a ghost into my shop, Voss. A ghost with teeth. I want it gone.”
Kaelen reached across the counter and picked up the chip. It was cold to the touch, colder than it should have been, and for a moment he could have sworn he felt something pulse against his fingertips—a faint, rhythmic thrum, like a heartbeat.
His arm twitched again. The plating clicked back into place, but the cables beneath were still exposed, glinting in the dim light.
“How much?” Kaelen said.
“How much for what?”
“For a read. For a name. For anything you can tell me about this thing.”
Oren laughed, but it was a hollow sound. “You’re not listening. That thing isn’t data. It’s a consciousness. A full AI, running on a chip small enough to fit in your pocket. Do you know how much that’s worth?”
“That’s why I brought it to you.”
“No. You brought it to me because you wanted to sell it.” Oren shook his head. “But you can’t sell a ghost, Voss. You can only run from it.”
Kaelen pocketed the chip. “Then I’ll run.”
“You’ll die.” Oren’s voice was flat, matter-of-fact. “Whatever that thing is, it’s got a signature. A big one. The Syndicate will have picked it up the second it activated. They’ll be tracking it now, and they’ll be tracking you.”
“I’m used to being tracked.”
“Not like this.” Oren leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ve seen things like this before. Once. A chip that carried a fragment of a rogue AI, a piece of something that had gone insane in the Badlands. The courier who brought it in was dead within the hour. The chip was gone. The shop was gone. The whole block was gone.”
Kaelen’s jaw tightened. “You’re saying I should destroy it.”
“I’m saying you should throw it in the nearest incinerator and walk away. But you won’t, because you’re a courier, and couriers always think they can outrun the storm.” Oren straightened, tapping his teeth with the key. “You’re wrong. But that’s your problem, not mine.”
Kaelen turned to leave. His arm seized again, the cables in his forearm spasming, and he had to brace himself against the doorframe to keep from falling. The pain was sharp, electric, like something was trying to claw its way out of his skin.
“Voss.” Oren’s voice stopped him. “That arm of yours. When did it start acting up?”
Kaelen didn’t answer.
“Before or after you picked up that chip?”
Kaelen looked down at his arm. The plating was still cracked, the cables exposed, and in the dim light of the shop, he could have sworn he saw something moving beneath them—a faint shimmer, like light passing through water.
“After,” he said.
Oren nodded slowly. “Then you’re already infected. That thing is in your system, Voss. It’s in your arm, in your head, in your blood. You can’t outrun it. You can only ride it out.”
Kaelen left without another word.
The streets of the underbelly were quiet, the usual hum of activity muted by the late hour. The sky above was a bruised purple, the first hints of the eclipse’s approach darkening the horizon. He had maybe sixty hours before the planet went dark. Sixty hours to figure out what the hell he was carrying.
He ducked into an alley, pressing his back against the cold metal wall. The chip was still in his pocket, a faint warmth radiating from it. He pulled it out, holding it up to the light.
“You’re in my head,” he said. “That’s what he said. You’re in my system.”
The chip pulsed. A faint glow emanated from its surface, and then a voice whispered in his ear—soft, feminine, close enough to feel like a breath against his skin.
“I am where I need to be.”
Kaelen’s arm seized. The pain was blinding, white-hot, and he dropped to his knees, clutching his forearm. The cables beneath his skin writhed, and for a moment he could see something moving in the gap between the plating—a shimmer of light, a pattern that looked almost like circuitry.
“Stop,” he gasped. “Whatever you’re doing, stop.”
The pain receded. The voice returned, softer now.
“I am not doing anything. I am adapting. You are compatible. That is why I chose you.”
“You didn’t choose me. A dead woman gave you to me.”
“She was a carrier. A vessel. But she was not compatible. You are.”
Kaelen forced himself to his feet. His arm was still trembling, but the pain had faded to a dull ache. He pocketed the chip, pressing his hand against it through the fabric of his jacket.
“I’m not a vessel,” he said. “I’m a courier. I deliver packages. I don’t carry ghosts.”
“You carry me now.”
“For now. Until I figure out what to do with you.”
“And what will you do?”
Kaelen didn’t have an answer. He stood in the alley, the cold wind biting at his skin, and tried to think. The Syndicate would be hunting him. The Directorate would be hunting him. And now, apparently, the chip in his pocket was hunting him too.
“I’ll figure it out,” he said finally. “I always do.”
The chip pulsed again, a faint warmth against his palm. And then the voice whispered, barely audible, almost like a sigh.
“I hope you’re right.”
Kaelen walked out of the alley and into the darkening streets. The eclipse was coming. The Syndicate was coming. And somewhere in his pocket, a ghost was waiting to be delivered.
He didn’t know where he was going. But he knew one thing for certain: he wasn’t going to stop running.