"Whitelock is the last city-state before the mountains, covering nearly 570,000 square kilometers 107.25 km south of the Denver ruins. It was named after Garrison Whitelock, one-time Chairman of Assante Global and author of the city's charter, signed forty three years, seven months, and twenty-two days ago."

"Wow, cool," Livy said dryly, the bare minimum required to humor Gypsy. The Nomad rested on a hoist while she installed its replacement couplers, a freshly fabricated set that had cost well over half of her last contract. "There, how does that feel?"

"Like stomping through fresh daisies, boss."

"What does that mean?"

"I suppose that depends on how much you like daisies."

Livy sighed, "Run a diagnostic. New installations only."

"Left front coupler secure. Testing. 98.7 percent transmission integrity from the central drive core. Torque performance approximately 1,622 Newton meters. No detectable field torsion. Right front coupler secure. . ."

Livy endured the litany, listening for important keywords while she let her mind drift. The garage was covered for the week and came with a loft so she wouldn't need to sleep in the Nomad or rent an apartment. The zip shower would make her presentable, and she'd wash her clothes by hand as usual. Another few creds would go toward renting a shuttle that would take her from the slums to Argyle's office in the upper city, and hopefully, that would be it.

She was introduced to the broker after her old contact was sent to prison and they hadn't had time to build mutual trust, but she preferred independents over the corpo job boards. The pay was higher and you received it via cred-chit instead of a digital transfer; better by far, even if the jobs weren't always strictly legal.

". . . No detectable field torsion," Gypsy finished. "Systems are green. Good job, mamacita!"

"Names!"

"Sorry, boss. I've almost finished uploading the supplements." Livy acknowledged with a distracted nod. Runners received a small bounty for transporting archive updates from the other city states, though local data libraries were a pale reflection of the old Internet, especially after corporate moderation. "Do you want me to order dinner while I still have a stable data link?"

"Can't get decent delivery to the squalls."

"Something local?"

"Not desperate enough for a ratwich. I'm fine with a meal bar until this evening."

"You sure?" Gypsy pressed. "There's a place around the corner offering a fifty-cred combo mock-mock pizza with a 20 ounce box of synthohol."

"Mock-mock is processed mealworms."

"So? They've got 'meal' right in the name, how bad can it be?"

"Pass." Livy punched the hoist valve with the side of her fist and the Nomad settled gently to the stained concrete with a drawn out hiss.

"What are you going to do about Collins?" Gypsy asked.

"Client's problem, not mine."

Her delivery hadn't gone off without a hitch. Marcus Collins, the corporate bigwig who took possession of the silver case tried to weasel a refund out of Livy for being half a day late. That was why you never accepted a digital transfer, it was too easy for the corps to slip their fingers into your pockets. As it was he almost had her detained, but a quick presentation of the contract, which declared her a freelance courier and not financially liable for the transaction, kept her out of lockup and the Nomad out of impound.

Laws were hit or miss. They often changed between visits, and as a frequent traveler, you were bound to break a few, but those regarding trade among the city-states were well defined. After the Grid, commercial and personal flight had become impossible, communication unreliable, and ground transportation dangerous. Since the corporate economy was still dependent on shipping and negotiation, independent caravans and free agents like Livy were essential, and that afforded her a few protections.

Of course that didn't extend to the badlands, where caravans, pirates, and gangers could leave you high and dry. Or dead. Every so often a disgruntled customer would commission a hit to chase down and punish a runner for not fulfilling a contract. She'd taken a handful of those jobs herself when money was particularly tight. Not the wetwork, of course, but Livy wasn't too far above administering a few bruises, or a participating in a bit of larceny.

"I still think you should watch your back," Gypsy said. "He had a mean eye."

"You weren't even there."

"I could tell from his voice. He had a mean voice." Livy kept Gypsy on comms when she met with clients and their agents, in case she needed quick information or an intervention.

"You could have just said that."

"I was being hyperbolic; eyeballs are scarier. You should sleep, cariño. I can wake you up before your meeting."

"Like you woke me before the corridor?"

The speakers crackled again, but Gypsy didn't answer.

"I need exercise more than sleep," Livy said, attempting to brush some of the grime off her patched jeans. "Keep the garage locked while I'm out."

"Sure boss," the A.I. let out an artificial sigh that was mostly static. "Whatever you say. I guess I'll watch a movie or something."

"As long as I don't have to hear about it later."

The squalls, the ghetto underbelly that every city-state had in common, were covered in garbage and human waste. It was home to more than half the population, ranging from merely poor to destitute. Canopies designed to hide the filth from the eyes of those living above obscured the sun, leaving the streets in an endless twilight lit by a cacophony of neon. Firearms were legal because the token police force that patrolled at ground level—maybe one rent-a-cop for every fifty thousand people—couldn't stand against the rampant crime. It wasn't uncommon to pass a body that was left where it fell, blood still flowing from knife or bullet wounds, until night descended and the rats came out to feed.

Still, it was safer than the dust belt. Most of the people who lived in the squalls were some brand of decent, and the city gangers were only a pale reflection of their badland counterparts. There were worse things than getting robbed, beaten, and raped in a dark alley, and the feral gangs had explored them all.

Runners had a certain reputation that worked in her favor, and the three yellow chevrons on the back of her jacket were often enough to keep her out of most conflicts. Of course there were always those who, through misplaced pride or simple, common arrogance, were drawn to the symbol, as if proving themselves against her would somehow validate their otherwise bleak existence. For them she carried a double barreled revolver clearly visible in its thigh holster and a studded, composite bat with her given name—Deliverance—spelled out in messy letters on one side.

She'd been to Whitelock a dozen times in the five years she'd spent running cargo and comm packages between the cities, twice just passing through for a drop-off in New LA, and she never stayed long. She didn't know the place well and didn't care to, other than its necessary details, like being able to tell between the criminals, the people who were safe to ignore, and those who could ruin you with a phonecall.

Like many cities, elevation was status. The higher you lived, the more important you were—or maybe it was just your distance from the squalls. The corporate elite lived on the highest floors in sprawling, multiplex penthouses looking down on the lives they controlled, a separate city among the clouds. They were impressive from a distance, all glass, composite, and steel, surrounded by shuttles and skycars like insects buzzing around a hive.

That would never be her world, even if she were ever able to fly so high. She didn't deserve it. She was more comfortable in the gutters anyway, where people were desperate and honest.

"Boss, you there?" Gypsy's voice whispered in her earpiece.

"What is it?"

"Argyle's assistant called for confirmation, but they want to move up the meeting."

"Did they say why?"

"Rush, sounds like. Needy client maybe?"

Rush jobs were great for negotiating a higher cut, but Livy always somehow came out on the bad end of the deal. You never knew how much to push for until it was over, and by then it seldom seemed worth the extra trouble.

"What time?" she sighed.

"High noon." Gypsy whistled a tune from an old western. "Maybe it'll be a shootout!"

"That doesn't even give me an hour."

"Maybe you should have napped instead of wandering off, sweet pea."

"Shut up," Livy muttered then sighed again, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Fine, I'm on my way back. Confirm the twelve o'clock and schedule a shuttle for me."

"Hey, maybe you can make enough on this job to install a set of impellers, then you wouldn't have to rent a shuttle."

The corner of Livy's mouth twitched upward. "Two-hundred years of shuttle fees wouldn't make up for the cost and we can't use them at all in the badlands."

"There are holes in the Grid."

"Great, and if we find one we can fly straight up a hundred meters until it intercepts our vector, then return to earth as a fireball."

"One hell of a way to go though," Gypsy said. "Noon meeting is confirmed, by the way."

The shower was tepid and too short, and Livy didn't have time to wash and dry her clothes, so she chose the least dirty of her three pair of jeans and a dark blue tank to wear under the jacket. By the time she finished getting ready, the public shuttle was waiting two stories above.

It wasn't the worst ride she'd ever taken to the upper city. The impellers were relatively quiet and the trip was smooth, but the seats smelled like midtown pot with a trace of vomit, and graffiti stained the interior. Apparently transit central finally got a clue and sorted their shuttles into districts. There wasn't any point in detailing a cab over and over then send it back out just to get violated again.

Twenty meters above the ground the city was transformed into a shining metropolis. Once above the canopies you could forget the squalls existed, maybe even convince yourself you lived in a kind of utopia where your safety and comfort cost you nothing more than your soul.

Livy had chosen a location in the lower city near Argyle's office to avoid being dragged all over town, so the trip was more vertical than horizontal and took less than half an hour, most of it spent waiting in a queue to ascend to the next level. When the shuttle finally came to rest, she stepped onto commercial deck 47A and was met by a shapely woman in a bright yellow dress trimmed with ribbons of light, her hair the same color red as the warning signs on armed haulers. It was Polly, the least annoying of Argyle's two personal assistants.

"It's good to see you again, Liv," she said with a fake smile practiced so often she probably forgot it was there.

"Where's Archie?"

"Dealing with last minute details. We're really hoping you can take this job. There aren't any qualified runners coming through in the next few days."

"Caravan came in right behind me, why not ask them?"

"They're owned by Assante Global."

"So?" Livy asked. She could think of a dozen reasons why that would be a problem, but she wanted more information.

"So, we need a freelancer. Someone discreet who doesn't receive their cut from an uptown executive. Someone who can protect the cargo without an escort and a small army."

"Shadow run?"

"Walk with me, Liv," Polly said and turned back the way she came. Livy stepped in behind her. "We've known each other for what, a year and a half?"

"I've seen you three times including today."

"You know what I mean. Mister Argyle was going to wait. He doesn't know if you're the kind of person he can trust with sensitive jobs, but I convinced him you were perfect. You and that car of yours."

"There are thousands of Mitori junkers on the road."

Polly smiled over her shoulder. "You don't need to play coy. How much of it have you replaced or modified?"

"I dunno. A lot."

"Perhaps all of it? It doesn't even look like a Nomad anymore, more like the old combat Partisan model. Where did you get your engineering skills?"

Livy made it a policy to avoid showing off her vehicle, and had always regretted giving Polly a ride the last time they met. Apart from the obvious risks it said too much about her.

"I'm just a mechanic. Six months accelerated trade program, two years in service."

"Under who?"

"Hao Tec Defense, fifth flight, under contract to Genetika"

"Air force?" Polly asked, surprised. "There aren't many sponsored flight programs left, are there?"

"None, as far as I know. Hao Tec disbanded theirs—" she paused to check her math. It always surprised her to realize how long it had been. "Seven years ago."

"Strange it took that long."

"They thought they were getting close to beating the Grid. Two successful 1,000 km trips in high atmosphere."

"And how many failed?"

"Hundreds," Livy admitted. Program costs were too high to sustain, and not even a megacorp could afford to throw away those kinds of resources indefinitely.

"But you made it." Polly continued.

"I was part of the ground team. Never flew except in simulators."

"Which explains your driving skills."

Livy shrugged and stuffed her hands in her pockets. "Fine. I just gave you my life story, gonna give me yours?"

Polly laughed indulgently. "Nothing so exciting. I grew up not far from here, went to a private school, met a man, fell in love, caught him screwing another woman, so here I am, a single workaholic."

"I don't like her," said a whisper of static into Livy's ear. "She's giving me creepo vibes."

"How did you end up working for Archie?" Livy asked.

"My father is a junior executive at Assante. He went to university with Mister Argyle, and when he needed someone to handle a project off the books they got back in touch. Father gave him his first high profile job."

"High profile and shadow work don't often go together."

"You of all people should know better than that. Your name might not be common knowledge, Deliverance Harper, but all the right people are well aware of your reputation."

Livy stopped dead, her heart racing. "Where did you hear that?"

"I have my own resources," Polly said, "and I took a personal interest in you. It took quite a bit of digging to discover the little I have."

"Then you asking about my—"

"Just confirming my hunches. Don't worry, Liv, I haven't told anyone, not even Mister Argyle, and I haven't recorded my findings anywhere." Polly finally turned and came face to face with the twin barrels of Livy's revolver.

"That means everything ends with you," Livy growled. She'd closed the distance between them, quiet as a cat, and could clearly see the fear in Polly's bright, blue eyes.

The Mitori Partisan. Based on the Nomad design but repurposed with weapon mounts and commonly used as an escort vehicle in corporate caravans.