Two weeks earlier, on the snowy afternoon of Saturday, 2 December, Emz stood in the doorway of the roof access to his Poyz apartment block. The building was a reasonably tall structure located at the corner of Dylan and Rabelais, on the lower western edge of the Midton neighbourhood. Through the glass pane of the door, he could see west down Rabelais, framed by a corridor of other tall buildings, toward the cold Baltic Bay and the shining Baltic City Centre in the distance, which sat in the middle of the bay on a vast artificial platform.

  The City Centre housed all the main government and corporate buildings that kept the wheels of a democratic capitalist society turning. Like Poyz, it was ten years old, but unlike Poyz, it was soulless and overly designed. Epic cleverness and efficient design had been favoured over interesting and charming architecture. It was a glass-and-steel utopia, as bland as the people who worked there. Emz hardly ever ventured across the bay; it wasn’t where his clientele typically came from.

  He looked over the distant skyline, partially obscured by the misty, snowy weather, though he could easily pick out the gigantic Forum skyscraper. This central angular spire rose toward the heavens at one end of Aurora Square, its lights blinking high in the clouds for aviation safety. An impressive structure, for sure, but he soon drew his gaze away and scanned the nearer surrounding sky, waiting for his delivery.

  The day before, he had received his monthly Citizen Basic Income payment—five thousand eurocoins—enough for a person to live a basic life in a rent-controlled, tiny apartment, with basic food, basic services, and to basically just be basic. But like many people, he craved a more material existence: a nicer place to live, the occasional fancy meal, the luxury of hire cars instead of public transport, and the ability to build something for the future.

  After two months of eating into his savings to cover his market-rate based rent and hiding from recent gang-related issues that had nearly cost him his life, Emz finally decided that the dust had settled. It was time to take action. He needed to do two things: find a new tech guy and a new client. But first, he had to wait for the delivery that would help him get back out there. Just as he was about to check his mobile wrist screen for an update on its progress, he saw the drone.

  The large drone, equipped with multiple rotors for stability and manoeuvrability, drifted in and hovered above the communal roof’s landing area, its sensors scanning for obstacles as a glowing red light signalled that it was in recording mode. Once the space was confirmed as clear, it descended, its bright white landing lights flashing to indicate its approach. Through the access door, Emz could hear the whirring of its rotors, their pitch changing slightly as it slowed to land gently on a designated pad.

  After touching down on its spindly legs, the drone, bearing a company logo of thick orange letters on a blue square, released the package. It then paused to absorb a conductive charge from the landing pad, replenishing some of its battery cells, before rising again and whizzing off to deliver another package.

  Emz opened the door and rushed out into the chilly air, chin pressed down against his chest and jumper sleeves pulled over his knuckles, to retrieve the package and retreat back inside for warmth. Returning to his loft apartment, he ripped the package apart and unwrapped a winter coat, boots, fingerless gloves, and a beanie—all warm and all dark in colour.

  “Alright, time to get back to work,” he muttered to himself, slipping on the new gear and steeling himself for the tasks ahead.

  Just before leaving the loft apartment, he finished off his coffee, stuffed protein bars into a pocket, pushed his earbuds into his ears, and retrieved his holstered Glock and a spare magazine from the bedside cabinet. With a gentle touch on the fingerprint trigger sensor, he checked that the gun was fully loaded, confirming it when the dim red light displayed 15. He then slid the spare magazine along the top edge of the holster, fastening it to the back of his waistband under his new winter jacket. Less than five minutes later, he was outside, trudging east along Rabelais street, his breath steaming in the cold air as a dusting of snowflakes settled on his beanie and shoulders. At the intersection with Hendrix, he turned right onto the new street and headed south.

  “Syn, how long until my meeting?” he casually asked his digital assistant, the contact mics easily picking up his question as cars whined by, slushing and crunching the snow below their tyres.

  “Twenty-two minutes until the meeting with L,” the voice assistant replied. “You are currently expected to be two minutes early.”

  Emz nodded to himself and continued walking south until he reached the intersection with Voltaire, where he stopped outside the corner of a not-yet-opened pizzeria, and stood under its colourful awning, rubbing his gloved hands together to warm them. At the exact rendezvous time, a tall grey van with tinted privacy glass rolled down Voltaire street and parked beside him. He walked over as the front door slid open, stepping inside. The door closed, and the van pulled back into traffic.

  The first thing that hit Emz as he climbed aboard was the musty smell of lingering human occupancy and poor ventilation; the second was the mess. It was a tech hoarder's wet dream, the van's interior a chaotic blend of high-tech devices, DIY tech projects, and personal memorabilia, including posters of retro video games, a collection of vintage computer parts, and a small potted plant. The only person aboard was sitting behind a desk at the rear of the vehicle, facing his direction. His name was Luki, a lean, almost skinny, and pale middle-aged man, dressed scruffily, with stubble edging toward being called a beard and a wild, mop of unkempt Cheshunt brown hair, streaked with strands as grey as the van’s paintwork. The man glanced at Emz but drifted his eyes back to a computer screen in front of him.

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  Emz stepped toward him, carefully navigating a maze of items strewn around the floor. He wrinkled his nose at the stale aroma that was really oppressive and offensive to the senses. Do you sleep in this van? Emz thought, then spotted a bed rack, folded up against the side of the van with a pillow sticking out at one end. Guess so.

  He was about to speak when Luki raised a finger, asking for a moment to finish whatever it was he was doing.

  Emz hadn’t completely wasted the last two months hiding out. He had been eagerly searching online, trying to find new clients and technical support—someone who could help him harvest citizen IDs, create fake accounts, break into secure systems, jailbreak guns and other digital devices—all for the right price. New clients were easy; there was always someone that wanted something illegally ‘fixed’. But finding new technical support was tougher, after he’d been burned by the last one, supposedly for putting her partner in danger. Though disappointingly, Emz felt that was a bit of an overreaction. But even though no one knew the reason for Beata’s rejection, it carried weight in the community, and so no one had really wanted to do business with Emz. Until Luki returned his message and was willing to meet. As far as Emz could tell, Luki was capable, so he knew there was a catch somewhere, but it was what it was.

  “Okay. I am finished,” Luki eventually said, finishing off typing something with a theatrical pressing of 'Enter' or 'Send,' or maybe just gibberish—Emz had no way of knowing what was on the screen facing away from him.

  “It’s a bit stuffy in here. Can you crack the window?” Emz asked, really struggling with the funky smell.

  “No, it is too cold. I have problems with my nasal membranes.”

  Emz nodded. “Right, right.” Unconsciously, he rubbed his fingers down his nose, as if to squeeze out the bad air. “So, you are willing to do some business. I’m looking for a new tech guy, and I’m hoping we can work something out?”

  “Yes,” Luki answered. “I think we can.”

  “Great.”

  “If you can help me with a problem first…” Luki added.

  And here’s the catch, Emz thought.

  Luki swivelled in his chair, ducking down to a lower drawer, and then pulled out a thick, expensive-looking leather binder. Emz had been ready to draw his gun if it had been something more threatening but relaxed when he saw the large book. Luki gently placed it on the desk in front of him, then rotated it exactly 180 degrees and opened it for Emz to see. The pages were rows of small plastic sleeves with cartoonish trading cards featuring Japanese writing in each pocket. Luki kept carefully flipping through the plastic pages with reverence until he got to the page he was looking for.

  “As you can see, I am missing a card.” Luki tapped an empty plastic rectangle. “It was stolen from me, and I want you to get it back.”

  Emz slowly nodded. For a catch, this initially didn’t seem that bad, but he didn’t respond until he heard more.

  “My 1999 First Edition Holographic Blastoise card was stolen from me by Gary Lutzinger.” A flash of anger crossed Luki’s face.

  Emz had no idea who this Gary person was, so he just kept nodding.

  “He had helped me set up the advanced energy management system on this van,” Luki explained, gesturing to the van interior with pride. The anger flashed again. “I said he could have a Wartortle card because I had an extra one. I did not say Blastoise!”

  Emz scanned the series of playful-looking cards. He was aware of Pokémon but had no idea which character was which, and couldn't read the Japanese text. But he took a guess and pointed to a cute turtle-looking image. You want me to swap this one with the one he took?

  “No, that is obviously Squirtle,” Luki said, shaking his head. He then pulled another card from a nearby plastic sleeve, revealing a matching but signed second version beneath it. “This is Wartortle. I want you to get my Blastoise back and give Gary this one, as we had agreed.” Luki handed over the unsigned Wartortle card, which was safely encased in a tough protective cover.

  Emz gave it a cursory look and then slipped it into his inside pocket. “If I do that, can we do business going forward?”

  “Yes, cloned IDs, biometrics, whatever you need.” Luki closed the binder and put it away again.

  “Great. Any idea where I can find Gary? I’m assuming he is in Baltic City somewhere?”

  “Yes. I know exactly where he is. He plays chess in Poyz Plaza every day at 4pm.”

  “Awesome,” Emz nodded. Sounds easy, he figured.

  Luki picked up a very thin clear glass mobile screen from his desk and sent over a Citizen ID picture to Emz’s mobile device.

  The slowly moving image was a 3D headshot of an older man with a light olive, weathered face, thinning salt-and-pepper hair, and a shaggy light grey beard.

  “I will drop you on the corner of Marley and Poe. And you can walk up from there. If he spots the van, he will slip away—he is spry for sixty.”

  Emz put his hand out, and they shook on it.

  Easy, Emz thought again.