Haven of the Damned

Chapter 1

The black asphalt was shiny with rain and slick with spilled oil. Hot steam rose from vents in the sidewalks. Garbage lined the gutters, the acrid stink of rot and decay filling the air. A pair of hookers huddled under the only working streetlight. They had been there long enough for the endless rain that gave Cascade its name to ruin their overdone makeup. In the gap between two dumpsters, a vagrant huddled under layers of discarded newspaper and cardboard, muttering to himself. In the distance, a siren wailed.

This was the Cascade underworld, the grimy depths of the city beneath the city. This land belonged to the gangs and the drug dealers, to the bums and the addicts. No one else ventured here, these streets of hopelessness and death.

With cold rain seeping under his raised collar, Jim Ellison drew his scarf across his mouth and nose in a futile attempt to stifle the stench. As he turned into the narrow alley his footsteps echoed and he was glad for the weight of the gun at his side. He knew he looked out of place; his good clothing and sturdy shoes marked him as an outsider as much as his military bearing. It was almost midnight; he was late.

A crumpled food carton skittered down the alley ahead of him, blown by the wind. He followed it with his eyes and it led him to the foul-smelling dumpster. Jim detected a strange scent beneath the decay. Sighing, he walked over to the dumpster and raised the lid. The body of a man at least three days dead was partially buried in garbage. Though it was almost too dark to see, Jim observed the gleam of metal beneath the greying flesh. There were blackish purple veins in a spider-web pattern across the corpse's face. A mech addict, most likely killed by his own illegal mods. Those cheap fuel cells could be lethal. Jim let the dumpster lid fall and walked on.

The image of the dead man stayed with him. It felt like a warning, but it was not a warning Jim could heed. He had no choices left.

Finally, he reached the end of the alley. In a dark recess he found a door. Once painted green, the door was rusted and daubed with graffiti. Some of it was obscene: a crudely drawn penis, a disembodied mouth open to receive it. Some was colourful, almost artistic. Near the top of the door was a stylised head of a wolf with pointed ears and teeth.

Jim saw the square of an intercom beside the door. He pushed the button and heard the buzz sound somewhere within the building. After a moment, the intercom crackled and he heard a peremptory order.

"Show your ID to the camera."

The lens of a camera glinted just above the intercom. Jim extracted an IDent® card and raised it before the lens. The card identified him as James Ellsworth, a former army captain now running a small business in the Cascade docklands. The IDent® was good: James Ellsworth had a birth certificate, school and army service records, bank accounts and a business license. He existed on the social matrices, too: as fully realised an identity as any other person. He just didn't exist in the flesh. Or, rather, he existed as a cipher: a ready-made alias for men like Jim to step into and out of, as needed.

Jim waited almost ten seconds before the voice said:

"Enter."

The lock clicked. Jim raised a hand and pushed the door open. The corridor within was well lit and he blinked while his eyes adjusted. He let the door swing closed behind him and heard it lock itself once more.

"Are you armed?" the voice said from a speaker on the wall.

Jim hesitated, but he had come too far to be thrown out for a lie now. He had gone from hood to drug addict, from dealer to mech head and finally found a bouncer in an underground night club who agreed – for a significant price – to make arrangements for Jim to come here. Jim pulled back his leather coat, exposing the gun.