Muse 9 (ONC 2020)

Chapter 1

The pathways of the Grid were always dark and damp, but as I wound my way back towards my shop, they seemed more so. Or perhaps that was just due to the dirty rainwater that came racing down through one of the gutters and emptied itself out upon my head, drenching my already damp clothes and hair.

With a string of curses flying from my tongue, I picked up my pace, arms crossed over my chest against my cold, wet coat. The familiar dark path led me through two puddles and under another torrent of rain before I reached my old shop.

Splashing through yet another puddle to arrive at the padlocked door, I cursed again and shivered in my soaked boots as I jerked the piece of metal that served as my key from my pocket. As I grabbed the lock, I pushed the metal into the slit and shifted it up and then forced it down. With a grumble of protest, the lock gaped open and I stripped the chain out of its moorings. Shoving the door open and ignoring its ominous creak, I slipped in through the small crack and slammed it closed behind me.

Before turning the light on, I grabbed the metal rod that leaned up against the wall and dropped it into its place across the door. As an extra precaution, I looped the chain through the rings on either side of the door and through the one in the center of the barricade and locked it in place. Dusting my hands off on my leggings, I stepped back and turned to find the beaded chain that hung down from the lightplate in the ceiling.

"Home sweet home," I grumbled, yanking on the chain and watching as the lightplate fluttered to life, light cascading down in jolts onto my grimy shop. The resulting light illuminated my counter and the strange figure standing stiffly before it.

Before the stuttering light could fully show me just who had infiltrated my shop, I dropped into a crouch as I reached for my dagger. Unslinging the Muse rifle from my back in one smooth motion, I rolled behind the cover of a low wall that separated my shop into my space and the customer's space – and also served perfectly well as cover in situations like this.

"Sable Huntris."

The syllables of my name echoed in the small space, the low, masculine voice somehow managing to sound both sinister and non-threatening at the same time. Clutching the dagger handle backward with the cold blade just touching the skin of my forearm, I crept down the length of the wall, making no noise against the scuffed metal floor.

"Huntris, we need to speak with you."

Yeah, like I'd ever let you talk to me.

I reached the end of the wall and drew my legs up underneath me in a crouch. One, two, three – I lunged out of my hiding spot, catapulting myself into the air and kicking off of the top of the wall to gain some more force.

The figure whipped towards me as I tackled him, dagger brought forward for a killing shot. I felt the jolt of the dagger making contact with a bone as it slid into flesh and inwardly cursed. Stark, that wasn't where I wanted to stab.

With quick reflexes, the figure shoved me away from him, my dagger tearing from his shoulder as I fell to the floor. Before I could move, two more figures emerged from the shadows behind the light's reach and roughly pinned me to the floor.

The first figure advanced towards me, blood coating his left arm. Bringing his foot down on my dagger hand just enough to nudge the blade away from me, he glared nastily down at me.

"I see our consultant was right about you," he said, controlled anger audible in his voice. "You aren't very interested in spoken words."

I scowled up at him. "Why are you here? What do you want?"

"We want your cooperation, Huntris."

"Who's we?" I shot back, every single one of my muscles tensed.

The man lifted an eyebrow. "Are you willing to listen to us, Huntris?" After a pause during which I deliberated over my answer, he added, "This is a question demanding a 'yes.'"

"Fine," I forced through gritted teeth. "I'll listen."

The man nodded at the two holding me down and they dragged me to my feet, careful to keep me restrained. "How about we sit down?" he asked, his voice slightly less demanding. Still, I could tell it was an order.

I nodded, jerking my chin down curtly. Turning, the man walked behind my counter and ducked into my back room. The two holding me followed, forcing me down the one step into the room which served as my office, workspace, and general living area.

The man seated himself behind my metal desk, baring his teeth as blood continued to drip down from his shoulder. But other than that, he paid no attention to the wound, although the blood loss seemed pretty significant.

As I studied the wound, trying to understand why this man was so unconcerned with it, the two figures holding me shoved me down onto an old chair and stood behind me, just out of my line of sight. Strong, restraining hands were clamped down on my shoulders and I felt their weight behind their palms and fingers.

"So, Sable Huntris," the man said, looking at his left hand casually. "You are a copyist, no?" Before I could answer, he added, "Beware, we already know the answer."

Doing my best to hold back a huff of annoyance, I took a moment to ensure I had complete control over my voice. "Yes, I am a copyist," I answered back, my tone neutral. My expression was mostly impassive – but I felt my right eyelid flicker once, the only movement displaying my true emotions.

"And I'm assuming that, as copying memories is your profession, you are quite familiar with the Muse rifle?"

I nodded, wary as to where this line of questioning was going. Being a copyist was illegal in Kycene – at least, it was illegal in the upper world of Kycene. Down here, in the Grid, it wasn't exactly a crime, not to those of us who lived out of the filtered light that came down to us from the grates. The lucky ones clustered around the grates did look down on us a little bit for the memory trade, although many of my customers were those very same Stiffnecks. They just tended to buy the pricier memories.

"What model of the Muse do you currently use in your field of work?" I swear, his tone was almost conversational.

"The Muse 5," I replied steadily.

"A bit old-fashioned, isn't it?"

I felt myself bristling. Despite my older equipment, my copying skills were still superb. "That little Muse 5 has gotten me quite far."

"Perhaps," he allowed. "But not as far as this one will."

He reached down behind my desk and pulled out a wrapped object, placing it carefully on the top of my desk. His eyes pinned on me, he slowly withdrew the cloth covering the object and I couldn't help it: I gasped.

Gleaming ebony metal with thin silver strips running down the barrel, the Muse 8 seemed to beckon to me temptingly, just out of reach. The latest version of the memory rifle – so new, I hadn't even heard it was out, although I knew they were getting close. It was perfect.

Well.

Almost.