Took his time; waited for night to fall. Wouldn’t do to be seen where he was going in daylight hours. Further into Gaslight, two levels up, people like ants in the distance down below, he flipped his screen up and checked the grid using his Mouse program for the address some stranger had given his life for.
This part of town was constantly dark, layers of steel, clapboard, plasteel, blotting out the weak bars of light beating off them. It took a little more touch, walking this high. The winds played with the structures as if the shacks were cardboard toys manipulated by a mad god. Less people also. And small, deceptively rundown shops offering services not even breathed of below. Software of surprising quality. Facial implants, including the latest in optical, dental, and bio-enhanceables.
Finally found the address. The numbers were transposed, but didn’t match the surrounding addresses. Dirty brown faux-wood paneling, one door, no windows, a patch of silver blade grass lining the single walkway. Sign above the door spoke in a repeated, scratchy monotone: “BART’S ANTIQUE BOOKS”.
Was it kidding? Real books? Things you could actually hold? No way. He twisted the handle and stepped inside. Squinted. Harsh white light. Took getting used to. His eyes adjusted. He gaped. There must have been near one hundred books lining the front and right walls. A door was inset into a third wall. The fourth hosted a pearl-white counter running its entire length. Two terminals, the latest Sino-Logic 16 models, sat atop the counter, with a thick, dust-covered book resting between them. A thin man with a shock of red hair slouched behind the slab of white glanced up, obviously bored.
“Help you?”
“Yes. I’m looking for...” Suddenly he drew a blank on the cover name he’d discovered. “...Maycheck.” Red scratched his head.
“Nope. No guy here by that name.”
“It’s not a man, but a woman.” The bored expression vanished, replaced by one of indignation.
“I don’t care if it’s an androgynous joy toy grown in the vats of New Tokyo. We don’t got no one by that tag here.” Cort grew desperate. The next name could get him wasted. “How about Kennedy?” Red quickly backed up, his mouth stretched into an impossibly wide smile.
“Be right back, sport.” He slid through smoky curtains and disappeared. Immediately, two Rent To Own shades stepped through the curtains. The finest currency could purchase (If you had the resources, for the rent tended to extend for a rather long period of time, per Arasaka standards). Not exactly together; too wide for that. Each RTO, a carbon copy of the other, weighed at least three hundred, five percent body fat, max. Grafted muscles, abnormally bulky. Not very flexible, but inhumanly strong. Both wore mirrored shades, surgically grafted, sealing eyes behind silver kevlar frames. The lenses served in microscopic/telescopic capacities, infrared and heat sensors, night vision, and computer terminal. And those were the features Cort knew of. He’d heard rumors of other options, almost impossible to fathom. They didn’t look happy. And they were looking toward him. The one on the left opened his mouth--when all hell broke loose.