Ghost in the Machine Ch. 05

Suddenly, his voice sounded alarmed, every trace of fatigue seemed to have vanished.

"Katarina! Are you all right? Where are you? Has anything happened to you?" His concern was touching and I felt really shitty for teasing him.

"I'm fine, more or less, but I have a problem. I need a new place to crash, quickly. Preferably somewhere that Krone doesn't know about. Can you help me?" I dropped my voice, not wanting to have the whole bar listening in. Quickly looking around, I caught the barman's gaze. He gave me a lusty look and deliberately licked his lips. Creep. I heard Fleischer rummage through some items near his phone. It almost sounded like he was shuffling tablet PCs.

"I think I know someone who can help ya. She owes me, too. Got something to write?"

Casting around, I found a beer mat that wasn't too soggy. Some thoughtful customer had left an old, grubby ball pen near the payphone. I tried it and for once, I was lucky. I "Uh-huh"'ed into the phone and Fleischer gave me a phone number, which I dutifully jotted down.

"Tell her Fleischer gave you this number. She's a good woman. A bit quirky, but nice."

"Does that person have a name," I asked, mildly intrigued. All the time I knew Fleischer, he never had a girlfriend. And he didn't date, as far as I knew. Hearing him talk about a woman was new to me.

"Yeah, of course she's got a name. Erna Schmidt. Tell her I said 'hi,' willya?"

"Sure thing. I'll stay in touch. And thank you, Fleischer. For everything." Before my voice could catch, I hung up. I turned around. The barman was nowhere to be seen. Deciding that this particular phone call could wait a few minutes, I crammed the beer mat into a pocket and left the bar in a hurry.

***

I called Frau Schmidt from yet another payphone. To avoid another scary incident like before, I walked all the way to the Ostkreuz station, which bustled with activity twenty-four hours a day. When I arrived, the morning rush hour was in full swing and I felt somewhat secure in the throngs of people marching off to work. I squeezed myself into one of the narrow phone booths and dialled the number Fleischer gave me.

"Hallo. This is Schmidt speaking," a cranky, old voice snapped at me.

"Good morning, ma'am. You don't know me, but..." I began.

"Why are you calling me then? If you're none of my clients, bugger off," The line was dead after that. Gnashing my teeth, I fed the payphone another Euro and dialled again.

"Yes," the voice snapped again.

"Fleischer gave me your number. He said you know him," I blurted out, as fast as I could.

Silence. I thought she had interrupted the connection again but a moment later she asked, "And what do you want from me?"

She had me there. Fleischer, obviously still not quite a hundred percent himself after I so rudely roused him, didn't elaborate on the kind of services she could offer. By her voice, I surmised she was the World Champion at telling other people off.

"I need a place to sleep, quite badly. Somewhere that's away from Kreuzberg and where they take Illegals." All in, hopefully it worked out.

"Can you pay?"

"Sure."

Silence again. Suddenly, the yawn hit me. I realized I hadn't slept at all this night and all that excitement had taken quite a toll on me. One hell of a birthday, really.

"Forgive me if I don't quite believe you. Where are you now?" Her voice sounded a little less cranky now but it had gained a hint of a very unpleasant edge.

Could I trust that unknown person? On the other hand, she sounded, like, ancient and stuff, so what could she do to me? Throw her teeth at me?

"I'm at the Ostkreuz, at the baker's in the lobby. Look for a silver baseball jacket and a bald head, okay?"

"Fine. Don't move, I'll be over in a hurry. And you'd better not be fucking with me."

This time, the line was dead. I hung up as well, grabbed the paltry change and headed back towards the baker's, hoping that a strong coffee would carry me through the next few hours. I ordered a double-strong espresso and a roll and sat down on one of the handy benches nearby, congratulating myself for my ingenuity. From where I was sitting, I had an excellent view of most of the lobby, so I could see who would eventually approach me. The roll was delicious, much better than the krill-based insta-food I could only afford until now, and the coffee really kicked me awake. Sighing contentedly, I leaned back and watched the lobby, the ebb and flow of people was eerily mesmerizing. And, despite the shock of caffeine, my eyelids began to droop. I fought to keep my eyes open but eventually my head nodded forwards and I dozed off.

***

Something cold and very sharp pressed gently against my neck and the stink of bad tobacco wafted over me. My eyes flew open and, a nanosecond later, an even fouler-smelling hand clamped my mouth shut.

"Come on, 'darling,' move that nice ass of yours off the bench. You and I will be having a little walk, a little talk and a little fuckie-fuckie," an oily voice whispered into my ear. Then his tongue slid along my earlobe. I tensed up, thankful that my hand was inside my jacket pocket.

"Nah-uh-uh," the voice said, pressing the cold blade against my neck, the edge not quite breaking the skin. "Don't even think about it. You'd be breathing through a new hole in your throat quicker than you could pull whatever's in that pocket. Why won't you be a nice little slut and come with me? I'll make it worth your while..."

Pulling on my head, he yanked me off the bench. I was much too shocked to bring up any resistance. And I didn't want him ripping my head off so I reluctantly followed. As if the smell wasn't confirmation enough, when he guided me past the walls towards a side exit I could see our reflection in the tiles. Me, wide-eyed, pale, shaking. He wore a hoodie that obscured most of his head but in the reflection our eyes met. It really was the same sleazy bartender from last night.

He had changed his grip; the knife was hidden under his jacket but I still felt the point of the blade caressing my spine; his other hand held one of my arms and roughly guided me. It took him only a moment to steer me into one of the plentiful emergency escapes. Now it was only me and him and the thick, fire-proof doors would make sure no one would hear my screams.

"You must be really desperate to resort to kidnapping," I hissed his way. Sadly, my voice sounded small, shaky, not the least bit filled with contempt like I hoped it would.

"I just can't let a nice piece of ass wander around is all," he chuckled back at me, smugness dripping off every word. "Oh, we will have so much fun, you and me. Right until the moment I slit your fucking throat."

"Why don't you let her go," a stern voice snapped through the nearly deserted escape passage. My kidnapper stopped in mid-stride and threw a quick glance over his shoulder.

"Fuck off, granny. This is my girlfriend and we're just having a little walk, is all," he drawled.

"I know for a fact that she's not your girlfriend. Let her go or else!"

The kidnapper slash barman pulled me close and pressed the knife to my throat then turned us around. A dozen meters away, near the emergency doors, an angry old woman was standing in the passage, one hand in her handbag, the other, shaking with rage, pointed at us.

"Or else... what," he hissed. One hand was pressing the knife against my throat, the other wandered down over my tummy. I felt his dick twitch against my behind. This guy was getting off at using me as a human shield? Fucking perv!

"I don't have time for this," the old woman snarled, almost under her breath. A moment later, her hand came out of the bag and with it a huge, ancient-looking revolver. Without hesitation, the barrel came up. I looked into what seemed like a subway tunnel. Every gun looks big when you stare into the business end of it.

"I-I wouldn't try that," the kidnapper said hastily. "You might hit her instead." With that, he hugged me even closer to him, waving the knife threateningly. He had his legs spread for better balance, his dick insistently pressing in between my butt cheeks.

"You're right," the old woman said. The barrel lowered again. The kidnapper and I breathed a sigh of relief. Then, almost simultanously, a shot roared and the kidnapper started to scream. He dropped the knife and fell, taking me with him, howling like a stuck pig. I rolled away from him and stumbled back to my feet. He was clutching his knee and screaming in agony. The old woman motioned for me to move away from him, which I happily did, then she raised the weapon and fired again. His screams rose in pitch and volume, a red puddle steadily expanding from him.

"And that's what you get for abducting young girls. A shot to the nuts," the old woman said, with grim satisfaction. She replaced the gun in her handbag, brushed her hand off on her coat and held it out to me.

"I'm Erna Schmidt. Did you call me earlier?"

"Huh? Y-yeah... But what about him? Won't he die," I asked in mixed awe and horror.

"Nah, none of the hits were fatal. Except to his ego, that is," Frau Schmidt said, giving a mean cackle. Seeing that I had no intention of shaking it, she withdrew her hand.

"Let's go, before the cops show up."

***

"There we are," Frau Schmidt said, pointing out of the side window of her pre-turn of the century Mercedes limo. She didn't bother with a driver, instead she steered the vehicle herself. After being with her for about an hour, I still had no clue how old she was and what she was doing for a living. I only knew it involved guns somehow, because on the the back seat of the limo, where my backpack parked, there was a big, mean submachine gun. By the look of the matted plastic handle, well used.

The house she was pointing at was an unremarkable six-story apartment building in Niederschönweide, surrounded by others of its kind.

"It may not be the fucking Adlon hotel but no one will bother you here," Frau Schmidt huffed.

"What do I owe you," I asked, intimidated. Her auburn eyes softened for an instant, before her old, brash self returned.

"As long as you pay your rent, you owe me nothing. That little save earlier is on the house. Us girls need to stick together, right?" A bout of raucous laughter erupted from her, turning into a painful cough.

"Are you all right," I asked, worried.

"Parts of me want to die badly, it seems," Frau Schmidt chuckled, wiping tears from her eyes. "But don't concern yourself with that. Talk to Herr Kiesow, the landlord. He'll get you a flat. And if he gives you lip, send him my way." Almost gently, she tapped my shoulder and pointed at the passenger-side door. I took the hint, grabbed my backpack and climbed out of the comfy car. Frau Schmidt honked the horn twice and gunned the accelerator, taking off in a screech of tires. Shaking my head, I crossed the street, eager to meet my new landlord. I just hoped the flat had 'Net access.

***

It did. It also had its own, cozy bathroom. A small kitchenette with a microwave and fridge. Cable TV too. The furniture looked like last century to me but who was I to complain? To me, it was like a fever dream. No more sharing a dingy, communal shower. No need to carry a whole broom cabinet of cleaning and disinfectant supplies when you needed to hit the potty. I was deathly tired by now but I couldn't resist the urge for a hot, long shower.

Soaking under the steamy water, I finally began to relax. Things were looking pretty good right now. I had a roof over my head, I had 'Net access and no one apart from Frau Schmidt knew where I was. I squirted some shower gel into my hand and began to lather myself up. With the kind of money I now had, I could even have a good meal each day. I keenly felt every rib as I rubbed the soft lather over my small breasts. As if on autopilot, my fingers pinched my nipples and I gasped at the sensation, the small jolt of pleasure shooting right between my thighs. Yeah, twice tonight I ended up shortly before a climax. Once with the kill chip, once with Romeo tonguing me. Third time's the charm then. I leaned against the tiled wall and placed one foot on the rim of the shower, slowly caressing down my tummy. My hip bones felt shockingly sharp under my questing fingertips and I vowed to put on at least a bit of healthy weight in the next few weeks. My fingers converged on my mound, teasingly brushing the hint of fuzz that had grown there since the last time I managed to pay for a waxing. Grinning mischievously, I unhooked the shower head from its arm and tested the jets of water, letting them hit against my shoulder before slowly moving them lower, over my breasts. I felt supremely decadent, all soaped up, teasing myself with a removeable shower head. The last time I did that, I was still living with my parents at Ceiss Tower and I had just discovered the pleasure I could give myself. The water hit my mound and I sighed in pleasure, my free hand guiding the blast, sometimes shielding my sensitive snatch from the jetting water, sometimes exposing my sex to it, opening my folds. I moved the shower head in small circles over my pussy, zeroing in on my clit before I couldn't take it any more. I replaced the shower head, letting the water pour down on me while I buried both hands between my legs, one stroking, teasing my clit while two fingers from the other hand invaded my tunnel and slowly, deeply pumped into me. My sighs had turned into fully-fledged moans of heat as I fucked myself vigorously. This was not about gentle teasing, sensuous pleasure, this was the pure need to get off. Whimpering, I picked up the pace even more, my fingers a blur, busy between my thighs. Then someone hammered against the wall, a muffled, disgruntled voice complaining. I twitched in shock, brushing my fingers against that super-sensitive spot inside of me and I came, hard. A scream wrenched itself from my body as I sunk against the tiled wall, riding the waves of a wonderful orgasm.

Catching my breath, I cleaned myself up and hopped from the shower, wrapping my threadbare towels around me. I barely made it to the bed before fatigue finally caught up with me.

***

When I woke up, it was dark again outside. My belly rumbled. On the one hand, I wanted to conserve my money, but I had lived in Kreuzberg long enough to know that walking through unknown territory was a bad idea. I knew next to nothing about this area. Going by what Frau Schmidt told me on the ride here, I only knew that this was still considered a relatively safe area. Low-rent, yes, but the cops did their rounds still, there was electricity most of the time and the likelihood of being shot at was rather slim. Nonetheless, until I knew my way around, I decided against going shopping in the dark and ordered takeout instead. One other thing the flat had was a phone. Herr Kiesow told me that as long as I kept away from international calls or phone sex numbers, I could use it as long as I wanted, special service for Frau Schmidt's customers.

So, half an hour later, I was munching on almost-hot turkish Döner kebap with fries and fiddled around with the deck I "found." It didn't look too complicated, with only three jacks, each of them unique to a cable and a simple on/off switch. The long, serrated plug of the Mindlink lead was intimidating, though. I hoped that my jury-rigged implant could handle that thing. After gulping down my dinner with a generous helping of imitation coke, I sat down at the living room table. Exchanging my eye for the jack slash implant was almost second nature. Depressing the button next to my eyesocket, I popped my eye out and placed it in the box filled with cleansing fluid, from which I'd already taken the fake eyeball housing all the electronics. That thing went into the vacated eyesocket and I had to make sure that the jack faced outwards. Putting the thing in backwards was fucking painful as the ridges of the jack would scrub against the soft tissue hugging the eyeball, which I learned pretty quickly. I batted my eyelids a couple of times to stem the tear reflex, wiped the jack dry and held the plug up to my one good eye.

"Now, let's see what we stumbled upon," I hissed in my best cyber-agent imitation. Going by touch, I carefully inserted the plug and flicked on the power. The lead going from the plug was surprisingly heavy, pulling uncomfortably at the fake eye it was jutting out from, so I took the booting deck and placed it next to me onto the couch as I leaned back, hoping to ease the pull. Then, something scary happened. A line of red text flashed across my field of vision:

"Warning! Motion inhibitors engaged! Please remain calm!"

Icy panic flooded through me. The last thing I wanted was to go all zombie. But there was nothing I could do. I couldn't even roll my eyes in annoyance. Then, everything went black.

***

When I could see again, I was hovering in a simple, marble-floored room, its eight sides pulsing with angular patterns, not unlike what you would see on a circuit board. Thanks to my visits with Fleischer, I knew enough about electronics to recognize the symbols.

"Welcome, user number zero-zero-nine. I will guide you through the first-time setup of your avatar."

That was new. Granted, I had my knowledge about deck operation mostly from experiencing StimChip thrillers. The hero jacked in and suddenly he was blasting through the systems he needed to infiltrate. Maybe that worked once the boring shit like setup was done?

"Who says I'm a new user," I asked flippantly.

"Your EEG pattern does not match any registered pattern on this deck. Conclusion: New user."

"Does that mean I don't have any software to use," I asked. What use would a deck be if I can't use the software stored on it?

"You may use any software the administrator has labelled as publicly available," the silky female voice elaborated.

"Thank you. How does this work," I wanted to know.

"Do you want automated, guided or expert first-time setup," the voice inquired.

"Guided, please."

"Acknowledged. What basic shape do you want your avatar to possess?"

A vast selection of body types unfolded before my eyes. Humanoid, animal, geometric shapes of all kinds, far too much to take in.

"Can I filter that somehow," I asked, my head spinning.

"Set filter parameters."

I was not in the mood to fiddle with my appearance. From what little I knew, every shape was as good as any other when it came to operating in the 'Net. One of the chips I had used even featured a 'Netjockey whose avatar looked like a neon-blue dolphin, with chromed flippers and an armored nose, and he had no trouble doing the same things a two-legged avatar could do.

"Humanoid, female please."

The selection thinned considerably. I could choose from several body types and heights, everything from little girl to wizened crone. I smirked as I picked a slender, curvaceous model, not unlike the star from "Caribbean Dreams XXII." Once that basic choice was done, the options became much more focussed and easy to comprehend. I had the deck mold the avatar's face to my own, minus the sharply chiseled bones under too little flesh, added a plait made from burning orange neon threads whose tip reached down to the avatar's bum cleft, had the eyes match the hair and coated the whole thing in shiny silver chrome. I even added a little aftertouch effect that caused the chrome to ripple like it was hardly solid. I didn't bother with clothing, despite the overwhelming selection. What I added were a pair of burning wings and glossy, metallic-red lips. I nodded at my flaming angel-avatar. Hopefully, she would be a bringer of justice.

"Do you want to save," the system voice nagged.

"Yeah, do it."

Everything turned black again.

***

I couldn't help it. My fingertips explored my body. The chrome clanged softly when my fingers touched it but it didn't feel cold. And I could feel me touching myself. An experiment then. I brushed my fingertips over my breasts. The system wasn't kidding when it said that this body type would be "fully functional and anatomically correct." My nipples were made from the same warm yet hard metal and, fuck, they were sensitive. Simply brushing my fingertips against one caused me to shudder, my body making ringing noises off the marble dais I was on. My hand travelled lower and found my sex. Despite looking like chrome, my sex was soft, flexible. And oh, so sensitive, while my questing finger felt like a little dildo. I caressed myself for a moment before it became too much. This was more freaky than any StimChip I had to date but I wasn't here to goof around. I sat up and with a sound like a million bunsen burners lighting, my wings fired up, bathing the room in blazing orange radiance. With a thought, I turned them off again. Somehow I knew that it would work that way. I got to my feet and looked around. The same eight-sided room as before, only now I wasn't looking at it from a bird's eye view, now I was standing inside it.