Short Story - King of the Stacks (Part 1)

A homeless boy in the slums has his life changed forever when he begins chasing down mysterious airdrops from the sky. This is an original story set in the Cyberpunk universe.

Dog will hunt—so goes the law of the land in Dogtown. At the center of the Longshore Stacks, a memorial for the strays. Lovers, sisters, brothers… fathers. Lew would visit the Tree of the Lost every day around six. Dozens of photographs were taped or drilled to the trunk of the large oak, candles and paper lanterns surrounding it. 

A singular oak tree transplanted in a concrete jungle, missing from its relatives, for missing relatives. Every day, he’d be there. Lew was a child of twelve, olive skinned and dark haired. Wrapped around his lean body were worn down clothes, a cool hue of grays and cherry reds in the form of t-shirt and shorts. He had damaged canvas sneakers two sizes too small with the tip split open like a mouth on one of them. All it had to say were fatigued groans.

Most photos on the trees were singular portraits, but not this one. It was a family photo: mother, father, and… well, the rest of it is torn off. It was the only photo of them the young boy had to offer. Mom wasn’t missing, she’d been missed for years. Five months for Dad, now. And where was Lew in this picture? In a sense, lost too.

Among the chatter of street vendors and groans of metal shantyscrapers, an electric guitar could be heard wailing for attention. Now the soundscape has shifted. Tucked behind the chatter and the groans, the sobbing and the prayers, Lew could hear the ever faint plucking of a guitar. It's no longer begging for attention, it demands it.

The music is clean and precise, rapid notes forming a great structure of sound—like an auditory matchstick house. A man dressed in black military fatigues sits on the arm of a red cushion couch, damaged by the weather. Strapped across his chest is a bright green ballistic vest reading BARGHEST.

Lew doesn't recognize the tune, but he's entranced with the technicality of it. The man with golden skin and magic hands brushes his fingers across the strings like a canvas, turning an instrument of heavy metal and hard collisions into one of grace and elegance. It's flamenco, a complex Spanish style of playing.

The Barghest soldier lets out a laugh as he hands the guitar back to its owner on the couch who's reclining his feet on the amp. Turning around, the neon-coated tocaor spots Lew staring at him. He instinctively flashes a smile, the cigarette pressed between his lips almost falls out as he does. The smile slowly fades as his eyes dart back and forth between Lew and the oak tree. Lew gives an innocent wave, but by this point the soldier has already begun to turn around and leave. The “guitarist” relaxing on the couch turns all the knobs on his amp back up, and eyeing the parting soldier, returns chaos once more.

Home to Lew come evening was a shipping container stacked up next to a basketball court. The whole shanty-town consisted of containers, the metal hulls sawed, welded, and insulated to provide housing. Dogtown was meant to be a luxurious paradise. It was left a broken down mess by war, and now so is its people. Dogtown is still a war zone. Only appropriate the once attack dogs of Millitech, Barghest, now call it their home. Lost by their cause, found by their brothers. The maze of containers were meant for greater things, now only representative of the greater Pacifica district as a whole: dreams shattered, marred by reality.

There were few containers unclaimed and made into housing, and this was one. It was stacked upon another and open on both sides. One side showed the basketball court, and the other his old home. A young couple had moved in since. It worked, but among the many complaints Lew had, his biggest was not having a high enough view.

The interior of the container was cold but cozy, heaps of blankets and a pillow on one end. A fluorescent lantern and a pile of books and magazines accompany them. There's a small, red lockbox buried underneath it all. Currently, he was nibbling on a scopburger he had gotten from The Moth, courtesy of a sympathetic owner. It was his one meal for the day, because any more could cause some serious trouble. There’s plenty of thieves and beggars in Dogtown, but only the ones who take more than they can handle end up not getting away with it.

Sat at the end of the container, coated with lamplight, Lew had a book about the Unification War. He was his own tutor—no school, and no home. This was his history lesson. He didn't understand a lot of it, in the general sense of how children perceive things, but he made sure to learn it.

 The story is told from two different perspectives: a reporter from WNS documenting various operations of Arasaka’s military presence within the Free States, and an NUSA Sergeant, Rory, who got reassigned into a Millitech infantry division. Predictably, the NUS had few journalists in their ranks despite the reported wartime atrocities coming from the Free States. Maybe they wanted to hide their own. The corporate press were going to run with the ball of villainizing those they weren't payrolled by, anyway.

“Taking the path of a warrior means you're walking head-first into death. Everyone knew this, but no one understood it. You can turn your head, look away, but it's there lingering as you're continuing your march toward the heart of darkness. There was no light beyond the tracers and flares, even the moon hid in fear. All of the 31st were scattered. Those with implants pushed forward while the rest of us were busy catching the bullets they dodged. Another great benefit of corporate reassignment.

When there weren't sounds of gunfire and howls from cyberpsychos, there were sobs. You knew where they were, but no one dared leave their foxhole in that desert. Turning on neural optics only made you a prime target for the runners. The screams from the IFARs deafened us. The only thing you could do is curl up, tough it out, and wait for sunrise.

Either you go out kicking and screaming into the void, or hope your brothers, what's left of them, pick you up and carry what's left of you home. Except these weren't my brothers. My home was still thousands of miles away. Sunrise eventually came, but there was still no light."

Lew had trouble falling asleep most nights, but after reading this passage he slept like a baby.

Lew was already up and around, studying others come midday. The boy would climb high up to get the best view with his binocs. Up here, he could see all the way down the strip. Anyone who came, anyone who went. Up here, he was king. When the stairs and ladders ended, he’d worm his way up crates and containers to get higher. All it would take is one slip to be dethroned, but he’d never slipped. His shoes were the perfect texture, the perfect fit. They were all he had, and with that came a perfection in mediocrity. From atop his castle, he could spot the corpos frequenting that pyramid shaped club and Hansen’s Barghest hounds guarding the gate to the Stacks. They had a whole outpost in front of that tall, golden tower. He would often wonder to himself just how much better the view would be from up there. He could get a good look of everyone coming and going in all of Pacifica.

Lew had no luxuries, none except the gift of sight. His TV was the citizens of Dogtown, his games were “Guess Who?” and “Spot The Tourist”. They often overlapped, people not from Dogtown always had a tell. They had sideways glances, looking everywhere except in front of them. Their clothes were intentionally brushed in dust and run-down to avoid a mugging. They were always on the move, never sure of the destination. A king must know his people, and be ready to welcome awaited visitors.

There was a battle of attrition for attention currently being fought by the Longshore street vendors. It was currently being won by Ronald Malone. Lew had seen him around, wheeling and dealing everything under the sun and even more after the sun had gone down.

“Shop cheap, shop local! Ronald P.T. Malone, everything you'd ever need to own!”

He was more of an information broker and a middleman than a street hustler, profiting on convenience more than anything. His name was stamped on every aspiring enterprise, because frankly, his name was what people knew to trust. Be Ron’s friend, or be left in the wind.

It wasn’t just the sights of despair and decay that led Lew to kiss the sky, he climbed high so he could see the airdrops. And here it was again, 1P.M. on the dot. There’s no mistaking the blaring horn and roar of an AV’s thrusters, the gunshot sound of hard plastic crashing on concrete and the hiss of a flare that can be seen for miles. They started just over five months ago. The world had a strange sense of humor, even if Lew didn’t quite understand this yet.

The only thoughts on his mind were the same ones that always accompanied the red smoke. Who is it for? What is in it? A king must know his kingdom. He knew the answer to one of these two questions. It’s for him, if he could get to it. The crate landed right on top of a building in the Golden Pacific, right in view. That’s close, close enough.

It took Lew five minutes just to descend the various structures he’d placed himself upon, and another five to dash down the Pacific Strip towards the Pride of Eden casino. The streets were sparser during the day, and the majority of the traffic consisted of Barghest patrols and supply trucks. Anyone local knew better than to trap themselves inside someone else's payday. 

Distant gunshots grew louder and louder as he ran, and by the time he reached the outside of the casino, they were gone entirely. Faint murmurings are audible from above, on the roof of the casino—an outdoor pool lounge now derelict. Lew looks around for any possible means of getting up there, but the sound of a Thorton Colby pulling up to the curb startles him.

The passenger seat window rolls down to reveal a woman with a shaved head and a Barghest military vest. Wrapped around her scalp is a pair of navy blue goggles.

“Don’t bother, kid,” she says, her mouth half-full from the contents of a white paper bag in her lap. Lew just stares at her, unsure how to respond.

“Yo Kenzie!” a voice yells out from above him. “They bringin’ two right?”

“They’re bringing two!” The lady in the car yells out in response, “We lost anyone?”

“Nah, Dixon got tagged! Lost our fuckin’ hearing mostly, but nah, we good!”

“How many was there?”

“Nine of ‘em—Scavs! Why, you jealous?”

“Oh, yeah! Envious! Absolutely!” A smile wraps the corner of her lips as she takes another bite of food, a few french fries.

“Yeah, alright motherfucker! Enjoy that cheap ass patrol pay!” 

As the man up top disappears back over the edge, the woman’s eyes shift back down to Lew. 

“Your parents know you’re out here?” The boy hesitates to answer, but then his gaze turns toward the bag of food just barely poking out over the window frame.

“They’re gone,” he says.

“Yeah?” she tilts her head in intrigue, judging his expression. He’s become despondent, the veil of innocence torn through the simple question. Her eyes dart around, focusing on invisible threads as she processes this information and draws her own conclusions.

She continues, “You don’t want to be chasin’ smoke, kid. Cuz’ that’s all you’re gonna get.”

The rustling of a paper bag can be heard; two scopburgers get set aside, and then she tosses the bag out the window. Lew catches it. Inside is a half-eaten paper container of fries and greasy leftover napkins.

“Don’t call me that,” he asserts. The woman’s face contorts, plastering confusion all over it from the response. Lew hears the mechanical whirring of the CrystalDome windshield rising while he scrounges around inside the bag.

“What's in the drops?” he quickly lets out, mouth outrunning mind. The windshield comes to a halt, the bulletproof plating obscuring the lower half of her face. She glances up at the rooftop. 

Her eyes narrow and cheeks fatten, another coy smile obscured by the opaque window being rolled up. "Curiosity killed the cat… kid."

The car is already pulling away and heading back towards the stadium by the time the words spit out of his mouth. "I ain’t no cat."

The code to Lew's little red lockbox is 0216. Today's date is 0724. Five months, now. The box was cheap and mechanical—someone could climb in and break it open in seconds if they wanted. Lew wonders why no one had tried yet, his little eight-foot-high roost isn't exactly a secret. Maybe something about stealing candy from babies. If only he had that higher view.

Inside the box were a few small childhood trinkets, €$450 eurodollars, and the other third of the photograph. He pulls out the wad of eurodollars, his entire savings, and stuffs it in his pocket. In one second, out the next. He's already on the hunt for Ronald Malone to buy everything he'll need to own. 

There’s only one way to life as Lew saw it, the only way that really matters. All of the valuables Lew has in the world are locked safely inside that box, and yet there's plenty of room for more.

The Stadium had shops of every kind and caliber. Outside the jurisdiction of both the NUS government and Night City law enforcement, it and Dogtown as a whole specialized in black market goods which could be peddled free of consequence under Colonel Hansen’s rule. 

Lew wasn’t particularly frugal, and he didn’t exactly have a steady source of eddies to begin with. He could buy himself food for the next few weeks with it, but he had a far greater hunger. There was a netrunning shop called Cracked Decks which peddled all sorts of wares, firm or soft.

The counter is empty, but a big electronic button signals the cashier's arrival. Another kid, maybe ten to twelve, walks out through the doorway. Sammy Taylor, supposed boy genius. Ronald said he was young, but Lew didn't expect Sammy to be even shorter than he was.

“Well well,” Sammy says, patting his hands on the table, “quite the occasion to have another kid take interest in running. What can I do for you? Got all sorts of daemons. Offense or defense? Maybe you want to poke around in others’ business? Ooh, I got a nice starter kit for edskimming if you're looking to make some extra scratch.”

Lew lets out a sigh. “I'm not a netrunner.”

“Not a runner? Maybe you're lookin' to crawl first. What do you need?”

“I just need something for the airdrops.”

“What you're needin' is a microcomputer ICE-pick with a universal link running a decryption algorithm capable of translating ciphertext and injecting that translated data into the code as an input.”

“I guess. Can you do that? Is it expensive?”

“It's actually not expensive, I get gonks every other week coming in looking for their big break. Rarely a Barghest choom will come in, ask for a device only because they lost the passcode and don't wanna get reamed by the Colonel! Yeah, some militia they are. It'll be €$175, by the way. But hey, let's say €$150, because I respect a young entrepreneur like yourself. Deal of a lifetime, choom.”

Lew pulls a wad of eurodollars out of his pocket and lays it on the counter.

"Warning you in advance, they’re single use ‘cuz I gotta make a living, too," Sammy says.

“I didn't know they're Barghest drops.”

Sammy sorts through the wad of bills by notation. “Duh. You ‘noid, choom? Ever glance at the scream sheets? International arms dealer with ties to Millitech starts getting mystery airdrops full of all sorts of shit. True mystery indeed, who could be behind them.”

“What’s in them?”

“Well, that's what you're paying me for, isn't it? To see what's in the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?”

“Do you know or not?”

Sammy takes an exasperated gasp, clearly offended by something beyond Lew’s understanding. He reaches under the counter, tapping away on an electronic keypad. The sound of metal groans as a safe opens. Pinched between Sammy’s two fingers is some unknown, but advanced looking piece of tech.

“Millitech Falcon. Some CHOO-huffing gonk undersold it to me, seeing as he had Barghest on his trail. Got it from an airdrop, he said. I’ve been trying to get rid of it ever since, but since this isn't a bespoke clinic in Corpo Plaza my options are limited. No, I know enough, choom. What's got you chasing the sun, anyhow?”

“The sun?”

“A metaphor—it's lost on you. Forget it.”

“Do you think you’re better than me or something?”

“Know. I leave the thinking to you.”

Lew thinks this homophonous statement from the self-proclaimed genius is a sign of victory and drops the subject.

At night, by lamp light, there were no more tales of days gone by. Lew read only the map to his future. Right in the middle of the yellow Golden Pacific district, two buildings were outlined as small squares. Pride of Eden, Roar of Eden. This was the district most detailed, with thick, semi-translucent lines indicating the roads these casinos and clubs would be connected to. Atop the Pride of Eden square, Lew takes a black pen and etches in a small X. Next to it, he writes Wed-1pm. Only the clever and lucky survive Dogtown. Lew was no child of fortune.

Part 2