Lucky 7 Read online

  Other Books by Rae D. Magdon

  Fur and Fangs

  Tengoku

  Death Wears Yellow Garters

  Amendyr Series

  The Second Sister

  Wolf’s Eyes

  The Witch’s Daughter

  The Mirror’s Gaze

  And with Michelle Magly

  Dark Horizons Series

  Dark Horizons

  Starless Nights

  Lucky 7

  By Rae D. Magdon

  ©2018 Rae D. Magdon

  ISBN (trade): 9781942976769

  ISBN (epub): 9781942976776

  ISBN (pdf): 9781942976783

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form other than that which it was purchased and without the express permission of the author or publisher. Please note that piracy of copyrighted materials violates the author’s right and is illegal.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  Desert Palm Press

  1961 Main Street, Suite 220

  Watsonville, California 95076

  Editor: Cal Faolan

  Cover Design: Rachel George

  Blurb

  Elena Nevares is on the run. She’s a jacker, someone who connects to virtual reality with their brain, and everyone else on her crew was murdered during a mission gone wrong. Sasha Young is planning a rescue. She’s a handler, a team leader whose crew has been scattered by an evil corporation: Axys Generations. Together, they must find the rest of Sasha’s crew: Cherry, the engineer and explosives expert; Rami, the master of disguise; Doc, the wunderkind Medical Officer; and Rock, the mechanically modified muscle. But Axys Generations has bigger plans than taking down Sasha’s crew. Elena, Sasha, and the rest of the Lucky 7 must go on their most dangerous mission yet—not for credits or tech, but to save the world.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank Jocelyne, Mikayla, Shan, Amanda, Selena, Joe, Alejandra, Train, and Anna for reading this manuscript in advance as sensitivity readers, and in some cases, offering Spanish translations. Lucky 7 is a story about what makes us human, and humanity itself is big, beautiful, and diverse. Your perspectives, corrections, and advice were invaluable to achieving the vision I had for this novel. Some of you made a few pointed comments where it counted, and some of you wrote entire essays, but in no way, shape, or form could I have done this without you.

  I must also thank my editor, Cal Faolan. You are my best friend, and the godparent of this book. Parts of this story feel like they’re as much yours as mine. It has the stamp of your heart all over it, and by that, I mean it’s funny, clever, emotional, and beautiful (because goodness knows I can’t take credit for all that on my own). You are one of the most fantastic editors I have ever worked with, and one of the most fantastic people I know.

  Table of Contents

  part one - elena

  part two - sasha

  About Rae D. Magdon

  Other Books by Rae D. Magdon

  part one — elena

  Monday, 06-07-65 21:53:00

  I SLIP INTO THE dimly lit bar, closing the door behind me to shut out the howling wind. I’d been ready for snow in St. Petersburg, but the chill outside is worse than I’d expected—the kind of cold that burrows bone-deep in a matter of seconds and lingers long afterward. My limbs ache with it, and I can’t feel my feet inside my boots.

  My lungs burn with my first breath of warm air. A cloud of stale cigar smoke clogs my throat, and I muffle a cough with my scarf. The less attention I draw to myself, the better. Corps like Axys Generations have eyes everywhere, even in the underworld.

  Once I stop choking, I kick the snow from my boots. Other people haven't been so polite. Chunks of dirty ice are scattered across the floor, crushed by dozens of boot prints. It’s a tacit warning to outsiders: Don’t come here. A year ago, I wouldn’t have.

  I try to stay invisible as I pick my way through the tables, but I still feel naked. Vulnerable. I always do in meatspace, without my cloaking programs or my shield. The pistol at my hip is cheap, and I’m a barely passable shot. All my money’s in the jack behind my ear, and for now, I’m all tapped out.

  Most of the bar’s patrons are bundled up, their bulky coats concealing custom mods and weapons. They’re either old or old before their time, professionals who’ve seen some serious shit. If they notice me, they don’t react. Everyone here knows the freelancer’s code: mind your own fucking business.

  When I arrive at the dark corner where Jento told me to wait, someone is already sitting there. That someone is a woman, although she’s so tall it takes a second for me to tell. Her dark brown skin looks almost blue beneath the flickering lights. Her face is striking—square jaw, high cheekbones, blunt nose. Her tight cornrows barely peek out from under her hood. Possibly the only thing soft about her is her lips. They’re full and round, but when she sees me, they tighten into a thin line.

  As I get closer, I notice a scar running beneath the woman’s chin. It slices across the front and wraps all the way around her throat. The fact that she survived an attack like that tells me a lot about what kind of person she is. I shudder. She’s got plenty of stud swagger, but the sex appeal is spoiled because she looks too fucking dangerous. A little danger is sexy. She looks like death decided it wanted a body one day.

  The woman settles back in her seat. While I’ve been gawking, she’s been sizing me up. The silence makes my skin crawl, so I blurt out the first thing I can think of. “Are you the handler Jento told me—”

  She shakes her head. My jaw snaps shut.

  “Sit.”

  It’s an order. Her low voice makes my heart thud. My thighs twitch with the urge to run. Instead, I sit.

  “I didn’t know what to expect when Jento told me he was sending someone, but you aren’t it,” the handler says after a while. She leans forward, bracing her arms on the table.

  “You aren’t what I was expecting either,” I say before I can stop myself. My mouth usually drives the shuttle when I’m scared.

  The handler’s expression doesn’t change. “What were you expecting?”

  “An actual name, maybe?" Jento had warned me about this contact beforehand, but he hadn't given a name. According to him, she’s dangerous, ruthless, and impossible to kill. That’s why I’m here looking for her. I need a little immortality myself.

  “Were you expecting someone beyond human?” she asks.

  “I don’t care who or what you are as long as you’re interested in credits.”

  “I don’t have much use for credits.” The handler leans back in her chair, resting her hands in her lap. I wonder how many guns are strapped to the lower half of her body beneath the table. Or maybe something fancier. Some of the best handlers have so many mods they’re almost cyborgs, and she looks experienced. One of the first things you learn in this business is how to separate the pros from the rookies at a glance. Unfortunately, pros come at a price.

  “I can offer you twenty for protection. I need to disappear.”

  “Twenty thousand? If you were offering twenty mil
lion, maybe. Otherwise, don’t waste my time.”

  My heart sinks. “Give me a few days. I can try and get more. My last op went bad and the rest of my crew died.”

  She doesn’t seem impressed. “Your fault?”

  Logically, I know the clusterfuck that killed the rest of the crew wasn’t on me, but the churning of my gut and the pressure squeezing my chest say otherwise. “Our client lied about the op. I jacked out right before the hotel blew up.”

  It all comes rushing back again in a blur. Mumbai. Screams, sirens, a building consumed by flames. Shattered glass, the lurching sensation of a fall. Smoke everywhere. That smell stays for days—in your throat, in your hair, on your clothes. The hazy grey cigar clouds around the other tables don’t help my nerves. The handler’s still waiting.

  “Everyone else was dead and I knew I’d be next. Jento told me you’d be interested.”

  "Jento told you wrong." She stands up, barely sparing me a glance. "I have my own shit to take care of."

  I leap out of my chair, my hand shooting out to clutch her sleeve without my permission. “If I don't do something, AxysGen’s gonna kill me!"

  The handler jerks her arm free, but doesn't head for the door. Her dark brown eyes narrow to cold slits. She looks like she’s staring at me through the scope of a pulse rifle. All she says is, "Axys Generations?" Suddenly, I have her undivided attention.

  "My crew's last op.” It takes a conscious effort to keep my voice steady. Thinking about what happened still makes my pulse race sickeningly fast. “Someone hired us to break into a local AxysGen facility and swipe a databox. ‘All low security,’ he said. ‘No need to decrypt it, just walk out with the whole thing.’ I had to jack in and redirect the security feeds while our cloak and our grunt walked through the front door. Fucking idiot."

  “You, or your fixer?”

  Me, I don’t say aloud. My gut had told me the op was sketchy back then. I hadn’t listened.

  The handler folds her arms across her chest, fingers drumming above her elbows. "Let me guess. Their intranet system was bugged. Another jacker tried to melt you. Your grunt got smeared. Your cloak got stabbed in the back. Someone tricked your wrench and rigged the building you were working out of to explode."

  It’s true. Every word. "How did you know?"

  "I know my business, and I've had run-ins with Axys Generations before. The straight crews they hire to prevent freelancers from stealing their products are top notch. So, how'd you get out in time?"

  I almost hadn’t, but she doesn’t have to know that. "I know my business, too. I'm fast. Faster than any corp jacker. And…I trawled a bit of AxysGen’s source code and used it to modify my programs. Their security systems let me jack in like a regular cog."

  Usually people flip their shit when I tell them about my secret sauce, but the handler just looks skeptical. “Really.”

  “Yeah. It saved my ass in there, and it’s kept me a step ahead so far.”

  There’s an uncomfortable pause. "I've changed my mind,” the handler says at last. “You ride with my crew, I'll help you out. Is your gear still good?"

  I’m suspicious of the handler’s sudden change of heart, but a new crew means a new chance. Alone, I won’t survive the month. With an experienced team watching my back, I might get to keep breathing. “I’m running the latest version of Dendryte Silver and a Retinal Visual Interface System.” I decide not to add that my VIS-R is a few months out of date. When you’re short on credits, you have to make hard choices about which hardware to upgrade. “Point me at an entry port, and I'll get you where you want to go."

  "Then we’re in business." The handler heads toward the door with brisk strides. I trot to keep up, nearly slipping on the wet floor. Those long legs of hers are going to be a pain, I can already tell.

  "Wait.” I hurry to catch up. “At least give me a name first. If I’m working for you, I need something to call you. Here, I’ll go first: Elena Nevares.”

  She stops with her hand on the door. "Jento didn't tell you who you were dealing with, did he?"

  I shrug. There’s a reason the Spanish term for fixer is cabrón—literally, asshole. Need some quick money? Go visit the local asshole. Every crew relies on fixers to connect with paying clients, some more than others. Every crew also wishes they didn’t have to. “You know fixers. They always keep the important details back until you pay them. You can’t trust them half the time."

  “Much less than half. Here’s what he didn’t tell you. They call me the Wolf of the Kremlin. Stupid name, but reputation gets you hired."

  I shiver. I know that name. Everyone in the business does. I also know the Wolf of the Kremlin is supposed to be dead.

  “If you think it’s so stupid, tell me your real name.”

  Her eyes dig into me like teeth and refuse to let go. "For now, you can call me Sasha."

  Tuesday, 06-08-65 00:23:03

  “SO WHERE ARE WE headed?”

  Sasha doesn't spare me a glance from the pilot’s seat of the shuttle—a Series 3 Eagle, couple of years old but armed like a gunship and built like a flying tank. Her gaze stays locked on the terrain ahead as she jerks up on the controls. The shuttle’s propulsion system flares, vaulting us over a mound of snow. We land hard, stopping a few inches above the icy ground as the hoverguard kicks in.

  “Away from St. Petersburg.”

  "Can you be more specific?" In the few hours since we’ve left the city, Sasha has gone from terrifying me to pissing me off. Her answers aren’t really answers. I get why she likes Siberia: it’s the only thing colder than her.

  “No.”

  “At least tell me how much longer it’s going to be?”

  Sasha doesn’t answer me directly. Instead, she sighs deeply and speaks to the shuttle’s dashboard. “Val, what’s our ETA?”

  A warm female voice answers from the Eagle’s speakers. “Your destination is four hundred and seventeen kilometers away. Estimated time of arrival, twenty-one minutes.”

  I look at Sasha in surprise. “Your shuttle has an AI?”

  “Yeah,” Sasha says, without looking at me. “Custom-coded. We call her Val.”

  “Val,” I repeat to myself.

  Some professional jackers use AIs to enhance their programs, but I’m not a fan. Normal programs complete the function they were designed for, exactly the way they’re told to. But AIs? They learn. They modify their own coding to be more efficient, but they don’t have emotions or morals or common sense to keep them in check. I’ve heard stories of AI-enhanced targeting systems unable to discriminate between friendly jackers and enemies because of self-modifications gone wrong, and AI-enhanced shields getting so overprotective that they stop other programs from running. I decided early on never to trust something that thinks for itself, if I can’t see where it keeps its brain.

  "Is that a nickname you gave it, or what? I haven’t heard of an AI series named Val before.”

  “I said she was custom coded,” Sasha repeats, obviously irritated. “You think I’d trust some corp model to help pilot my bird?”

  I hold up both hands in a gesture of acceptance. “Hey, I don’t blame you. I don’t use AIs either.” Sasha gives me a sidelong look, and my face heats up. “Not because I’m a rookie or anything. My programs are top of the line. I just don’t always trust AIs.”

  Sasha’s silence is an obvious question…or maybe I’m too nervous to shut up.

  “With standard software, you know everything about the tool you’re using,” I explain. “They do exactly what they’re supposed to do and nothing extra. When I’m running ops, I like to know exactly what result I’m gonna get every time I run a program. Too many unknowns can get you killed.”

  That answer seems to satisfy Sasha. Her shoulders relax, and she pulls her hood off before focusing back on the empty tundra. Her face is annoyingly attractive; some people pay money for a jawline that fine. Pity it’s attached to someone so obnoxious. As I follow that jawline, I notice a port glinting behind her e
ar. That’s not unusual. Plenty of handlers have basic jacking skills. But if she’s any good, why use me? Just for the code I trawled, or something else?

  I look away from her and out the window, watching streaks of white whip by. The landscape is the definition of monotonous until Sasha sends us flying from another snowdrift. "Dios, I literally just said I didn’t want to get killed! You didn't even turn the stabilizers on."

  "Actually, I did."

  "Then you’re just a terrible driver. Maybe you should use that AI of yours."

  Sasha finally looks at me. That blank stare of hers is almost worse than anger. "I’m surprised no one in that bar pulled a gun on you, the way you run your mouth."

  "Jackers have to be impulsive. Comes with the job. When you’re plugged in, it’s move or die."

  Sasha resumes staring at the endless stretch of white, but her gaze seems more distant than that. "You aren't the first jacker I’ve met who describes it that way. She said it was physical, like running or dancing. Hard to believe when I watched her sit there and stare at the screen."

  "Who’s ‘she?’ Your crew’s previous jacker?"

  Sasha doesn't answer. Her silence makes me itchy, but I get the feeling that if I ask again, it won't end well. I circle back to my first question. "At least tell me where we're going. Some kind of safe house?"

  "No." The Eagle vaults over another frost heave, soaring like its namesake before its skimmers stop us inches short of the ice. "Here’s the deal, Nevares. I might be dead to most people, but AxysGen has a hit out on me too. If we want to live, we need to erase ourselves from their databases. For that, we need my crew."

  At first, I think she’s joking, but Sasha doesn’t seem like the joking type. Snooping around in AxysGen’s localized security systems is one thing. Modifying their core databases is different. Impossible is a generous word for it. Crazy is a better one.