The Beast’s Ledger – Part 2 – A Cyber Punk Short Story

This is the second and final part of Beast’s Ledger a Cyber Punk Short Story. You can catch up by reading Part 1 Here.

J-Red fell backwards out of the bar stool. Flailing his arms back he caught himself and the metal in his arms made a loud clank against the metallic tiled floor. Pressure sensors peaked then flattened out with a pain filter in his microfuser that kept him from screaming. A lesser arm would’ve broken at the wrist. But his arm hadn’t thrown any errors yet.
He touched his right cheek, the guy had been kind enough not to punch his left side and damage the microfuser. The cheek was tender but not bleeding. Would likely leave a bruise. The guy had also been kind enough not to use the full force of his ’hanced arms. Like a silver tongued executive navigating a board room this man knew how to speak with his fist.
J-Red looked up at Mr. Speaks With Fists who now sat in J-Red’s seat. The seat’s new occupant didn’t spare a glance down. But he was ‘hanced head to toe, even his hair was a silver helmet-like mold that merely imitated hair. It was stylish because it was expensive, not because it looked good.
If J-Red retaliated he’d damage his hand by punching Mr. Speaks with Firsts’ chiseled titanium cheeks. The indifference towards J-Red was likely performative. With that many ‘hances it was unlikely J-Red could attack unnoticed. The guy probably had a dozen cameras in his head running analysis in the back of his mind just to monitor threats.
Worst part was that J-Red hadn’t even gotten to finish his drink. Well what he’d claimed as his drink. An old whiskey someone left behind and the auto-barman hadn’t cleaned up yet. But now it was in a puddle on the floor mixing with discarded peanut shells and other liquids spilled earlier in the night.
The view from the floor was like being in a jail cell. Silver metal legs of stools and chairs crossed his vision. The music was a little bit better than what they played in jail and twice as loud. Waitstaff darted between the tables, chairs, and moving patrons. Some even managed to avoid him on the floor without missing a step, as if he was another obstacle to be dodged. Screens hung from every wall playing sonic-ball matches, news reports, or other streamers. Most of it was replays, nothing was live this late in the night.

J-Red preferred this bar because it was always open until the hazy sunrise that filtered over the valley. The auto-barman was an outdated model that didn’t track which drink belonged to which patron. It was a place he could get free drinks and free peanuts and all he had to do was put up with a little disrespect. And that was all he could afford right now.
“You need help up?” A woman asked. She was as thin as a walking staff. Her hair, a #103, was a curtain of loose black curls that hung past her shoulders. It was one of the go to styles for executive wives, and not cheap because of it.
Her face had makeup on it, instead of a microfuser. There wasn’t a ‘hance on her body. J-Red was confident with this assessment because her gossamer silk robe clung to her body and hid little.
She offered her soft fleshy hand to help J-Red up. Ivory tattoos were barely noticeable on her porcelain skin. They covered her hand and arm in an intricate sleeve of geometric patterns. Metal arms couldn’t be tattooed like that.
There was only one reason someone that unenhanced could wander around a bar like this. J-Red knew he couldn’t afford her services for the night, nor could he afford to get wrapped up with whoever brought her here in the first place.
He grabbed her arm for help, connecting his the two thumbs on his right hand around her wrist like a bracelet.
“Thanks!” He gave her a smile and used his left hand to pull his ash brown hair out of his eyes. His hair wouldn’t get out of his way. After a second try he realized it wasn’t the hair’s fault. He looked at his hand. “Sewage and seawater!”
Mr. Speaks With Fists turned his head subtly at the curse. J-Red walked towards the door in an attempt to avoid having another conversation with the bully.
“What’s wrong?” The unenhanced woman asked.
J-Red held his left arm out in front of her. His six fingered hand hung limply on the end of it. She grabbed each thumb then flipped his hand over palm side up. Worried he’d drag her along because of how tight she gripped his thumbs he stop walking.
“Look I…”
She placed the back of his hand in her palm and grabbed a dirty fork off a table with her tattooed hand. Using J-Red’s vest she wiped off the remains of a greasy meal.
“Pinch the top three,” she told him.
J-Red gripped the tines with his thumbs pinching as hard as the ‘hances allowed. She bent the fork against them leaving one tine up like a pointing finger.
She jammed the fork into his wrist. He winced in response.
It didn’t hurt. Merely a phantom reaction from ages ago when he had flesh there. She twisted and turned and J-Red looked around to see who he might be getting in trouble with.
No one seem particularly interested in them.
Hydraulics hissed in his arm and as the woman let go of his hand. It dropped limply on his wrist in a direction it wasn’t supposed to.
She shrugged and threw the bent fork on the ground.
“Thanks for trying,” J-Red said.
“Come on. I’ve got better tools in the back.” She turned and started walking away from the front door.
“I can’t. I appreciate it but—”
“It’s free.” She nearly sang the words. She looked over her shoulder at him. Her eyes were brown with a gold ring running through the middle of the iris. “You come here because you like free right?”
J-Red couldn’t argue with that. If she could fix this it’d be better than having to pay Watchet or worse a deep doc to repair it. He weighed her alluring offer against the threat of getting involved with whoever protected her around her. He followed her.
She led him to a room label ‘Private’ and while he was worried about not being able to afford any services she could provide his concerns were dismissed when he saw the inside of the room.
The woman gestured to a high backed well padded swivel chair behind a desk covered in glass tablets, various guns, and a few bionic limbs. She pulled a small red toolbox off of a high shelf, it was out of place compared to the kitchenware, woven bags filled with peanuts, and boxes of liquor bottles that filled the racks.
An old synth-leather couch lumpy and stained with age sat across the room. Terminal screens with security camera views of the bar hung over it. Overall the office was hardly bigger than a game booth.
“I’m Sophia,” the woman said as she flung bionic arms, hands, and feet towards the couch. She placed her toolbox on the table then gestured for him to place his arm next to it.
“J-Red,” he replied. “How do know how to…” he gestured at his hand.
“I’m a deep doc,” she said as she took a screwdriver to his palm and lifted up the gunmetal plates that protected the inner workings. “You couldn’t tell?”
Deep docs, in J-Red’s experience, usually had ‘hances. Hands with fingers on fingers and entire operating tables that they could flat worm into for surgeries. The only similarity she shared with a doc was a room full of scrapped bionics.
“I kinda assumed…” he cut trailed off uninterested in offending Sophia while his hand was in pieces in front of her.
She took a soldering iron out and cranked the temperature dial up. “You assumed I was a prostitute?”
“Yeah.” J-Red winced as she shoved the hot iron deep inside his wrist. Once again, it was a phantom reaction and he felt nothing and she heated some chip deep inside him.
She fed solder into it and white smoke drifted out of his hand. “Sometimes assumptions are correct. Dad was a deep-doc who forbade me from getting a microfuser by the time I could go against his wishes… well I was making plenty of money without it.”
She put the soldering iron away and filled a pen with 3D filament. “Need to patch a few more things up with this printer.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem. I enjoy little jobs like this, never really out grew the rebellious teenage phase.”
“Do you normally snag patrons from the front of the bar and perform services on them back here?”
“I don’t think I’d consider you a patron. You didn’t buy a single thing tonight and our auto-barman estimates you’ve eaten at least one of those 12 kilo bags of peanuts on your own to date.”
J-Red whistled impressed with himself. “Is there a leader board? Because that’s one I might actually be on top of.”
“Try moving your wrist back and forth slowly,” Sofia said.
It was strange to watch the inner pistons of his arm move without a cover on it but everything seemed to be working fine.
“Roll it around.”
It felt good. He rolled his other wrist in comparison. It certainly felt better. Sofia went to patch it up.
“Didn’t think the barman tracked drink owners. Usually they get mad at me for snagging orphaned drinks and make me buy my own.”
“The boss turned that off for the same reason they leave peanuts out. Claims it’s to lure in lost souls who can serve as assets on various gigs.” Sophia put the final screws back into place on his hand and gave it a little low five. “I think the boss does it because they always made the most of food they found as a kid and wanted to pay it forward.”
“How sweet of them.” It didn’t pay to have a heart this deep in the valley. Most who could afford it got theirs replaced. “By gigs I’m not assuming you’re looking for musicians?”
“More like robberies, heists, merger brawls, grave robberies, and light corporate espionage.”
“If one was a lost soul who could serve as an asset, could they make a few creds doing it?”
Sophia smiled. “I’m payed well for my assets.” She moved her shoulders and hips to make her gossamer robe shimmer. “But you’ll have to ask Mack.” She gestured at the screen.
Three people all built like barrels were walking towards the back office. If there was a crack in the room J-Red would’ve crawl through it to get out. He needed ten cents not a criminal record.
“Oh.” J-Red suddenly felt like he was laying prone before a dragon. “Mack, the warlord Mack?”
Sophia laughed and it was bright cutting through the low bass of the music that came muffled through the door. “They’ll like that one. Yeah that Mack.”
The door slid open with a beep. Unenhanced, like all the stories said, Mack stood framed by the doorway and the two enforcers behind them. They had a #26 haircut died a non-standard green. They wore a tight leather jacket with a silver metal zipper running across their body.
Mack looked J-Red up and down, saw the tool box on the desk and Sophia behind it.
“Out of my chair.” Mack flicked a finger ornamented with bright green nail polish.
J-Red scurried out of it and towards the door not turning his back to Mack. He’d been caught in a dozen caves with a dozen monsters while streaming games. But this paled in comparison.
The two enforcers ducked under the doorway to enter into the room. A man and a woman both broad in the shoulders and thighs with their enhancements. They had boxy metal hands and one had a microfuser around each eye to manage his ‘hances.
“Thanks,” J-Red said. “I’ll be—”
“He wants a job,” Sophia interrupted.
Mack looked at his six fingered hands then took a seat on the office chair. They kicked their heavy soled black boots up onto the clear spot of the desk where J-Red’s arm was. Sophia climbed up onto Mack’s lap making herself comfortable.
“Good, we need a replacement hacker. Take a seat.”
J-Red looked at the door, then the couch. It was still covered in bionic limbs. He headed towards the door, “I really don’t need one. I was just—”
The woman gently placed her heavy metal on his shoulder. The heavily enhanced man singlehandedly lifted the entire couch up and dumped the parts on the floor.
“Boss says sit,” she lead him to the couch and sat down with him stretching her enhanced shoulders wide across the back of the couch.
The man sat next to him. The couch squeaked under his added weight but didn’t fold.
J-Red didn’t need the broad metal shoulders on both sides of his face and the thick metal thighs pressing against his knees to know he was in a pinch.

J-Red didn’t know much about hacking. He couldn’t write a Delauren function. He couldn’t convince an AI to self destruct. If he could he’d have his stuff back and wouldn’t need this job. But Mack had found something for him. He wasn’t sure if he was grateful for that or not.
His six fingered hands enabled him to quickly input data through a keyboard. His early days of streaming video games was built on that edge. He had gotten the expensive six fingered arms for that purpose, hoping to rise up the leaderboards and the valley. Until everything changed in the industry and tabletop controls went out of fashion.
But the VR experience did teach him to monitor for threats in his surrounding area without any high level ‘hances. Which was key because those high level ‘hances would not be approved by conglomerate temp agencies. Mack had contacts at those temp agencies, contacts that could get someone into a data input job at the Baumein conglomerate, but Mack lacked the person with just the right amount of ’hances. Until J-Red walked in.
So now, at 7:30 in the morning, wired on stim-pills, J-Red transposed from a glass tablet projecting a hologram of data into the Baumein system. But it wasn’t Baumein stats. It was Mack’s data. Data that wasn’t supposed to be there, and would throw off any merger plans.
The desk they assigned him was short, less than a meter wide, and made of plastic. The chair was too short for him and too cheap to be adjustable. The only thing that fit him was the six-finger keyboard and even that would start causing his hands to cramp up if he spent too long using it. The cheap setup made the outdated tech at Watchet’s look desirable.
The sea of employees to his left and right all wore the same black suit with white dress shirt regardless of their gender. He wore a matching one, although his had more wrinkles.
Each employee had approved ‘glom haircuts but nothing more expensive than a #34. And he could only find one of those. J-Red had done his best to pull his unruly hair back into an approved #12 pony tail. But a close inspection would reveal his non-standard braids and undercut.
Mack had assured him that no one would care what he looked like. Sitting at his desk in this sea of sameness he had his doubts.
Most people in the corral were transcribing data from the holographic pop up of glass tablets. The tablets dropped from a shoot above, nearly indestructible despite being glass, and a timer started on the computer to make sure employees weren’t too slow at the input.
There were a dozen reasons this could and should be automated. J-Red wasn’t interested in understanding conglomerate’s logic. He was busy transferring both the recently dispensed glass tablet and the glass tablets Mack had given him.
Mack needed the data in before lunch. At J-Red’s current rate it’d be done by his first approved coffee break.
The instructions were simple: type the malicious data in, incinerate the tablets as he went, and pass out 5 credit temp cards if anyone got in his way. Inside the inner pockets of his jacket he had a stack of glass tablets, and opposite them a stack of plastic cards in his left. He wasn’t getting paid much for the job, it’d be more profitable to run with the 5 cred temp cards. But that’d upset Mack, and deep valley stories made it clear that was a bad decision.
Data input was a job J-Red could do, it might even make him enough to pay off the arms in this lifetime. But he didn’t have the creditscore or the family connections to get in the door. Even data entry was gate kept by connections.
“Employee 154.” A young man in the familiar black and white suit and a microfuser around his eye stood next to J-Red’s desk and knocked on it like it was a door. His hair was cut like a #26, tight fades on the side from bottom to top with neatly combed hair parted to the left, but it had grown out a little past standards.
“Yes sir?” J-Red stoped his typing. His metallic fingers trembled picking up neuro noise from the stim-pills he’d taken.
“Our reports show that you’re behind on your input rate.”
“I’ve completed each tablets and tossed it into the incinerator before the timer ran out.” He’d done his best to burn down the timer to just a few seconds. But he always got the data input in time to avoid unwanted attention.
“Those timers are for your five fingered friends,” the manager lifted his hand and wiggled his flesh fingers. “With your abilities we expect the data input at least a minute faster.”
“Yes sir.” J-Red replied quickly. He turned back to his current tablet.
The timer hadn’t stopped since the manager walked up.
“Additionally,” the manager continued, “there was some concerns about your appearance.“
“Yes sir. That will be fixed tomorrow.” J-Red kept working on his tablet input. He was under the minute mark but could make it up if this guy would leave him alone.
“I’d like your attention when discussing opportunities for improvement. I like to know that you’re taking your position here seriously.”
“Will you stop the timer?” J-Red found this guy somehow more frustrating than Watchet.
“Oh yes, of course.” The man’s tone was polite but brusque.
The timer stopped and J-Red turned to face the man. The lights on the manager’s microfuser shimmered. “As I was saying your appearance reflects on the entire Baumein conglomerate. It’s important that you match the standard of the rest of the corral.”
“Yes sir. I’ll do better tomorrow.” J-Red repeated.
“Of course you will. But what are you going to do to fix it today?” The manager looked down at J-Red in his too short seat and desk.
“Would you like me to go get my clothes dry cleaned right now?” J-Red asked with words as sour as kid’s gum.
“No, no, no,” the manager said with a laugh. “I would prefer you do it during your next break.”
J-Red groaned, then stifled it.
“If you’re not interesting in matching the standards of the Baumein conglomerate I’m sure your,” with a flat hand he gestured from J-Red’s head to feet, “rustic appearance would suit Mandelstadt conglomerate’s low expectations.” The lights on his microfuser flashed.
“I’ll take care of it on my next break,” J-Red reassured the manager. He didn’t have the money for a quick dry clean or an new uniform.
“Best get back to work,” the manager gestured at the screen. “Your timer is back on.”
J-Red looked and immediately started typing. The timer had slipped a few seconds from where it was paused. He took a time penalty on the tablet, running over and cursing the manager for the distraction.
Three tablets later, each one done with over a minute to spare, a young woman, who seemed barely old enough to graduate from a glom academy rapped on his desk.
“Yes, ma’am?” J-Red said without looking up from the data he was copying. It was one of Mack’s tablets. The timer had just started for a newly dispensed one but he had hoped he’d built up a buffer of good performance. He didn’t know what this manager could add that the previous one hadn’t already pointed out.
“Has anyone talked to you about Baumein’s attire standards?”
“Yes ma’am they have.” J-Red hurried to get the data entered from this tablet.
“I would like to discuss those standards with you right now. With your undivided attention.”
“I’m going to take care of it on my next approved break.”
The manager leaned over his desk. Her arm got in the way of viewing the tablet. “It’s very important that you understand Baumein’s attire standards.”
J-Red looked at her, her tightly braided hair ran in rows down her scalp and hung off the back. A #19, difficult to do well. Most deep valley residents would ornament the ends with beads. J-Red doubted that was approved for Baumein’s attire standards.
The look on her face was more familiar than the haircut. He’d seen it on Watchet’s face dozens of times. His bank account never appreciated it.
J-Red shallowly grinned. “I understand that it’s important to match Baumein’s high standards.” He slipped a temp card out of his jacket’s inner pocket and set it on the desk next to her hand. “I hope to rectify the issue soon.”
She placed her hand, ornamented with long nails and white tips over the temp card and place it in her inner jacket pocket. She looked like he’d done something as routine as order a drink. “Don’t hope. Do. We would hate for this to be a recurring issue.” She smiled and winked then walked away.
After the fourth manager of the day came to visit J-Red got into the habit of immediately pulling out cards and placing them on his desk without looking up from his typing.
The stack of cards, which represented more physical money than he’d ever seen in one place, slowly dwindled. But luckily Mack’s pile of glass tablets disappeared into the incinerator faster. With the cards no one reminded him to get his suit dry cleaned, and he got the job done by lunch.
Walking out with the herd of employees headed to lunch, he still felt a few cards left in his chest pocket. He could buy a hot boxed lunch on the high valley corporate floors with them. His stomach urged him to. He didn’t think Mack would know how many bribes he’d handed out.
Remembering the drink and peanut stats that Sophia recited to him last night he didn’t want to test out how much Mack knew and didn’t know. Even without a microfuser he could tell the boss held plenty of knowledge behind their eyes.

Mack dealt the remaining stack of temp-cards into two piles on the desk of their office while J-Red pulled on the rest of his street clothes, glad to be out of the suit. It’d gotten him some shifty stares walking through the deep valley to the bar.
He wiggled his toes in his sandals as Mack put the last card on the first stack. It was an uneven number and Mack pushed the shorter stack across to him. It was three cards, not bad. Not quite enough for a hot lunch on the corporate floors but it’d get his stuff out of impound.
Mack swiped another temp card through a hand terminal with and old style swipe mechanism on it. “Your payment for the job,” they handed him the temp card. “I put a few extra creds on it, consider buying a drink on your way out.”
He’d rather spend the extra money on a hot shower than a drink. “Thank you ma’am,” J-Red second guessed himself unsure if he’d said the right thing. “Thank you sir?” he stumbled over his words still not confident.
“Thanks boss, is what you’re looking for.” Mack kicked up their feet on the desk and rested their head back on the chair closing their eyes. “Let me know if you want more work. But for now get out so I can sleep.”
J-Red didn’t have to be told twice and found his way out of the den and back to Watchet’s shop. He was late for his shift, but over thirty credits richer for it. His hair was a mess, the humidity of a cloudy afternoon in the valley, the grease from the gaming headset, and being pulled back into a pony tail had all done their worst. It flopped in and out of his eyes as he walked.
He decided to take a detour on the way to Watchet’s. He wasn’t getting a game booth this late in the day, all the streamers that had shown up on time would get those. Might as well take a shower.
He looked down at the rose metal concierge bot with its obscene body art. “Impound for 2304-E,” he slipped his registration card and the temp card Mack gave him into the trough under the chain link fence.
The bot came to life and looked at him with its off centered eyes. It fumbled with the cards as it inserted them into the handheld cash register.
“Your balance has been paid, all things are in order. Would you like to purchase a room for the night?” The bot picked up the impound box and dumped the contents into the gap under the fence.
“Your brain’s a calculator, can’t you tell from my balance I can barely cover impound fees?” He greedily grabbed the tin can the clanked out of the box. The old T-shirt, hand terminal, and zippered portfolio of tools were unimportant.
“Sir, your balance includes enough money for a full night’s stay in our finest room. My upsell circuits require me to offer it to you.” The bot showed the handheld cash register to J-Red.
Mack had said there were a few extra creds. Even after 90% had been taken out he still could’ve gotten a drink and more at the bar. Apparently crime paid in the valley.
“I could stay a night or two. But not in your finest room.” He had no doubt that even the nicest place here fell short of Baumein standards, and he was never that picky. “A small bed and a shower. Ideally a room without a cracked mirror this time, unless that costs extra.” He twisted the lid of the tin can open.
“Very well sir. Room 2306-E has been updated to accept your biometrics.” The balance of the temp card fell to nearly zero. J-Red was glad he still had the 5 cred cards.
He looked forward to the shower and fixing his hair. Then he’d get to Watchet’s and explore the hot dog stand more. It wouldn’t be popular stream. But he didn’t need to do popular streams with money in his pocket and a place to stay.
He unscrewed the cap of the metal tin he’d rescued from impound. It’d been smuggled in by his barber two months ago. It was non-standard, a relic of times before standard haircuts.
Using it would never be approved on the Baumein attire standards. But it worked on his unruly hair and made it look better than any of the numbered styles in the ‘glom’s haircut catalog.
J-Red buried his nose halfway into the nearly empty tin. It smelled like citrus covering up musty petroleum notes. Most importantly the smell wasn’t simulated by some headset. The gel was in his metal hands ready to tame his hair.