Base City: Short Stories

POLICE CHIEF KAHN rushed across the bustling intersection, the constant misting rain of Base City running off his black department-issued rain slicker. Vehicles on either side of the intersection pressed against the traffic lights, heedless of crossing pedestrians. Even in the neon-drenched half-light of night, the urgency was unending.

There had been a murder—so close to the precinct that he hadn’t even needed a vehicle to reach the scene. In Base City, murders happened by the dozen every day, sometimes more. Despite the relentless stream of holo-ads and glowing billboards plastered across the megastructures, all boasting that the streets had never been safer, Kahn knew the reality to be somewhat different: the police were losing the war on crime.

This incident involved an EXO—an enhanced person with modifications crusted onto their body. The killing was part of an ongoing war between rival underworld factions. The killer cast herself as a school-age girl, but with her extensive mods, who could really tell? She looked like a murderous child in geisha makeup, dressed in a short Lycra skirt, her synthetic black hair pulled into glossy ponytails. Innocent on the outside, a furious demon within. She wielded twin railguns, using them to rip the EXO apart before being gunned down by his friends.

Blood and viscera leaked from their ruined bodies, mingling into a ghastly red stream that flowed into a storm drain; the light evening rain was taking care of the mess for the street cleaners.

Some said, “Let the animals kill themselves.” If only it were that simple, perhaps he would consider it. But the fighting didn’t belong solely to the worst parts of the city. It spread among families, businesspeople, schoolchildren—anyone unfortunate enough to be relegated to life at street level.

When he joined the force, he believed he could make a difference. Educated and trained at the academy, and empowered by a badge and a gun, he felt he was the right man in the right place—now he knew it had all been a fantasy. No matter how many bad guys they locked up or how many crime rings they dismantled, there would always be more. That was the true export of Base City—an endless supply of criminals.

Kahn stepped carefully around a filthy puddle pooling on the sidewalk at an intersection. A large, hulking man lingered on the corner, waiting for a break in the flow of pedestrians. He glanced Kahn’s way, each sizing up the other. Kahn displayed no obvious signs of his occupation, but everything about him—his dark rain slicker, worn black shoes, and haggard look of responsibility, along with a partially concealed sidearm—revealed his identity. The man was no mystery either. With a fleeting glance, Kahn noticed the artificial gleam of red light in his eyes and the overly squared line of his jaw. Beneath the filthy, ragged cuffs of his long jacket, EXO hardware encrusted the man’s large forearms and hands.

He was either a murderer, a dealer, or something worse. At that moment, they were just two men trying to cross a busy street.

Kahn was on his way to meet his wife, Emiko, for a late dinner. He had a dozen blocks to shed the dark mood brought on by the crime scene, to compartmentalize the horrific images of destroyed bodies and violent intentions. He would step off the street, out of his world, and into hers. They lived in the same apartment in the same city, but their realities were very different.

He and his wife met as children during their final year of secondary school. He enjoyed sports, relishing the camaraderie and competition. She was bookish and came from a caring family. Together, they made just enough money to make life in Base City manageable but not enough to move up, out of the muck.

Dating had been easy. Kahn knew right away that she was too good for him. Her kindness and intelligence—she gave him something to aspire to. She revealed a world of language and art to him, sharing her favorite books, paintings, and sonatas, even performing them. She had an antique violin that belonged to her grandfather’s grandfather. It was her most prized possession, and she taught herself to play at a time when few people bothered anymore.

It wasn’t that Kahn’s family was ignorant of these cultured pursuits, but they weren’t prioritized. His parents belonged to the working class, and every day was a struggle, caring for children they loved but could barely afford and had little time for. Eventually, his father fell into Wildfire, the synthetic drug ravaging Base City—not the refined version fine-tuned with genetic signatures, but the street variety that peeled your mind like a spoiled egg. Fortunately for Kahn, he had already left home by then and enrolled in the academy.

Kahn stood outside the restaurant his wife had chosen, a nice place with warm, inviting light—probably expensive.

He had to leave himself outside. He couldn’t bring his burdens to her. It wasn’t just for her protection—he needed the sanctuary she provided, a refuge from the raw, glaring world of his chosen profession.

The host greeted him with a plastered smile, sizing him up. She had expensive upgrades—Kahn recognized them immediately: the overly graceful smoothness of her movements and the blurring speed as she glided before him, as if in slow motion. Those enhancements cost far more than a job like this could cover; she must have other skills as well. She showed him where to hang his soaked overcoat and then led him into the seating area.

As they passed other diners, Kahn noticed the uniformity of dress, as if an invitation had been sent out with suggestions for appropriate attire—dark suits for the men and a limited selection of richly colored, form-fitting dresses for the women. The appearance of fitness indicated wealth in Base City—pills and implants made it easy if one had the means. What was unique was the casual display of enhancements; clearly, the people felt safe among their own kind. On the street, high-end augmentation was kept well hidden—too many eyes were watching, too many willing to carve up a person for parts.

Emiko was there, draped in a flowing gown of organic cloth—distinct, elegant, and unlike the synthetic fabrics worn by the other women. She had always preferred older, finer things. Her hair was styled and pinned with the octopus brooch he’d given her long ago, its tentacles curled as if caught mid-swim. The light in her eyes was unmistakable—a captivating blend of intelligence, warmth, and something rarer still: love. It was something Kahn valued above all things, the one thing that felt like it belonged only to them.

She looked up and saw him. The light extended to her smile. “I was beginning to worry.”

“Sorry,” he muttered, taking the offered seat. “There was a—well, I’m here now.” The worries from his world had entered with him, a relentless companion.

“I ordered you a drink,” she said, pouring from a crystal decanter. A single glass of occasional wine—it was the only mind-altering substance Kahn indulged in. Given everything he witnessed on the street, he knew the toxic flow of escapism would swallow him immediately if he allowed it.

He took a sip, inhaling artificial esters and savoring the simulated depth. The engineered wine gave everyone access to ’82 Château Lafite—perhaps not all technology was bad.

The conversation began with an effort for him. She was used to the adjustment he required from his demanding job and applied herself to an easy exchange.

Those nearby stole glances—the police officer and the exotic woman seemed at ease, effortlessly comfortable in each other’s company. What drew the most attention was their lack of augmentation. Even those who couldn’t afford high-end mods still had something; enhancements were as common as shoes or lipstick. Being unaugmented usually meant being broke—cut off from the rest of society. But this pair didn’t seem like outsiders. Their absence of tech wasn’t due to circumstances. It was a choice.

For Kahn, much like intoxication, it was a matter of principle. He’d seen too much during his time with the department—too many aberrations, too many grotesque alterations. People twisted into something less than human, perverted into subspecies that preyed on others just to survive.

To his wife, it was something different, like a language she didn’t care to learn. With the right enhancements, she could have elevated her skills as a violinist to those of a virtuoso. But her joy came not from perfection but from discovery; she played music to listen, to experience the imperfect birth of a melody.

There was another aspect of enhancement technology—one Kahn knew all too well. Upgrades invited others in, granting them access to your mind and body. They were open, one-way doors, and privacy was the first casualty—among other things.

He took another sip of his wine, savoring the flavors as they rolled across his tongue. “So,” he began, gesturing to the upscale restaurant. “What’s the occasion?”