Saint Code Read online

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgment

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  Author Bio

  Devil Discussion Questions

  Saint Code: The Lost

  Book 1 of Saint Code

  Copyright © 2023 Megan Mackie. All rights reserved.

  4 Horsemen Publications, Inc.

  1497 Main St. Suite 169

  Dunedin, FL 34698

  4horsemenpublications.com

  [email protected]

  Cover by J. Caleb Clark

  Typesetting by S. Wilder and Niki Tantillo

  Editors: Jamie Garner and Jen Paquette

  All rights to the work within are reserved to the author and publisher. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 International Copyright Act, without prior written permission except in brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Please contact either the Publisher or Author to gain permission.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2022949010

  Paperback ISBN-13: 979-8-8232-0131-5

  Hardcover ISBN-13: 979-8-8232-0132-2

  Audiobook ISBN-13: 979-8-8232-0129-2

  Ebook ISBN-13: 979-8-8232-0130-8

  To Betty, the inspiration

  Acknowledgment

  Thank you first and foremost to my mother, Connie, for my entire life in general and for proofreading my book three times specifically.

  Thank you to Jamie, my editor, who always has my back

  Thank you to Caleb for being the standard of talented professionalism.

  Thank you to my husband and friend, Paul, for supporting me unwaveringly. I love you with all my heart. Thank you to Byron and Alaina for keeping me motivated.

  Thank you to Val and Erika, who reached out their hands and asked, “We’re starting a revolution, do you want to come?”

  “If you look for the light,

  you will often find it.

  If you look for the dark,

  it is all you will ever see.”

  --unknown

  Chapter 1

  In a dark and lonely diner, on the upper reaches of the Data Bowl, an even lonelier woman sat drinking her cooling synth-coffee. Staring down at her hazelnut-colored skin wrapped around the stained porcelain cup, she contemplated the hazelnut creamer she had just added, watching the swirls change from rich darkness to light warm tones the color of her skin. She had simply wanted something that didn’t smack her tongue as purely artificial but decided to look no deeper than the hazelnut flavor the hazelnut creamer was supposed to give her drink. Not that she had ever tasted a real hazelnut. Unfortunately, even as she imbibed a swallow, the drink still tasted unreal.

  At least the caffeine, and whatever other drugs they put in to enhance moods, still worked all the same. Staring out the window, she considered the darker world outside the diner, dwelling on the beauty of the city beyond. A contrast of continually moving light forming and reforming advertisements amidst the darkness full of distant sounds. The only time it fell quiet and still was during the day. Sometime between nine and eleven in the morning, when the sun beat down from above, the city didn’t want to see its drab, broken-down self, so the majority of its residents hid their heads and slept. The first round started to wake at three when the sun had passed its zenith and descended toward the distant, but extremely tall, mountain peaks, until it sank out of sight by five in the evening. Then the city woke itself for another night.

  Right now, it was 10:30 p.m., and her client was late.

  That figured.

  Nothing else to do about that but study the city, read the flashing advertisements one more time, wondering if it would be worth splurging on some water for a shower. She had had the same hair braids forever, and it was very much a hot mess. If this job paid well enough, she might even barter for some argon oil and get some cornrows. Do it all right.

  The auto-waitress passed by her table again, carrying a fresh pot of synth-coffee on the end of its mechanical arm. While the squat round thing looked nothing like a human, someone tried to humanize it a little by putting a tiny, red waitress hat on the top of its main body and taped a small matching apron to its front.

  It made a motion to refill her cup, but she waved it away. Fortunately, this thing’s sensors worked, and it responded to the movement.

  “CAN I GET YOU ANYTHING ELSE?” it asked in a digital voice.

  “I ordered soup.”

  “I WILL CHECK,” and it zipped away along its glowing track toward the kitchen, stopping to check for synth-coffee refills on its way. There were about a half-dozen or so other patrons seated in booths along the curve of the kidney bean-shaped diner’s outer wall. Three other solo patrons had claimed real estate at the counter in front of their own auto-waitress, which roved back and forth dressed in a green hat and apron. Everyone was lost in their own world, oblivious to everything, including the woman observing them.

  She could spend as much time studying the room as she did the city and see about as much. Neon lit the space, glowing around the edges of the booths and along the wall, giving just enough light and plenty of atmosphere. Many of the patrons were also decked out in fashionable neon-like accessories around their wrists and necks. Some even had it sewn into their clothes. The room was a reflection pool of the city. Or something poetic like that.

  Contrary to the current fashion trends, the woman waiting wore dark clothes. Combat canvas pants with waterproof pockets that hugged close to her body and a close-fitting vest. Practical. Ready for the job. Her long trench coat hung on a hook at the end of her booth. Its only nod to fashion was the blue-light edging at the collar and hem, both of which were turned off when she wasn’t wearing it. The cyber goggles she usually wore sat on the table next to her cup, so she could observe the world with her real eyes. Otherwise, anything else she needed lay deep beneath her skin. She could be completely naked and yet not unarmed.

  The old-fashioned bell attached to the door chimed, drawing her attention. A woman walked in, dressed in neon orange from head to toe. Her skin was a darker shade than the waiting woman’s own, rich as umber. The colors she wore made her skin glow ethereally, which was probably the effect she was going for. She had dreads piled on top of her head in a bun, with strands of orange LEDs woven throughout, giving her a halo of her own light.

  The newcomer made eye contact with the waiting woman and smiled knowingly.

  At last, it looked like her client had arrived.

  The client sauntered over, her hips sashaying as she walked, her higher-class self standing out in this lower-class world, drawing the eyes of a few of the other patrons as she passed. Once she got to the empty side of the booth, she stopped.

  “May I sit?” she asked, like this was a rendezvous and not a business meeting. Which was the last thing the waiting woman needed.

  “Depends. Are you the Orange Lady?”

  “That depends. Are you the Saint Augustina?” The Orange Lady grinned, obviously enjoying the game.

  “You’ve got the
right table,” the Saint agreed, shifting back in her seat.

  “Funny. You don’t look like how I expected.”

  “What did you expect?” St. Augustina asked coolly.

  “I don’t know. I suppose I should keep an open mind,” she said wryly as she passed an amused glance around the room.

  St. Augustina did have time for this, but that didn’t mean she actually wanted to entertain the woman’s little espionage game. “Are we doing this deal or not?”

  The Orange Lady arched her laser-perfect eyebrows, then slid into the booth across from the Saint.

  The auto-waitress reappeared, setting the bowl of soup down in front of St. Augustina. “Sorry, I ordered,” she said, now feeling uncouth.

  “Is that all you want?” her potential client asked, cocking her head to the side.

  “Are you going to order?” the Saint returned coldly.

  “Indeed.” And the potential client passed her hand over the auto-waitress. It glowed briefly.

  “UNLIMITED ACCESS,” the auto-waitress stated in a slightly different modular voice, before returning to its normal mode. “What would you like?”

  “Chocolate cream pie and a cup of tea, please. Then, anything else she would like,” the Orange Lady said, gesturing with an elegant hand toward the Saint.

  St. Augustina stared for a moment, then turned to the auto-waitress. “A bacon bleu cheese burger and seasoned sweet potato fries.”

  “PROTEIN BURGER OKAY? WE DON’T HAVE REAL BEEF,” the auto-waitress reported.

  “I didn’t expect you would.”

  The auto-waitress paused a moment more, then beeped in confirmation. “DOES THAT COMPLETE YOUR ORDER?”

  “Yes, thank you,” the Orange Lady said sweetly, and the auto-waitress zipped away to the kitchen.

  Focusing on her soup, St. Augustina picked up her spoon and began stirring the brownish broth. There were token bits of vegetable in it, but very little else. Most of the nutrition was in the broth itself. The protein burger, which was made of mostly plants and engineered to look like meat, would do more to up her calorie count and go further if this job involved physical exertion. She was starting to have less hope for this meeting turning into something profitable, so if all she was going to get out of this was the first decent meal she’d had in a while, she had better capitalize on it.

  “You were vague in your communication,” St. Augustina stated.

  “Yes. Well, the job itself isn’t very simple.”

  “That’s not a problem,” St. Augustina said, ladling a spoonful of soup into her mouth.

  “You say that,” the Orange Lady hedged. “I need you to take a personal journey.”

  That stopped the next spoonful midway up to the Saint’s mouth. “Excuse me?”

  “I’ve been searching for you for a long time. I had to get outside help to locate you.” The Orange Lady clasped her hands into a pair of pointers that she used to indicate St. Augustina on the word ‘you’ before bringing them back up to her amused lips.

  St. Augustina set her spoon down and sat back, running a passive program and scanning the room again. She did it when she first entered the diner as standard protocol, but this time she checked for anyone showing interest in their conversation. She set it to search for three seconds of attention or more to be safe, all without her client realizing what she’d done. “Do I know you?”

  The Orange Lady didn’t look nearly as old as she sounded. In fact, calling her a woman was probably generous. Her aura and demeanor were too excited, she could barely sit still. Altogether, she seemed more like she should still be in junior high, and someone needed to phone her mother. At that thought, St. Augustina grasped the small, silver box around her throat on its titanium chain. Sometimes it was the only thing that felt truly real in this world. The contents clinked gently against the sides as the box shifted into the sweet spot of her palm. The Orange Lady’s expression remained the same, but her eyes shifted briefly to take in the gesture, before returning to the Saint’s face.

  St. Augustina cursed herself for giving her a tell. This conversation was already plenty weird.

  “We have never met before,” the Orange Lady confirmed. “I have heard of your work.”

  St. Augustina would have gotten up and walked out, but the auto-waitress returned, setting two plates in front of each of them. Something about this deal felt really off, and really off could lead to really dead. But the smell of beef-simile? Her mouth watered so badly, she had to swallow.

  “I’m not saying I’m accepting the job; this is just a business meeting,” she said and picked up a seasoned sweet potato fry to stick in her mouth.

  “No ketchup?” the Orange Lady asked, cocking her head to the side.

  Saying nothing, the Saint chewed deliberately. God, she hated these games. It seemed like everyone who hired someone from the underbelly of society expected it to be all smoke and mirrors and spy thriller. All St. Augustina wanted was for them to get to the damn point.

  Instead, her potential patron grinned at her chocolate cream pie as if it was the most delightful thing in the room.

  “What is the job, exactly?” St. Augustina repeated, forcing patience.

  “It’s real easy. I need you to do three tasks. You’ll be compensated for each one as you have finished it. I need the first task done tonight.”

  St. Augustina narrowed her eyes, then picked up her burger. “And what’s the pay?”

  “A hundred thousand credits.” If St. Augustina had taken a bite, she would have choked. She hated to be seen as a person who valued money like that, but still, it was a lot of money.

  “Per job,” the Orange Lady added.

  “That’s too much,” St. Augustina said.

  That wiped the smug smile off the teeny-bopper’s face. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re offering me an incredible, too-good-to-be-true, can’t-walk-away-from amount of money. Which means,” St. Augustina held up a finger, “either the job is incredibly dangerous or,” a second finger popped up, “it’s a trap, and you don’t expect to pay out. Since you were looking for me specifically, I’m leaning more toward the latter.”

  She took a hefty bite of her burger, juices running down her chin. Damn, it tasted so good.

  Enjoying both the burger and the teeny-bopper’s discomfort, St. Augustina was in no hurry to leave now, even if she was ninety percent sure she wasn’t taking this job. It had stupid written all over it.

  “That was the amount I was told to offer you,” the Orange Lady said, nearly whining.

  “By whom?”

  She pursed her orange-painted lips again and sighed huffily. “I can’t really say.”

  “Okay, then. Thank you for the meal, but I’m going to have to say ‘no.’” St. Augustina took another bite.

  “Wait! Don’t you want to hear more about the job first?” the Orange Lady asked desperately, even going so far as to put her hands out to stop the Saint from leaving. Which was silly because St. Augustina hadn’t moved a muscle.

  “I think this meeting is over. I suggest you get your pie to go because I’m going to keep sitting here and finish my meal like a civilized person. It would be awkward for us both if you stayed,” St. Augustina said and then took another bite with delight.

  “But… but…” the Orange Lady stuttered, completely disarmed. The Saint continued to ignore her and eat. Finally, after a few awkward moments, the teeny-bopper quietly got up and left, leaving behind her untouched chocolate pie.

  A meal and a free slice of pie. Guess the night wasn’t a total loss after all.

  A familiar chuckle stopped St. Augustina in mid-chew.

  “I told them it wouldn’t work.” Like gravity’s pull, St. Augustina turned her head just enough to see him sitting at the counter. The pain-in-the-ass’s grin grew wider as he took in her response to his presence. “
You must be getting rusty, St. Augustina. You didn’t notice me enter.”

  Apparently, her passive scan program needed recoding.

  “I noticed,” she lied, wondering how satisfying it would be to slip her R-pistol from its holster and let off a shot between his smug, glowing blue eyes.

  The other cyborg was dressed all in dark like she was, but instead of neon-lining on any of his clothes, his call to fashion seemed to take him to another era entirely. While his clothing was combat-ready and tight against his lean, strong frame, the fedora sitting atop his head had no practical purpose. Both of his long legs were stretched straight out from his body as he leaned against the counter, his wrists limp. Nothing about his posture said that he was in a hurry or at all alert to danger. His posture was a complete and utter lie. Otherwise, why would he have his augmented eyes glowing inhumanly blue with no sign of iris or pupil within?

  Most people didn’t realize what it meant for a Saint’s eyes to be that way; many normal people paid for cosmetic augmentations that did the same thing in the name of fashion. But there was nothing fashionable about a Saint’s glowing eyes. St. Augustina hated them, which was why she rarely activated the augmentation herself. She felt inhuman enough as it was.

  “What do you want, St. Benedict?” she asked, picking up a fry to bite it too hard.

  “Ha, you just won me twenty credits. Our employer was certain you would shoot me on sight.”

  “I thought about it.”

  “I know you did,” he said. He seemed to take that as an invitation because the other Saint levered up on his stretched-out legs and swaggered over to the booth to sit in the spot the teeny-bopper had vacated only moments before.

  “That’s mine,” St. Augustina said, as he began to turn the plate holding the chocolate pie so the point was directed at himself. He stopped, then side nodded his head as he turned the point toward her instead. After yielding the territory on the table, he raised a hand in the universal sign for ‘attention, I need service.’

  “WHAT CAN I GET YOU?” the auto-waitress asked as it slid up to the table.