Sasha set her bag down first, then shrugged off her jacket.
Extracting crucial data in under a minute couldn't be done with just a personal link cable; that was too slow. Personal links were designed for quick, low-volume uploads and downloads. They were portable and discreet, but for deeper netrunning and higher transfer speeds, one had to rely on a cyberoptic interface, perceiving and connecting to the network through a 3D visual overlay.
The drawback, however, was that connecting so directly posed an exponential increase in physical risk. Nerves overloaded quickly, pushing body temperature to dangerous levels. Typically, people used an external cooling setup—an ice bath or a few modded freezers—to bring temps down. Sasha had no such option here, so she stripped off her jacket. Even a bit of extra cool air might help. She didn't need to stay in cyberspace for long, just enough time to exit before things got too hot.
With that in mind, she pulled a cable from her bag, plugged it into the terminal, and slipped on her cyberoptic goggles. Closing her eyes—
Link start.
When she reopened them, she found herself in cyberspace: total blackness all around, still in the posture of sitting at a desk, yet floating in weightless emptiness. Before her rose a thick ICE wall. She didn't need to break it—just used the temporary authorization Maine had borrowed from Juliet (one of El Capitán's people) to bypass the ICE and slip inside.
Biotechnica's trove of data unfurled before her eyes. Being a professional netrunner, Sasha found Faraday's requested files in no time, transmitting them to Maine. His excited voice rang out in the team channel: "Perfect—get out of there before they notice anything."
She nodded automatically, though Maine couldn't see her. Just as she was about to log off, a pop-up window flickered in the corner of her vision. Her gaze landed on it by chance, and once she read the words, she couldn't tear her eyes away.
"Classified"
"SECURICINE"
"Warning: Requires LV1 access or higher. If you do not meet this requirement, you must stop reading immediately and report your violation to superiors for disciplinary action."
SECURICINE?
As Sasha took in those letters, a long-buried memory reemerged:
A pristine end-of-life ward. Her mother lay in a bed, barely clinging to breath, tubes and monitors in every limb. On the small bedside table sat a glass of water and a bottle of painkillers.
The label read SECURICINE.
Biotechnica had launched this potent new painkiller, claiming it could numb even the agony of being decapitated. But, according to reams of internal trial data, it carried severe side effects. Although SECURICINE's pain relief surpassed everything else on the market, it also caused progressive nerve degeneration. Biotechnica had hidden that fact, never issuing a recall, never warning consumers—just touting its "great results."
Sasha's mother, like so many in Night City, had worked endless hours under brutal strain. Pain was the body's way of saying: Stop, slow down, see a doctor. But in Night City, how many could afford decent healthcare?
Painkillers were the more realistic option, and her mother, swallowing SECURICINE daily, had fallen gravely ill. She died in that sterile ward, tubes everywhere.
Sasha had always assumed her mother's death was simply the result of overwork. Now she realized it was a deliberate cover-up—a tragedy caused by corporate greed. Even worse, inside those restricted files, there were bold red directives:
1. Do not disclose side effects to the public
2. Continue selling the product; no recalls
Raw anger, sorrow, helplessness—Sasha couldn't even name the storm in her chest. She only knew she'd made a decision. One that might cast her into the abyss.
She logged out of cyberspace, pulled off her goggles, and plugged a pink personal link into the terminal. In seconds, the entire SECURICINE file was on its way to News54. NCN, along with WNS, was one of Night City's top media outlets—an arm of Militech, no friend to Biotechnica. Sasha assumed if anyone would risk crossing Biotechnica, it might be them.
However, what Sasha didn't know was that Militech and Biotechnica shared deep ties in the shadows, collaborating on a covert "Nightingale Project." The two corporations worked so closely that expecting an exposé on Biotechnica by Militech's News54 was almost impossible. But Sasha had no clue about Nightingale or the hidden alliance between these megacorps.
"Time's up for that jammer—get out now! We have what we need!" Maine's frantic voice echoed in her earpiece, but no reply came.
Out in the plaza, he frowned at the empty doorway of Biotechnica's building. "Where the hell is she? She should've been here by now."
Dorio tried hailing Sasha, but received only silence. Even Pilar, perpetually flippant, wore a grave look.
"You think something happened?"
"Shut that crow's mouth!" Rebecca glared at her brother. "She's probably stuck with a busted elevator. Maybe she's taking the stairs."
"I'm going in." Dorio reached for the door, but Maine stopped her.
"No, Dorio. You're not a netrunner. One wrong move and you'll both be stuck."
"We can't just sit around!"
Their argument was cut short by a rumbling noise overhead, reminiscent of a jet engine. Everyone in the car lurched forward, peering skyward.
What they saw shook them—a hulking aircraft with bright-blue exhaust soared into view: a Zetatech Surveyor-class heavy AV. Since the day the first AV rolled off the line, people had speculated which corp would pioneer the heavy-lift model. Zetatech had won that race, unveiling the Surveyor. It could ferry entire squads behind enemy lines with impressive speed, loaded with a self-defense missile system strong enough to beat back most assaults.
That huge airborne behemoth headed straight for Biotechnica's tower.
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