High Priestess Mira wastes no time, arranging for Casper and I to board a passenger ship bound for Krygo within the week.

I slouch in my chair, chin in hand as I watch the stars and planets floating past my window. Casper sits straight-backed next to me, scribbling away madly on his ever-present pad. The sound of his pen scratching against the glass irks me and I tap my temple to tune him out. At once, a twinkling, haunting melody fills my head. I spend several minutes listening to the music before realizing that I have inadvertently tuned my radio to Mira's own Unity satellite. I tap my temple again, turning the music off and scowling.

"What's with you?" Casper's talent for pinpointing my mood without looking up from his work only feeds my annoyance.

"Nothing." I mutter. "Just thinking."

"About how you're going to spend all that cash?" Casper jokes. He tucks the pad back into his satchel and zips it efficiently shut.

I laugh but there is no humour in it. Even after ten years and more hits than I can keep track of, the trepidation leading up to a job has never left me. An uncomfortable pit forms in my stomach, twisting painfully.

"Have you given any thought as to how you're going to do it?" Casper is careful to keep his voice low, lest any of the other passengers be listening in. He needn't have bothered; amongst the plebs and miscreants of this passenger ship we are relatively uninteresting.

"Not really." I lie, it's all I've thought about. "I've never been to Krygo, before. I need to take a look at this guy's setup and security detail before I can get an idea for how I'm going to pull this off."

"Remember, it's meant to look like an accident." Casper says unnecessarily. "The Priestess doesn't want anyone linking this back to her."

"I know." I huff. "Who's supposed to be the expert, here. You or me?"

"Alright, relax." He holds his hands up in mock surrender. "No need to be so touchy, I'm only trying to help. Once this ship docks, you'll be on your own."

"What?" I look up, giving him my full attention. "You aren't coming with me?"

"Of course not. The organization wants to distance itself as much as possible from any dirty dealings." He tilts his head, quirking a grin. "No offense."

"None taken." I grumble.

"Aww, is the big, tough cyborg going to miss me?" Casper digs his elbow into my ribs playfully.

"Not a chance." I shove him off. "I'll be much more productive without your ugly face around to distract me."

He laughs off my half-hearted insult. "Whatever you say, killer. You won't really be rid of me, anyway. The Priestess wants to be kept up-to-date on your progress, so I'll be checking in with you regularly." He puffs out his chest a little as he speaks, clearly relishing his newfound role.

I roll my eyes. "I don't need to be micromanaged, I know what I'm doing."

"This is an important contract, Trig. The Priestess doesn't want to leave any room for a misstep."

Casper is interrupted by an announcement gargling through the staticy PA system. The ship has begun its descent into Krygo. I fiddle with my arm as my stomach twists again.

"Call me as soon as you get settled." Casper switches fluidly into business mode, reaching into his jacket and withdrawing a microchip. He indicates that I should extend my arm and inserts the chip into one of my ports. I watch the new bits of information flashing across my vision as the contents of the microchip download to my internal CPU, too fast to process all at once.

"Will do." I say, withdrawing the chip and crushing it in my bionic hand. I brush the remnants from my palms and glance up at Casper. "Any other last-minute instructions?"

"Yeah, have fun." Casper throws me one of his trademark winks as I unbuckle my seatbelt and make to stand. "And don't forget to keep in touch."

"See you in a few days." I ruffle his hair as I walk by, laughing when he utters a curse and hurries to comb it.

I join the throng of disembarking passengers, pulling the sleeve of my jacket down over my arm and adopting a look of practiced boredom. Krygo's spaceport is bright and airy, decorated with a rainbow of plants and staffed by polite, smiling workers. I follow the signs towards the exit as I continually scan my surroundings, memorizing the layout of the spaceport in case I have to make a speedy escape.

Outside, Krygo is a bustling mecca of activity, too bright beneath a pair of suns. I am first struck by the cleanliness of the streets and the towering, tube-like buildings, then the sheer variety of lifeforms making their way down the wide sidewalks. A thousand bubbling conversations overwhelm my senses and I tap my temple to turn off my scanner, stepping to the side to avoid colliding with a young couple walking in the opposite direction. The man apologizes for the near-incident, offering up a friendly grin and wave as I stand dumbstruck. What manner of backwards planet is this?

No one pays me any mind as I make my way towards the road and extend a hand to flag down a passing taxicab. A hovering car pulls over a moment later, the back door sliding open to admit me. I remain on the curb for several seconds, astonished that I managed to snag a cab on the first try. I cast a suspicious gaze around before climbing inside, pulling the door shut and leaning back in the plush seat.

"Where to?" The driver spins to face me, flashing a wide smile beneath his impressively bushy mustache.

"Do you know of any decent hotels around here?" I ask.

"Sure thing." He hits the meter and starts the engine, pulling out into traffic.

I keep my eyes trained on the passing cars and ships, marvelling at the bright, clean swept streets and the spindly trees boasting vibrant leaves of red and violet. The roads arc up into the sky and twist dizzyingly around the silvered buildings. The complicated roadmap seems to pose no problem to my driver, who navigates the the intersections smoothly and with a practiced precision. I can see, now that the city is built atop a series of cliffs and connected by an endless array of bridges. If I peer straight down I can just make out the trains speeding in and out of tunnels carved into the cliffsides.

"Are you staying on Krygo long?" The cab driver's question cuts into my thoughts.

"I'm not sure, yet." I look up, catching his eye in the rearview mirror. "It depends."

"You here for business?"

I smirk. "Something like that."

"Well, you couldn't ask for a nicer place to visit." The driver says jovially, raising his hand to wave at someone out the window. "Have you been here, before?"

"No."

"I figured." A curt attitude doesn't deter my chatty escort in the slightest. "We don't get many Androids out this way."

He thinks that I'm an Android. No wonder everyone on this planet has been so weirdly friendly.

Unlike cyborgs, Androids have no human components. They are manufactured by an A.I. in the Andromeda Galaxy and are widely revered for their unflappable logic and advanced technology. Androids keep mostly to themselves, rarely associating with other planets. There is an implicit agreement between them and the rest of the galaxy to stay out of one another's business.

And there you have it: the titular reason why cyborgs are so universally hated. Obviously, a carbon-based lifeform who takes android technology for themselves is thumbing their nose at everyone else. It is widely believed that we cyborgs must think ourselves pretty goddam special, since we are completely willing to hack up our bodies and pilfer from the most revered caste in the cosmos.

Funny thing is, no one has ever bothered to find out if I was given a choice.

I open my mouth to correct the driver's assumption but then think better of it. Who cares if he thinks that I'm an Android? I'm certainly no stranger to lying.

The cab comes to a stop and I peer out the window, expecting to see a hotel. Instead, I find that all the traffic has come to a standstill and that the people standing on the sidewalks are chattering excitedly and gesturing towards something up ahead.

"What's going on?" I ask.

"It's the presidential convoy." The driver taps a button on the dash and the car's roof rolls backward, awarding us a view of the scene. "They drive through the main square every day at this time. Go on, have a look. We'll be stuck here until they pass."

I pull myself up onto the top of my seat and slide on a pair of sunglasses. A sleek, open-topped car is ambling through the intersection, escorted by two small black numbers. I tap my temple to zoom in and focus my vision on the figure waving ecstatically from the passenger's seat.

There he is.

President Vernon T. Phibbius.

The man sports the largest, cheesiest grin I have ever seen. It stretches from ear to ear and pushes the silver tufts of his hair up towards his wrinkled crown. He waves with the abandon of a careless child, flapping his hand in the air at the cheering crowd.

Typical. Phibbius had to go ahead and make himself one of those 'adored' public figures. His popularity will make it all the more difficult to catch him alone. Difficult, but not impossible. I shift my attention, sliding my eyes over to the shiny armoured vehicles surrounding the President. My comm feeds me details about their mechanics and my heat sensor tells me that each car holds no less than two guards. I zoom in further, noting the marked seriousness of the security personnel, a stark contrast to their open, smiling employer.

My optics shift towards the driver of the President's vehicle. A brooding man sits straight-backed in the seat while he continually scans the crowd. As I watch his sharp gaze flicks in my direction, resting on me for the briefest of moments before moving on. I register an intense pair of eyes and a crooked nose, snapping a quick photo before sliding back down into my seat.

"Quite the showman, isn't he?" The cab driver punches the car into gear as the convoy clears the intersection, sending us gliding smoothly over the road.

"No kidding." I say lightly. "And you say he drives through here every day?"

"Without fail." The driver continues to chatter obliviously as we make our way through the winding streets. By the time we pull up in front of the hotel I have absorbed more information about daily life in Krygo than what is stored in the whole of the multi-net.

"Here we are." He puts the car in park and spins around, the corners of his mustache rising nearly to his eyes. "Finest accommodations in town."

"Thanks." I hold my palm against the cashbox and pay the fare, taking care to include a generous tip, courtesy of High Priestess Mira. "And thanks for the tour, you're a hell of a guide."

"Well, listen. If you're going to be in town for a few days and want another ride, give me a call." He hands over a crisp card with the words Bender's Taxicabs embossed in bold, black lettering over a phone number. "I'm happy to take you anywhere you need to go, colourful commentary on the house." He winks.

I snort with laughter, pocketing the card and opening the door. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you around."

"Welcome to Krygo." Bender twirls his mustache expertly before pulling away and leaving me standing before the sliding glass doors of the hotel.

The heels of my boots click against the polished hotel floor, echoing in the cavernous lobby. I give a fake name to the overly-chipper desk clerk and she checks me into a room on the top floor, rattling off a list of directions and restaurant hours. I thank her and shoulder my bag, already exhausted by the day and looking forward to sequestering myself in a cozy pod.

I take the lift up to the hundredth floor and press my hand to the fingerprint scanner of room 10010. Normally, I take care not to leave any identifiable traces of myself at the scene of a future crime, but I plan to be long-gone from Krygo before anyone thinks to connect the prints of a mysterious Android to the galaxy-wide database. Inside the pod I find the bare essentials: a desk, a wardrobe and a narrow bed embedded into the far wall. Most importantly, though, I find the reason I requested a room on this particular side of the hotel. The window affords me an impressive view of downtown and the office tower of one President Vernon T. Phibbius.

From here, I will be able to keep watch over the comings and goings of Phibbius and his security personnel, carefully charting their routine while I formulate a plan for the president's demise.

I sink down onto the bed and begin rifling through my bag, withdrawing my banged-up electronic notebook. I extend a length of cable from the port at the notebook's side and plug it into my arm, typing away while I wait for the day's information to transfer. I take a quick snapshot of Bender the cab driver's business card as an afterthought. Who knows; he might come in handy.

The data transfer completes with a satisfying ping and I run my finger across the notebook's screen, flicking through the files. Clearly, there is much more to this planet than what my cursory research has shown me. Krygo sports an overtly friendly (and presumably trusting) population, the assumption that a bionic visitor is an Android and not a cyborg, and a clean, bustling cityscape. It also has something else, something in spades.

Riches.

Every person I saw today was well-dressed and well-heeled. My comm picked up the presence of countless precious metals and I know from my initial research that Krygo has one of the highest employment rates in the galaxy.

So, the people of Krygo are comfortable, happy and thriving. Why the High Priestess wants to bother troubling herself with a perfectly content, self-sustaining planet I have no idea, but her reasons aren't really any of my concern.

I am being paid (and being paid well) to do a job. That, and whatever exists as individual bytes of data stored within my trusty notebook are the only pieces of information I need.

I kick my bag aside and stretch out on the invitingly soft bed, settling in to sort through several hours of reading material. Every mark has a weakness; even a minuscule crack in the defenses can be exploited.

Browsing absently through the day's snapshots, I cast each photo aside until a particular image catches my attention. A pair of dark eyes glare out at me from the driver's seat of Phibbius' car, so intent that they seem to stare directly into my wiring. I run my face-recognition software and call up the stranger's name. My comm feeds me the words Capt. Dristan Bronte, along with a long list of achievements. So, this is the head of the president's security, I should have figured. The marked seriousness of the man's expression and the tight set of his shoulders say it all. I zoom in on the captain's face, committing his angular jaw and the crooked bridge of his nose to memory. Something tells me that this humorless individual is going to be my greatest obstacle in the days to come.

I sigh, moving on to read the transcript I recorded from the back of Bender's taxicab. My unofficial tour guide has managed to fill well over a dozen pages with his inane chatter. It appears as though I'm in for a long night.

And tomorrow, the real work begins.