Uptown—Terrace—had grown in the near-decade since Geir had left it. It looked from the bus like a gleaming utopia of clean glass skyscrapers, giant monuments of bronze and copper, fanciful modern palaces. That veneer had been nascent fourteen years ago, if well underway. The fabulous city, the Uptown of dreams that was the playground of twenty of the world’s richest men, was a ring that encircled the much bigger city inside. In there were hundreds of square miles of slums, where ninety-nine percent of the populace lived, most of them employed at maintaining the luxuriant outer ring. One small part of it was the old city, where the Brightlove House had been.
The wonders of Uptown were famous. The ten tallest buildings built by man rose from the eastern end of the outer ring. From one of them ran an eternal cascade, that fed a private lake. Water had to be pumped up nearly three hundred stories at all times. The several colossi that straddled lower roofs and crouched benevolently in public squares were supposed to evoke the lost ancient world, though really they were mainly tacky.
There was always construction. Old wonders were removed, as oligarchs surpassed one another and bought up each other’s properties, and new ones created constantly. Three of the world’s seven Stampers were occupied there permanently.
The only roads into Uptown entered the city by tunnel.  Anyone going to the outer city, after all, came by their own aircar, or by VTOL shuttle from the airport just past the suburbs.  The last thing Geir's company credit had bought him before his account vanished was a seat on a bus, an ancient and dirty vehicle that took him there in a little more than a day.  It was the merest fraction of the price of the most modest air fare, and much closer to anonymous.
Beyond the tunnel was the city he knew.  Rough roads, dark and unpainted buildings, long blocks all abandoned and run-down.  Groups of both humans and zoans standing shiftlessly in front of old apartment buildings.  The heights of the outer city were only visible in the distance on long straight streets, of which there were few.  The stream of airbusses passing overhead were new.  Bringing inner-city dwellers to work in the outer, dozens at a time.  The soft whirring of their blades added up to a constant drone.
When he disembarked, Geir left his padded coat on the bus for the next traveler to find, threw out the tray of his last packaged meal, and then had nothing left of his employment with the Mover.  His wristband computer had shut off at the same time as his account.  He was back in Terrace with nothing to his name but the ID tab in his thumb and a few hundred dollars that might have disappeared with his company account.  He might as well never have left.
No one bothered him in the streets.  Humans may be unthreatened by birds at their normal sized, but once one reached their scale, the viciousness of that beak and those claws became much more apparent.  Geir had learned early that he could bank on that, whether it meant biting the kneecap of a security guard when he was small or brandishing talons to ward off interlopers about his business.  The black streaks at the sides of his beak seemed to inspire wariness too.
He took some time to stroll the blocks around the bus station.  The site of the Brightlove House was not far, but the facility itself was long gone.  After his time there, Geir had done some of his business in this area.  He recognized some of the buildings, the tenement houses with small storefronts facing the street, the walkways and roads crossing above the ground level.  Really, there wasn't much in the fourteen years since he'd left to override the memory.
Geir hadn't heard much about the Zoan Front, naturally.  It had begun a couple years before he volunteered to enter the workforce, a continuation of Samuel's revolutionary career.  There had been word about it here and there: it had intercepted a shipment of pharmaceuticals, or it had offered security to protesters at the home of an anti-zoan pundit.  Or its members were threatening humans in the street and ransacking their homes; Geir had highly doubted those rumors.  If Samuel or his lieutenants had ever undertaken any major action, news hadn't reached the dormitories in the Mover station. From the little research he’d been able to do before his account had expired, Geir understood the Zoan Front to be notorious, but not necessarily feared—until the station bombing. Their activities had been increasing rapidly. Or, at least, the activities attributed to them. None of its ranking members, especially Samuel himself, had been found or even heard from since the leader had taken credit.
So, Geir had to do some hunting. But he had an idea of where to start.
A decade ago, the Ironclad had been a likely location to pick up work. It was in a central location, its bar was cheap, and it was known to jam cameras and listening devices in its vicinity. A dealer could solicit clientele without fear, or low-level gangster could find bored toughs to pay for protection or intimidation, but it wasn’t so divey that it wouldn’t attract anyone a little higher up, too. It was somewhere ZF operatives could find jobs to fund their cause, and find alternate sources of supplies when the authorities stamped theirs out. If it was still there, it was worth a look. Or at least a drink.
It still stood, Geir found, but it wasn’t the same. Previously, the Ironclad had occupied a small space at street level, its rough brick edifice covered in posters and graffiti and its sign overshadowed by a bridge on the level above. Now it seemed to have swallowed up the space that opened onto that bridge as well, and cut wide glass windows into the wall. There was an airbus pad near it: good for business, apparently. Geir took a seat at the bar in the lower, older half.
The interior was brighter and cleaner. Not not bright, and probably not clean, but there wasn’t a shadowy booth or disused corner in sight. A mirror and a line of taps behind the bar, where before had been rows of liquor bottles and a conspicuous shotgun. Geir suspected a complete turnover in staff and ownership in his absence.
It was a workers’ bar. The other drinkers sat quietly with their glasses, exhausted, dressed in coveralls and service uniforms. There was a stage for musicians, but no one on it tonight. Geir ordered his first scotch in a decade and observed.
The middle-aged human bartender gave him only a perfunctory smile and poured him a finger. When she went to the back soon after though, her replacement made Geir smile.
A youthful zoan, lupine model, the new bartender relieved the human with a nod and a light punch on the shoulder. He was tall and slim, and much of his fur was shaven or slicked down with product. Wiry and skinny, dressed in a dark muscle shirt with an inscrutable logo on it and plaid capris. A black extension woven into his scalp to give him long hair like a human’s. His shaved arms and neck were tattooed, and several piercings hung from his ears. One tattoo amidst the jumble on his neck was the familiar ZF.
It didn’t mean he was affiliated. But it was starting point.
Geir downed his drink and caught the wolf’s eye for a second. Cranberry, as his nametag read, came over with a musical strut and identified the drink from scent.
“Hun,” he winked when he delivered the next.
Geir flashed an easy smile.
“I’m looking for someone,” he said. “Are you connected in these parts?”
“I know a person or two,” the wolf leaned in and raised a pierced eyebrow. “I guess I get around.”
“And are you affiliated?” Geir leaned his head to the side, to indicate the other’s tattoo.
Cranberry smiled.
“Not as such, I wouldn’t say,” he rested his elbows on the bar and lowered his voice. His tone indicated something different from his words.
"What've they been up to?" Geir asked.
"Well there's no way you haven't heard about their big hit last week," Cranberry said.  "That was a surprise–but they're flush with money now.  And cops."
Geir took his meaning, and shook his head.
"Not a chance," he said.
"Good enough for me.  You're too handsome to be a cop anyway."  Wink.  "Out in public you have to call them terrorists.  But you won't find a zoan who really feels that way.  Not here. Who's it you've got your eye on?"
"I'm just looking to make contact."
"Ah."
Cranberry tapped a claw on the counter.
"I would get broken in half over someone's knee if I gave a name," he said.  "But: three more drinks and maybe I'll give you a place."
"That sounds even more risky."
"Oh, for you maybe, not for me.  One of those drinks is for you, the other two are for me, got it?"
"On the job?"
"There's no one looking over my shoulder today, I can cut loose."
He proffered the small glass pay block, with a playful flourish.  Geir pressed his thumb against it.
"Thirty percent tip," he told it.
"Ooh," Cranberry smiled and palmed the block.  He backed away and poured one more finger into Geir's glass, and the first for himself, then raised his to toast.  "Weeknights at the carpet factory on Wakefield.  Tell the guy you're hoping to see a broken jaw."
"ZF code?"
"Nah.  Just what I said the first time I came in.  Worked for me."
"What am I walking into?"
"You'll like it.  But don't make anybody mad.  I pick up some of those guys' drops sometimes, and they tip well."
"Sure."
"Not as well as you of course, hun."
"Of course not."
Geir finished his drink while Cranberry tended to other customers, gave the wolf a nod and left.  Three was more than he'd wanted, but he'd always held his alcohol well, and the burning in his throat kept him alert.