[ WP ] Every person in the world undergoes a `` goodness '' test . It 's designed to give a score from 1 to 200 , where 1 is pure evil , and 200 is an angel in human body . Then the world is divided into 200 zones , where people can live among their own kind .

The system was n't perfect - no system ever is - nor was it impermeable. The proof was sitting opposite me, wearing a bright white suit and sweating. Mr Male Pattern Baldness here was clearly not at home here - his perfect clothing, his flawless face, his slicked back hair, none of them made any sense in this joint, between heavy blue cigarette smoke, drunken insults flung across the room and dames with too little clothing dancing in hope of someone paying their fix for the night. He had to have come in over one of the smuggling routes. Must have cost a fortune. 
 
 `` Let me guess,'' I said, loud enough to be heard over some junkie calling the barkeeper a racial slur and being thrown out, kicking and screaming, by two security guys. `` Let me guess. You're 180 plus, right?'' 
 `` It's... A bit higher than that,'' he answered, wiping his glistening forehead with a light blue handkerchief. `` Quite a bit.'' 
 Maybe he was even from the very top, two zero zero. Someone like this breaking out of his zone... I did n't even know that happened. I stared him down. `` You have n't come here for chatting, right?'' 
 `` No, actually, uh...'' He was fumbling with the handkerchief, trying to decide whether he should keep it out or put it away. `` I need someone with... skills. I was told I might find that person here... That you... might be...'' 
 I groaned. `` See, that's why this whole system is bullshit. Even a fucking two oh oh eventually wants someone dead...'' 
 He shook his head. `` It's not like that,'' he said. `` Not like that at all.'' 
 `` Sure, sure.'' I emptied my glass and whistled for another. `` Noble motives. You know, I'm almost sure all of you bastards up there are exactly like us, just better at making up noble motives.'' 
 `` I... Look, I can pay you.'' He had finally decided to put his handkerchief away. `` I'm a very wealthy man. If you do this...'' 
 `` I do most anything, if the pay's good. Question is, what do I need to do?'' 
 He was looking everywhere but into my eyes. I cracked a grin. Fucking spoiled wusses. `` Well?'' I asked. 
 `` I need someone from...'' He swallowed. `` I need someone from zone one.'' 
 I had already raised my glass to my mouth when he said it - now, I slowly lowered it without drinking. `` You're kidding.'' 
 `` I wish I was.'' 
 
 His mother had been abducted to zone one. He explained that she was a high-energy scientist who researched a lot of things with fancy names. That he thought they might force her to help build a weapon to destroy the walls between the zones and let the zone one inhabitants flood into the other areas... But he did n't care much about that big stuff. I thought that if the wall ever was destroyed, they'd probably just nuke zone one. Well, Mr Male Pattern Baldness just wanted his mother back. 
 I got a pack of cigs from my coat pocket and got one out. `` Okay. Figure I get what you're doing on level fifteen now. Army wo n't go into zone one, of course.'' 
 `` Of course,'' he agreed. Army guys were usually from somewhere over zone fifty. Competent enough... But not suicidal enough for a trip to one. 
 Someone staggered up to Mr Two Oh Oh from behind. Dame, high off her rocker, completely fucked up. I knew her. Genette. `` Hey, you,'' she said. `` I like yer jacket. Gim me.'' 
 `` Surely, you're not...'' he started. She interrupted him by grabbing his throat and brandishing a knife. 
 `` Gim me.'' 
 I got up. `` Genette, he's my customer. Kindly fuck off.'' 
 `` Shuddup,'' she answered. The next moment, I had her knife and was holding my handgun to her temple. The reason I was alive in my line of work was that I was fast, but it helped how slow druggies were. 
 I suggested: `` Get lost.'' Genette complied. 
 I sat down again. `` Payment. I think a trip out of here to at least zone one fifty would be nice, would n't it.'' 
 His eyes went wide. `` I ca n't do that - even if I could - the papers...'' 
 `` Pity. I thought even you guys up in the three digits cared about your mommas.'' I finally had time to light my cigarette. `` I'm sure you people have your ways.'' 
 He stayed quiet, then said: `` Fine. Fine, alright. I can make it work. Only one person, though.'' 
 `` All I ever asked for,'' I said and smirked. 
 
 I arrived in zone one in a small boat. Only experienced smugglers could circumvent the endless search lights, unmanned drones, patrol aircraft and sensor arrays that were used to prevent travel between the zones; my smuggler was called Immen. He had a long grey beard and a curious habit of chewing uncooked noodles he kept in his coat pocket. 
 `` You can get into zone one most days of the week,'' Immen said. My employer had payed him a fortune for this trip. `` Now, out, that's different. With zone one, they're pretty much only worried about people getting out. So out maybe works once every two months.'' 
 `` What will you do in the zone for that long,'' I asked. 
 `` Visit friends!'' He laughed a deep belly laugh. `` Just kidding, no such thing in zone one. But I have people there who value my business. They'll protect me. You see...'' He pointed ahead over the dark water, where the first lights of zone one appeared out of the night fog. `` The thing about zone one is, not everything is anarchy.'Cause the literal nazis also live there, you see?'' 
 I peered ahead. There were neon lights near the ruined old piers... Bars and bordellos, I assumed. `` So, your friends - er, people who value your business - are the nazis?'' 
 He shrugged. `` Some of them. Not all.'' 
 I picked up my concealed weapons and the radio beacon when I left the boat and waved goodbye to Immen. As a good smuggler, his usefulness protected him. I had no such protection. 
 
 Detective work is n't easy when people keep trying to kill you. Worst of all - you got to stay sober. The guy who did n't like my face had just decided to turn this fistfight into a gunfight by drawing a heavy revolver from a holster on his belt. Nobody walking by on the street payed any attention. Before his gun left the holster, I had mine pointed at his chest. The problem was... I was used to oh one fives. This was a oh oh one. I expected him to realise he'd lost once my pistol was out, but he did n't. There was a loud, reverberating bang when his revolver went off, followed by a three dull thumps from my silencer as I put a salvo of hollow points into his chest. He stumbled backwards against a derelict wall and collapsed. I looked down at my leg right away... Blood was streaming down my leg from a fairly big flesh wound, mixing with the rain puddles on the ground that reflected all the neon lights. Not good. I rummaged in my coat from a bandage. I'd have to learn to shoot instantly. 
 
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