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Volga. Help me.
I fall out of the horror back into the shell of my body. Incomprehensible agony radiates from the interior of my right thigh. The rest of me does not move.
“…rejecting the artificial tissue.”
The words slither through the thick wool of my brain. My ring is gone. I look down at my body, or try to look. The body is naked, pinned to a table like a vivisected frog. My right leg is skinless synthetic meat from the hip down. Green, webby fibers spasm over translucent bone. Artificial vessels worm in fleshy strands. An emaciated human with two hundred glass eyes affixed to his head hunches near my feet, spinning membrane. Someone screams. I think it’s me.
“Massive coronary agitation.”
“…withdrawal complication.”
“Keep him alive,” a voice rumbles beyond the light. “Your Queen wills it.”
“…sedative!”
I drift into the dark. It is warmer than I expected. There is a boy there, on a raft, his hands behind his head, his skin freckled from the sun. He floats off a shadowy shore watching a big sky, not one collared by metal towers, but dusted with stars and stretching the horizon. All I want is to float there with him. To smell the salt. To lie in that cradle as the sea rocks us to sleep.
The moon pulses in the sky like an atomic dilation. Drawing me up into its gravity. No no no no nonononono.
Chop ’em if they’re taller.
Stomp ’em if they’re smaller.
Mauler, brawler, legacy hauler…
Chanting in the tunnel to light.
A girl stands over me. Her hatchetface pulled into a sneer. A scalpel glints in her hand. She holds it over my throat. My memories, my life, my guilt, return and I push my throat up into the metal. “Go on, slick. Gimme a nick.”
I laugh when she can’t. Never comes when you want it to. The laughter won’t screw off. I scramble for the Z valve inside. It ain’t there. The laughs turn to sobs. Till I’m bawling like a softfoot waking first night in his bunk to find his ass gettin’ torn up by a line of leatherneck triarii, fresh in from killing Moonies.
I crank and crank on the Z valve.
Volga’ll be dead by now. Dead like the Scarhunters I trained. Rest of my freelance team’s toe tags—Cyra, that greedy idiot, Dano, poor pickpocket kid I made into a real operator.
Dead by association.
Fuck me.
Where’s my fucking ring? Takes me a while to realize I’m shouting it. I thrash against the restraints.
When the tears dry up enough for me to actually see, the girl’s gone. The boy’s replaced her. So he’s alive. Well, that feels…good. Got a nasty scar that’s gonna take some healing from his right eye to his left jaw. I crack a smile that splits my dry lips. “Hey, kid.”
“Tinman.” He dangles my engagement ring on the end of a chain. “Been watching out for it.”
“Good lad. Give it here.”
He doesn’t. I spot the med-bank behind him. Look at all that dope. Bottles and canisters and packages. Oh my.
“Where are we?”
“Mars.”
“Mars. Huh. So, kid. Need you to do old Tinman a favor. Got some joints need oilin’. Got a condition, you know. Hard life and all. Maybe zoladone? Might be some in the med-bank back there.” He doesn’t move. “Just a little panel to take the edge off. Liquid Z ain’t kill-juice. That zombie shit’s all propaganda. Helps me with my demons.” He just watches. “Come on, now. Come onnnn. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
“No.”
“Little rich shit. Saved your ass from a pillaging. Get some Z. Don’t do me like this. I’ll eat your fucking heart.” He steps back. “Come on. Hey.” I try a smile. “Heyyyy. I didn’t mean. Was a joke.” My laugh comes out as a bark. “Gods, you’re tight as Juno’s cunt. We made a good team back there. But you gotta have my six. It’ll calm me down. Had an operation, see? Please. Please, little man?”
