by Jeremy Szal
‘Was she with anyone?’ I asked.
‘No. Always came alone.’
‘She ever talk of family? Friends? Anyone she was seeing?’
‘She wasn’t chatty. Not like that. She seemed lonely, if I had to guess.’
‘Do you know where she lived?’
‘Sure. Got to have an address to sign on for a cruise.’ While he went to check his records, I stooped down to examine Wong’s hands. The fingerbones seemed to be moving, curling back and forth, subtly enough you’d never notice if you weren’t looking. She’d had machinery installed inside her hands. The cheap kind, if they were malfunctioning like this. She definitely wasn’t wired up when I knew her.
Brushing the thought aside, I rifled through Wong’s sparse belongings, found nothing of interest until I happened upon a small, magnetically sealed phial in her handbag. Empty, from the weight. I popped it open and sniffed. Sweat broke out on my forehead as I raked in a desperate breath and feverishly snapped the lid closed. My body was all too familiar with the smell of raw stormtech. The stormtech in me writhing in response to it as I tried to think. This phial would have contained the crystallised essence of stormtech, ground down into blue particles the size of salt crystals for oral ingestion.
Stormtech might be locked permanently inside us all, but like any muscle, it doesn’t strengthen overnight. It takes time and training to reach the higher levels of ecstasy, building a tolerance for the drug. Training. But, like a shot of anabolic steroids, if you wanted an immediate, supercharged burst of stormtech-induced bliss, you could ingest the stuff. Most people were already overwhelmed by the stormtech inside them. Those who took additional shots were usually recovering addicts, desperate to reclaim their highs, even temporarily.
It seemed Wong had been one of them. I found I was disappointed, although I’d known plenty of Reapers who went down this toxic path, knowing would it’d do to them. The tube was cool in my sweaty palm, my body daring me to prise it open again. Get another whiff. I stuffed it firmly into my suit pocket as the owner returned with Wong’s address. It was almost a hundred floors away, scraping the bottom of Compass’ barrel.
Stepping from the cruiser onto the boardwalk, I swept a tumble of black hair out of my face, slicking it to the back of my head. The stormtech accelerates cellular growth, which means hair and nails grow faster. I hadn’t trimmed it in almost a week and it was starting to fall down to my neck in blue-black waves. I strode past rows of hotels, apartments, restaurants, libraries and attractions fashioned in the style of an open-air city harbour. Cafes advertised unique coffee blends and cocktails, while music and the scent of seafood wafted from open windows. Glass galleries, sculpted in the shape of animal skulls, loomed overhead.
That breakfast wrap hadn’t been enough, so I grabbed another and watched the early morning swimmers dive and swim in the swell and curl of the whitecaps. Yachts bobbed on the glistening green water, families playing in rocky lagoons in the distance. A ruby-red tree with silver leaves released the scent of cinnamon and lemon as I approached, the branches sensing anyone in the proximity and unfurling towards them. I licked my fingers clean of barbecue sauce and headed in the direction of the Travel Depot, where chainrails, traveltubes and transit hallways would take me to Wong’s floor. Light rain scattered down from hidden sprinklers in the asteroid roof. Warm water soaked into my hair and trickled down my back. Bruised thunderheads curled overhead, a pixel storm gathering its breath.
I walked a little quicker, past the various Alien Embassies and Processing Datacentres where arriving travellers of various species stated their business: to trade, visit, or permanently migrate to Compass. Not every species had the best of intentions, especially after the war ended and they’d cottoned-on that humanity’s position within the greater galactic community was indeed vulnerable.
Past the harbour area and towards the outskirts of the central city area, I could see the Compass Academy Building, where they studied xenobiology and xenoarchaeology. We’ve been interested in aliens from the moment we made contact with the Torven four centuries ago. The civilisation had been in its spacefaring infancy when they happened upon and rescued a lone human lungship in deepspace, its engines leaking and life-support on the verge of collapse. In return, Harmony provided living space and a cultural foundation in Compass. No surprises that it helped strengthen the Common politically. Somehow, the word got around to other spacefaring species and they came calling. Some points of contact resulted in skirmishes that didn’t end well for either side, while others saw more species joining the Common.
I slowed a fraction and turned away from the rain-streaked Travel Depot terminal to study the Academy building, confirming that I was, as I thought, being followed. Reaper intuition was enough, but a glance in a reflective gable window confirmed it. I got a flash of a slender, pale figure under heavy, hooded clothing. One of the Jackal’s men, I suspected, which meant trouble. Couldn’t let them know what I was up to.
Time to take them on a little tour.
I casually turned down a rain-slick street and pretended to browse storefronts selling translation software and cruiser-ship passes as I threaded through the stream of recent arrivals bleeding out of the Depot. I had to set a trap for my stalker. But, amped-up by that whiff of stormtech, my body began to itch for a confrontation. My muscles were tightening and my mouth was already thickening with eager saliva. I stamped down on my rising urges as best I could, but after another few blocks I was getting sick of this damn idiot and I couldn’t have him breathing down my neck all the way to Wong’s place.
Got to love it when the number of options shrinks down to one. Really speeds up the decision-making process.
I turned into an alley clustered with garbage bins and flattened my back against cool brick. Positioning my legs into a fighter’s stance, body angled forward. I counted the footsteps and whipped my elbow out. It sunk into my follower’s stomach, sending him reeling backwards with a curse.
‘You looking for me, mate?’ I asked.
Whatever exposed flesh I could see was completely hairless. His skin was pale as bone and covered with smooth glistening scales, like a reptile’s. Dark, beady eyes flickered down my body, assessing me. His hands twitched and taloned claws slithered out from the ends of his fingers, glinting in the light. A result of some wacky experimental surgery, recreational augmentations. A moonmetal slingshiv glinted as it danced between his claws. He meant business – which meant he hadn’t been sent by the Jackal. That bastard liked to play with his food.
His expression remained stoic as he lashed out with the slingshiv. I parried the first blow, grabbed his arm on the second, dragging him forward as I hooked his leg out from under him and smashed him into the brick wall. I punched the crook of his arm, tried to twist the weapon away, wrapping my arm around his neck. He snarled and crushed me against the wall. My back scraped the bare brick, his slingshiv darting back over his shoulder, aiming for my throat and tearing bloody slashes into my shoulder. Agony and stormtech burned through me as I locked my arm around his throat in an iron grip and pulled. He spluttered, struggling for air as I pulled harder, harder, his legs flailing, our muscles straining, saliva flying from my teeth.
He must have been seconds from blacking out when he slammed the back of his head into my nose. The momentum sending us twisting away, legs tangled, my grip loosening and him slithering away and kicking me backwards into a stack of garbage disposals. Food waste and stinking liquid exploded into my face, sticking to my clothes. I spat out something foul, my hair matted and sticky. Gritting my teeth, I hurled one of the small plastic bins at my assailant’s face and it smashed into his chest, garbage spattering out. The stormtech strummed through my nerve centres as I swooped in to deliver two iron-fisted blows to his stomach, sent another smashing across his head. He ducked under my third blow, swiping sideways at me with his claws, digging into the skin and leaving burning gashes down my sides. I g
rowled, threw my hand up to protect my throat and earned a searing claw slash across my forearm. I hunched forward, taking the blow with my shoulder, ramming into him and sending him reeling backwards. I slammed my open palm into his nose with a wet crunch, breaking it. He skidded backwards, still clutching the slingshiv. Blood and hot garbage soaked my stinking underskin. I knew his style now. Fast and shallow. Death of a dozen cuts, they called it.
I circled him, arms held up in a defensive position, ensuring my back wasn’t to the wall. Chest heaving, squashing my body’s urge to pounce first. Half the fight is trapping your enemy, tricking him into making a move he can’t resist before turning on him.
Wait for it. Wait for it.
He went for me, just as I’d hoped. I sidestepped, chopped a blow into his sternum, clapped a cupped hand on his ear, and finished with a vicious strike at his windpipe. He coughed and spluttered as I ripped the slingshiv out of his claws.
He froze.
I realised I was holding it against his jugular. White-hot blade ready to slice. The black gel of the grip vibrated against my touch, readjusting to my hand. The stormtech thrashed in my chest like a livewire. One flick of the wrist was all it would take. I imagined blood jetting out, spraying the brick walls red. The thought jolted me and I mentally backed away. Questions first, then I’d decide what to do with him.
‘Who are you?’ I wheezed, keeping him firmly in place and making sure his claws kept their distance from my eye sockets, ‘and what the hell do you want?’ No answer. Only his equally laboured panting. I squeezed harder and leaned close to a pale ear. ‘You’re wasting my time. That makes me unhappy. When I’m unhappy, I do things I shouldn’t. So: what do you want?’
His only response was a sneer. As the artificial sun peeked out from behind thick clouds, its rays streaked down to knife across my face, blinding me. He used the advantage to go limp, dropping to the floor like a boneless fish and propelling himself out of my range. We faced each other across the stinking alley, chests heaving. My body gurgling with the rush of adrenaline, my hand clenching his slingshiv. Sweat stung my wounds. Part of me hoped he’d rush me, body hunched forward in combat-anticipation even as the other part of me clamped down on the feeling.
He flexed his claws as he backed away, bloodied nails extending with the sound of his knuckles cracking. I spat on the pavement, my eyes never leaving his. I’ll be back for you, his expression said as he ducked out of the alleyway and into the crowded Travel Depot. I sank down, breathing hard and fast, as if a switch had been thrown and snapping me out of combat-mode. Because my job wasn’t hard enough, now I had an augmented stalker on my back and I knew zero about what he wanted from me.
At least I could go to Wong’s place unmolested now. I double-checked my nose wasn’t actually broken, and that’s when I noticed the rivulets of blood dripping down my arms and spattering at my feet.
I burst into my apartment, ignored the Rubix’s chirp of Welcome home, Mister Fukasawa, and shouldered the bathroom door open for med supplies.
That bald bastard had cut me in half a dozen places, knowing exactly where to make his mark. No arteries nicked, though not for a lack of trying. The wounds sent sour shivers up my body. Choking down the garbage fumes, I dumped the sealed bags of medical equipment into the sink and sifted through them, the effort of resisting my churning stormtech leaving me in a cold sweat. I found a hypo for the pain, antibodies for infection, and a Sealer to cauterise the wounds. I shrugged carefully out of my soiled underskin to treat the first wound.
Only I didn’t have any.
Nothing on my chest, nothing on my hands. Nothing on my forearms, nothing on my shoulders where metal had cleaved deep into my skin. I had dozens of knife-thin slashes to my underskin and clothes, but no cuts in my flesh.
I leaned back against cold marble and peered down my torso. Blue streams of stormtech were twisting across the ridgeline of my breastbone, over my muscles and between my ribs. Between the alleyway and my apartment, the stormtech had sealed up the lacerations, only an echo of the stinging pain remaining. I’d been so unused to the stormtech doing anything like it I hadn’t even noticed. Shouldn’t even have been possible. When I detoxed the stormtech’s influence over my body, the ability to self-heal had gone with it.
Or not.
I ran my hand over my chest. Half an hour ago I’d had a deep wound right above the breastbone. Now the skin was unbroken and ivy-like strands of blue were whispering over the length of my ribcage, weaving deeper into my system, stirred up by the adrenaline and danger. I squeezed my eyes shut. I’d come so close to killing that man. I shuddered, but something inside me relished the idea. Addiction to bottomless aggression and desire to conquer and destroy had been threaded into every single Reaper. I’d spent years trying to rip it out.
I sprawled against the cold tiles. Wong had still being taking stormtech after all this time. Had it killed her? Or she was targeted like the rest because she’d been a Reaper? Had Artyom known what the poisoned stormtech would do to her? If he had, how could he possibly justify it?
Whatever he was doing, whatever path he wanted to walk in life, it was his own. If things had been different, I’d have let him go his way and I’d go mine, as he wanted. Let Harmony deal with him. Even though the threads of our lives were too tightly entwined for me to slice him off without tearing a part of myself away, too. But our sister had always been the cord that truly tied us together and I couldn’t let her down. Promise me, Vak, Kasia had said. Promise you’ll take care of him.
I’d failed once. Now, though I couldn’t stand by and let Reapers get killed, I couldn’t desert Artyom, either. No matter what, he was my brother and a promise, even a broken one, is a promise.
I exhaled and clenched my fist. Bone-deep biotech spread from my chest, down to my arms like cold fire. And I wasn’t entirely sure that I did not welcome it.
8
Don’t Breathe
I’d never believed Compass could really function until I arrived here. Cities stacked on top of cities on top of more cities, squeezed inside an asteroid. It sounded like one hell of an eyesore, and a complicated one at that. Only when I’d been here for a month and had done some exploring did I understand how wrong I’d been. The floorplan had been meticulously designed from top to bottom. The architects hadn’t been messing around. Turns out, they did exactly what countless habitats, orbitals, moonbases, stations and planets did all over the Common: developed economic infrastructures.
The poorer, less privileged folks live towards the lower levels of Compass, typically on floors infested with industrial centres, dockyards, factories, printing farms, flophouses and slums that are just as shabby as they were in the Construction Era, when Compass was first formed. A little further up the social ladder are lowlevels teeming with marketplaces, seedy hangouts, spacedocks run by crimelords, and crowded metropolitan streets. Go higher and you’ll find the majority of Compass inhabitants on midlevels, cleaner cities containing coffeehouses, bars, sprawling apartment blocks, lively entertainment, trading centres, shopping plazas, areas of community living. Higher still are the central business districts, townhouses, opulent spaceports, theatres, waterfront restaurants, and well-off suburbs. The pinnacle of the asteroid is honeycombed with floors terraformed with beaches, parklands, forests, snowy mountains, vacation resorts, private hangar bays, hotels, and extreme superstructures only the stinking rich could afford. Scattered between them are smatterings of private spaces, subsectors and random floors no one quite knew what to do with or how to place. Alien species can be found either living in their own designated spaces rigged with species-appropriate life-support systems, or spread throughout the infrastructure. Nothing is quarantined or as strictly defined as people like to think, with the ecosystem of lifestyles, micro-societies, peoples and species bleeding and meshing into each other. You’d need a lifetime to explore all of it, let alone the several, kilometre-long empty sp
aces still under construction. Not to mention the Void Zones, still sealed off and under repair after Harvest artillery fire had shredded any chance of them being habitable.
So, when I emerged from a winding maze of stairwells, access tunnels and transit hallways to arrive on Changhao, one of the lowest levels of Compass, where Wong had her apartment, I knew what to expect. Cubed, windowless compartments had been stacked six or seven storeys high like discoloured boxes. Mostly shipping containers from the dockyard, retrofitted into living spaces. Purple smoke slithered from burner stubs and up through crisscrossing stairways and balconies jutting like rusty ribcages. Powerlines and pipes thick as my arm scaled buildings, a good half of them frayed or leaking onto the streets. Hippomechs, used for transporting heavy objects, rested on polished bogies. Neon words writhing in mid-air advertised cheap accommodation, clubs, vidgame arcades and sensory simulation cubes. Thick steam billowed from grimy kitchens and street stalls. Only a little of the atmosphere’s damp, hot scent leaked through my helmet filters, but it was enough to make me gag.
Amateur stormdealers and drug lords weren’t even bothering to hide here. Every second corner had sellers lingering on the streets. Customers swapping cards filled with Commoner-credits for sealed bags. Grimy drug-dens and distribution centres sat out in the open in alleyways, the chemical reek spreading like fog, their presence fused to the infrastructure like cancer clinging to the bone. If you worked out in the open, you were either stupid, or knew there was no chance of getting caught, because you owned the floor. I’d missed the warning in my shib alerting me that I was in dangerous, controlled territory. I’d probably already been spotted. Just as well I was fully suited up in my armour again. If they wanted to take me on, they’d have one hell of a time.
My palmerlog chimed, a message from Kowalski growing in blue text across my overlay. Scattered water droplets punched through the visualisation. I was afraid she had another Reaper death for me, but she was just fishing for an update. I replied I’d examined the body and would keep her informed on any leads I followed up. Mentioning the fight would only invite questions, and I wanted to take all factors into account before I made a move.