Stormblood

by Jeremy Szal

  ‘All bad news here. Your metal’s a write-off. Total miracle you were still using it.’ He gave it another professional look-over and twirled the toothpick around in his mouth. ‘Half the circuits have gone to the dogs. A deal on the parts is the best we can do today, I’m afraid.’

  I’d grown attached to the armour, but I found I was thankful I didn’t have to go to the trouble of cleaning the thing. Just as well I was stinking rich right now.

  ‘An upgrade sounds good,’ I said, resting my hand on its shoulder one last time. I found the passkey Jasken had sent to me and forwarded it to Fox. ‘Would this do anything for me?’

  His expression rippled as Fox inspected the passkey. ‘This is an Iron Prism. Pyroxene Class. Pyroxene, I say!’ Respect and a touch of disbelief in his voice. ‘How’d you get your mitts on this? Which deepspace smuggler gang you been hauling for, eh?’

  I returned his stare, deadpan. You’ve got to go along with these things, sometimes.

  Fox slapped the side of his head, straightened his beanie. ‘Oh, where are my manners! That’s all miscellaneous. A customer carrying a Pyroxene deserves … something little extra.’

  I was starting to understand why Jasken had been so familiar with the darkmarket tech in the Warren.

  ‘We’ll have to nip ’round back. Allow me to call my esteemed partner. Badger!’ Fox called out. No response. Fox hit the cabinet, wood rattling. ‘Oi! Badger!’

  There was a soft thud from the backroom, like someone hitting their head on shelving. A Torven appeared next to me, the mask of a vidgame simulation dangling in his hands, the blue curl of stormtech squirming up his chest. ‘How many times have I bloody told you?’ the alien yelled, coating my face with a fine mist of saliva. ‘Don’t shout when I’m wired in. Scared me half to death! I almost—’

  ‘Badger,’ Fox stressed with great strained patience, ‘our customer here is Pyroxene Class. Pyroxene. Class.’

  Badger blinked rapidly, coal-dark eyes going big as moons as I wiped my face clean. ‘Then … then we should take him out the back!’

  ‘Right.’ Fox clapped his hands together. ‘Now we’re all caught up, let’s do some business.’

  Badger reached down and punched a button under the desk. The display windows of the armoury turned glassy, a latticework of reinforced bars slamming across to restrict entry. ‘Can’t be too cautious,’ Fox explained. ‘Bad neighbourhood and all.’

  Fox deactivated the razorstorm guarding the back of the shop and ushered me down a creaking stairwell into a niche showroom. ‘Exclusive products are reserved for exclusive customers, you see. Things the common person ain’t geared up to appreciate. For a Reaper of Pyroxene Class such as yourself, this should hit the spot.’

  The suit he pointed out was a rich dark blue, the metalwork glistening and glimmering like cords of wet, twisting rope. Violent silver stripes swiped up the sides, lights winking around the forearms, chest, shoulders, and back.

  I grinned as Badger rattled off the extra benefits. ‘The inside is layered with a nanocomposite sensory system. It’s got a protective reactive metal crystal and a hydrostatic gel layer that will pump you with antibodies and biofoam to seal wounds. The inner material regulates temperature, changes density and thickness when it needs to. The exterior is a multilayer electro-active polymer shell, shielded against energy, radiation, kinetics, and static. It won’t stop a concentrated full-on spray, but it’s impervious to small-arms fire and protects well against most ballistic attacks. It’s EVA-approved, if you’ve got business out in space.’

  I gave the outer titanium alloy shell a few raps and allowed my hand to slide down the cool, reassuring metal. ‘What’s the score on armour-piercing rounds?’

  ‘Won’t stop them completely, but there’ll be better protection than your last. Remember: it’s the sustainability that’s important here. The suit’s got top-of-the-line anti-malware programming, and the helmet has a rear-cam. Useful in the shabbier neighbourhoods.’ Badger touched a button, got the armour’s chestplate to slide open. The Torven pointed to the carpet of bio-organic tendrils oozing out of the interior surface. ‘The interface is top of the range; you can expect instant responses on a biomechanical level. You’ll get readouts across the whole electromagnetic spectrum: biochemical, acoustic and pheromonal, everything. It monitors dopamine, adrenaline, blood-glucose. This beauty bonds with you and adapts to your body, making you more intimate with the hardware on a full neural and physical integration for sharper reflexes.’ He pointed again to the tendrils. ‘These are our selling point for Reapers. This suit is more sensitive, more precise; the stimuli is more powerful, completely adaptable to your physiology. Whatever sensations you’re experiencing, whatever stress levels your body is riding out, the suit will equalise and match up with you. You could almost say this suit becomes a part of you when you wear it.’

  I was dully aware that I was grinning. ‘Where’d you get this stuff?’

  ‘Not something we can disclose,’ Badger sniffed, rubbing the freshly made wound on his head.

  ‘The free market is a wonderful thing,’ Fox agreed, readjusting his beanie, ‘and needs protecting. Now. This armour ain’t quite sentient, but it’s equipped with a smart processing-core, same as an AI, wired so that protecting you is its one and only goal. In a way, these suits like being worn.’

  I stared at him. ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘I ain’t. Welcome to the future, mate.’

  I couldn’t not take it. I mean, I don’t think I could have physically walked away. And after Fox took my measurements and made some alterations, the armour fit me to the millimetre. After the interior padding around my limbs was adjusted for flexibility, I slid into it for the first time. I itched as the tendrils squirmed across my body like sentient liquid, dripping down my flesh, finding the notches in my spine. Connecting to me on a biomechanical level and jumpstarting the bonding process. The cobalt spinal ridges tightened against my body, running from the nape of my neck down my spine and along the curve of my tailbone. Badger attached the shelled armoured plating over my kneecaps. I raised my arms and allowed him to do the same to my elbows. I felt a familiar blistering sensation, like a bucket of electric, icy water being poured down my back, the electrostatic interface hooking in. Locking to my pheromones and reading my biometrics. A vibration rolled up the suit, shuddering down on a musculoskeletal level. The hydraulics began pumping, my body heat equalising and my flesh merging into the hardware. I unclenched my fist, armoured fingers clacking together. Lost in the composite layers of hardware and sensation, I wasn’t sure where my flesh began and the suit ended.

  There was a much bigger suit in the corner, so bulky you’d have to climb into it as opposing to strapping it on. ‘I’m guessing you won’t tell me where that came from either,’ I said, rolling my shoulders and feeling the suit’s inner tendrils scramble along my back.

  ‘Those heavyweights there are reserved for Iron Class customers.’ Fox placed a hand on his puffed-up chest. ‘I’d sell it to you, truly. But the code’s got to be respected, a chain of command to be followed. It’s the way of things.’

  ‘The way of things,’ Badger echoed sagely.

  I nodded along, as if I knew what they meant.

  ‘Now.’ Fox clapped his hands together. ‘Weapons.’

  A tall, antique wardrobe peeled apart in a flurry of golden and black cubes to expose a series of a gleaming racks. Microgrenades, razornades, neurotoxins, shardpistols, handcannons, EMP pistols, carbines, autorifles, marksman rifles, scattershots, railguns, fancy slingshivs and all manner of sharpshooters. There were even smatter-turrets, missile launchers, and nanoguns used in space warfare. Military-grade hardware, all sheathed in gel-padding and plastic casings.

  A lot of weapons manufacturers had gone out of business after the Reaper War. Not on a large scale, of course. People always want better ways to kill each other. But the sudden drop in de
mand meant a lot of wholesalers selling cheap to buyers who saw an opportunity in places like Compass.

  ‘You want to raise some pulses? This one will set you right.’ Fox handed me a silver scattershot with a polished wooden stock. Good balance, solid textured grips.

  ‘It’s all untraceable,’ said Badger, stormtech flashing down his arms. Standing next to me, the alien carried the same overripe, sickly-sweet musk I did. Guess the stormtech altered alien pheromones as well as human. Wasn’t too sure what to think about that. ‘The scattershot’s equipped with a magnetic system, allowing you to retrieve the slugs after you’ve fired them.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Fox piped in. ‘If the rest of the gun doesn’t work, you can always hit ’em with it.’

  But it was the heavy handcannon that drew my attention. Matte-black with bursts of red streaks down the ribbed barrel, like crimson rain bleeding across metal. Lights winked on, thrumming to life in my hand as I hefted it and stared down the holographic sights, getting an idea of its weight and balance. You’ve got to feel just right with your handcannons.

  ‘Ah. That’s the R-32 Titan,’ Fox piped in. ‘A semiautomatic death machine, my friend. Multicalibre printer, adjustable sights and spread, jet propulsion energy charges. It’s packing four ammo types: standard, armour-piercing, EMP, and explosive rounds for the times you’re in a bit of a tiff.’

  Had to be an offworld manufacturer. These things were suitbusters, equipped for zero-gee combat. You fired this thing at someone, there wasn’t going to be much left to bury. So, obviously, I was taking it. Along with the scattershot, an autorifle with textured grips, nonlethal neurotoxins and a shardpistol with crystals dipped in cyanobacteria that autoprinted near instantly, along with thirty quickmatter magazines.

  ‘Send them to my apartment,’ I told Fox as he punched in the necessary permissions for my printer to sketch up the weapons. I imagined the AI rabbit’s wide-eyed bafflement as my new arsenal spilled out of the printer.

  I attached the Titan handcannon to the magnetic holster on my thigh and pocketed a few of the neurotoxin needles before parting ways with the two darkmarket sellers, and was back into the bedlam of the Upper Markets, wrapped in cutting-edge armour. The armour was far bulkier than my previous iteration had been, but manoeuvring in it felt effortless. I had the hydraulics along my spine to thank for that. Fox hadn’t been lying about the faster response from the interface either: it felt like an extension of myself rather than something I was wearing. I flexed my shoulders and the armour seemed to flex with me, muscles and servos in unison. Oh, this was going to be fun.

  In the corner, Aras’ shop had been sealed up, already leased out to some space-manufactory. Seemed like the Bulkava had wised up and taken the window of opportunity I’d given him. He’d be four or five space sectors away if he had any sense.

  Knots of shoppers drifted by, two squabbling Torven knocking into me and slamming the thoughts out of my head. Over in the corner were some hunched figures, built like tanks. They were Rhivik, reptilian bipeds with scaly, rock-like skin that appeared to be covered in barnacles. An aggressive, combat-driven species, they were the latest species to arrive on Compass with the intent of establishing a home on the asteroid. The aliens were renowned for naturally growing their own rocky armour plating by way of thick scales, and were capable of shedding it at will. They’d sold the plates as trinkets to traders, creating a market for other species to graft them into their own flesh. They were in the middle of a deal, handing over boxes of their own biology to a vendor specializing in tattoos, skingrafts and body piercings. They’d soon carve out their own niche in the body-modification industries. As if there weren’t enough ways to meld alien DNA into human flesh already. One glanced at me with slitted crocodile eyes that blinked upwards, bits of meat wedged in between his tombstone teeth. Their business concluded, the aliens rumbled away into the crowds.

  A few floors down from the Upper Markets was a winding racetrack that ran along the outer edges of the asteroid, used for fitness laps and obstacle courses. It was well past midnight, but nothing really closed on Compass. Plenty of chances to test the capacity of my new suit out, see if it was everything Fox chalked it up to be. I was halfway down the escalators when my palmerlog rang with a call. No number, no ID. I connected it to my HUD. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Vakov!’ Artyom practically spat my name out, like it was poison. ‘Was that bloody you down there?’

  ‘Nice to hear from you, too.’

  ‘You sodding, maggot-brained moron. You stupid insufferable little prick. I told you to stay the hell away. You could have ruined everything!’

  I hadn’t had the easiest of weeks, even before I’d been kidnapped, held at gunpoint, strapped down and locked in my own suit and then tortured by a psychopathic AI for almost thirty hours. Even before I’d held out to protect him. The knives were out. ‘You mean: I’ve made stealing stormtech from Harmony and selling it to drug traffickers inconvenient for you?’ I said. ‘And you’re calling me a moron?’

  ‘What part of sod off did you not understand?’

  ‘You’re part of the plan, aren’t you? You’re actually trying to sabotage Harmony by poisoning stormtech.’ I attempted a mirthless smile. ‘Did someone kick you in the head?’

  ‘Shut up, Vak! Just shut your ugly pig mouth. I don’t need your advice, and I sure as hell don’t need you in my life. We had to relocate because of you.’

  ‘Oh, so it’s my fault now?’

  ‘You could have been killed, breaking in like that! No one survives the cradle.’

  The rage had started to slip from his eyes. He was afraid. Afraid for me. I felt the metal pendant resting against my chest and for a moment saw the boy who had given it to me by the edge of a mountain. Remembered the scars he carried. What the world had done to him. What we’d done to each other.

  ‘They’re making plans for you, Vak. They want to staple you to a wall with metal spikes and vivisect you; melt your eyes in your skull and slowly cut pieces off you. When they get bored keeping you alive, they’ll let dogs eat you from the feet upwards. They’ll film it and send it to Harmony as a warning. That’s what they’re capable of.’

  ‘Then why are you with them, Artyom?’

  He slowly shook his head. ‘You can’t possibly understand.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘I can’t. Jae will take you out if she suspects you’re an ongoing threat. Forcing the whole set-up to relocate put you right on her radar.’

  ‘Jae?’ Both Hideko and Lasky had mentioned a she. ‘Who’s Jae?’

  Artyom froze as he realised he’d said too much. ‘Walk away, Vak. They don’t know about us, not yet. I’m trying to keep it that way, but I can’t do it for ever. They don’t know we’re brothers.’ The last sentence came out choked and thick. He blinked hard and looked away.

  ‘You know I can’t walk away,’ I said quietly. I wished I could hug him. That we could go back, before all this mess, and try again. ‘You’ll always be my little brother. Doesn’t matter what you do or say. And I’ll never give up on you, Artyom. I can’t.’ I leaned forward and spoke past the hardness in my throat. ‘Even if it hurts, even if you hate me, I will never pretend you don’t matter. I’ll never stop trying to make things right. Because that’s what being your brother means.’

  Tears glistened in the corner of his eyes, matching mine. There was a quiet moment between us. He squeezed his eyes, hard. But his face morphed back into anger and the moment vanished into smoke. ‘So that’s it, then.’ His voice was dark and knotted, his words forming a wall between us as he smeared the tears away. ‘It’s all just a way for you to feel better. Make up for abandoning me to Dad?’

  ‘Don’t,’ I forced out through gritted teeth. ‘You have no right.’

  ‘Stop playing the hypocrite,’ Artyom yelled. ‘I have every right, I—’

  ‘Shut up an
d listen to me, you ungrateful little bastard. I tried to protect you. I took beatings for you until I was blind and coughing up blood. Don’t you dare pretend I didn’t try.’

  ‘It did nothing in the end, didn’t it? You couldn’t stop Dad killing Mum, right in front of us. Couldn’t save Kasia. So now you’re trying to save me from myself.’ He choked back the surge of emotions like a physical thing and scoffed. ‘What, you thought doing what you did to that boy would bring our sister back? Make everything better?’

  My hands clenched. It wasn’t right for us to be here, digging into each other’s wounds. ‘Shut up the hell up, Artyom. Just shut up.’

  ‘I expected you to be sent home in a box. It ate at me, Vakov. Every day for years.’

  ‘Shut up!’

  ‘But you didn’t care. Our promise to protect each other didn’t matter. You just wanted out. You chose that war over me. You chose yourself.’ His voice went hoarse, eyes galvanising into cold steel. ‘I’m glad—’

  ‘Don’t,’ I growled, my hands twitching by my sides. ‘Don’t you dare.’

  He went for the heart. ‘I’m glad Kasia’s dead. If she saw you now, she’d probably just kill herself. Better yet, since the war didn’t finish the job, why don’t you kill yourself?’

  He disconnected on me as I punched a wall, hard. Concrete sprayed. Fury rose in my throat, so hot and barbed I was choking, spluttering on it. I punched the wall again, again, again, until my armoured knuckles were smashing against rebar.

  I let out a furious growl between my clenched teeth as I stood there, panting. Then in my rear-cam I saw a familiar figure shouldering through the crowds with purpose. Even dressed in a heavy hood, I recognised Hairless and his pale features. He must have spotted me coming out of the armoury and followed me down here.

  Only one way he could have homed in on me so easily. Artyom had called to see if I’d back off. When I wouldn’t, he’d made the decision to take me out of the game. Had my own brother lured me into a trap?

  My muscles tightened, the rage swelling back into my throat. Rage at being used by my pig of a father. Rage at Harmony using me as a lab rat in the Reaper War. Rage at Kindosh using me like a pawn while my friends, my bloodbrothers, were hunted down and murdered on the streets like rabid dogs.