by Jaym Gates
“Don’t you get it! He was my chance to find out what I really am! I need to know if I’m more than just a shell to get passed around.” He stabbed the barrel toward Keilani, “You ruined it!”
A sick feeling welled up in my gut. It felt like free falling. But I didn’t regret squeezing the trigger.
The pistol dropped from Ruid’s scorched, shattered arm. Through the pain, Ruid’s eyes found mine. Maybe he beamed me something, maybe his look said it all, but I knew he’d never come home. It didn’t change the steel on my face, though. It was a fair price for getting a gun off my son.
Ruid crouched and grabbed something from the mess at the base of Vine’s skull. Then he was up. I got a decent look, nothing marred the back of his neck. The rear curtained wall wavered and he was gone.
Keilani stared after him, bleeding across the floor.
—
The Neo-Synergists weren’t happy. They had said they needed Vine, but what they really wanted was his hypermesh insert. Apparently his was different from the others he’d been sticking his Heartsync members with—the master implant. I didn’t care. They got what they asked for. They were lucky I didn’t charge them extra for me and Keilani getting shot up. I could have forced the matter—I knew the option was hidden away in the contracts they’d signed—but I just wanted it to be over with. They left unhappy.
That made two of us.
I hardly saw Keilani for the next week. He kept to his room. I tried to talk to him once or twice, but his vocabulary had been wounded in the fray—the best he could muster were one-syllable words. His hand wasn’t fixed either. It would be a few more days before my tech could get a matching replacement with Keilani’s customizations. I’d already paid extra to put a hurry on the order. There wasn’t any chance of dealing with the emotional phantom pains while the physical ones were so obvious.
I leaned back in my office chair, watching the usual security channels. [You have any luck, Pops?]
[Not a glimpse.] Pops had been speaking softer than usual these last few days. [He could have left the station. Gotten out with some new face and name. He’d probably know how to after working with you for a year.]
[Maybe.] I doubted it, though. Ruid was still here somewhere, laying low, maybe trying to figure out the implant he’d stolen, maybe trying to get it installed. Who knew what that might mean.
Keilani’s door clicked. I pushed the video feeds aside.
Her look was just over the feminine border of androgyny, her makeup and curves straddling subtle and seductive. Messy black curls fell to her shoulders—that had hardly changed. Her wardrobe had always run the unisex line, being just part of her appeal. The smooth, koa-tinged skin was exactly the same, though. So was the stub arm sling.
“It’s a good look for you.” I nodded, meaning it. “I’m surprised you haven’t used those sex switch implants sooner.”
“I did that time you were on Aphrodite Prime for a month. I was going to surprise you, but reintroducing myself to everyone turned into a hassle.” Her voice had only slightly changed. It would take some getting use to, but at least it had come back.
“And now?”
“Part of me just needs to go away for a while.” She dropped into the lesser of the two uncomfortable clients’ chairs.
I tried to sound casual, before the silence got uncomfortable. “You okay?”
“No.”
I nodded, knowing. “Yeah.”
“You find him out there?”
“No.”
She took her try at a sad little nod.
The silence crept in. The air vent’s hum sounded self-conscious.
“You going to get a new secretary?” she asked the blank desk.
“I don’t think so. I never really needed one to begin with.”
When her eyes came up, I expected to see tears. They’d already been spent, though, and that was worse. “Do you think he knew that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think if we told him, that maybe …”
“Kay …” I got up and wrapped my arms around her. “If they’re worth it, never stop trying to save them.”
She snuggled into me like she hadn’t since she got her first morph. We spent a long moment trying not to think.
Finally she sniffled and gave enough of a wriggle that I let her go.
I didn’t go far, though. I leaned back on the desk. “You going to be okay?”
Fingers brushed the corner of her eye. “I think so.”
“Good.” I bent and kissed her forehead. “’Cause while I might not need a secretary, this week proved things are way more interesting with a little back-up.”
Her smirk looked suspicious, but it was close enough to a smile. I took it as a good sign.
“What do you think? Looking for more work?”
A familiar cockiness crept into her voice. “My rates have shot way up since last week. I’m not sure you can afford me.”
Pops snorted. [Smart kid.]
“Shut up.” I told them both.
Melt
Rob Boyle & Davidson Cole
Hines lingered on an outcropping, not quite rock and not quite flow, dangling just a few meters above thick lava. His quartz morph glowed from the violent heat. In front of him, volcanic melt stretched out and curved upwards, the horizon distorted by the intense pressure of the Venusian surface atmosphere. Beyond the hazy curtain of rising heat, not even a square millimeter of solid ground was in sight. If he stayed too long on this gelatinous anomaly, his weight would sink it into the furnace below. The far crater edge existed out there somewhere, and beyond that, the surface mining camp. He’d been scouting terrain and mapping lava flow for hours, and the simple pleasure of shelter and solid surface beneath his six limbs was not on the schedule for a dozen more.
Hines stared into that orange hot morass of molten rock and considered, for a fleeting second, plunging head-first into it, putting a swift end to his misery. Literally made from quartz, his morph was designed to withstand the hellish heat and pressure here, but a fall into the searing lava would be lethal. Kymber sensed the morose direction of his thoughts and interjected with a sugar-sweet vocalization: [We have goals, Hines. Stay focused on them, and the time will melt steadily away. I promise.]
If he had beautiful digestive organs from which to expel partially-digested food through a wide open mouth, he’d have done so right then at the mention of the word “melt.” Often, he suspected his personal AI muse of intentionally trying to corrupt his mind with its choice of words, to tip him over the edge, but he was stuck with it, for now at least. Once his indentured hell was over, he’d be set, he’d be remade, he’d be amongst those privileged enough to sleeve in flesh. That is, of course, if he could survive.
Only a few weeks into his twelve-month contract and Hines had already witnessed three deaths. The egos of indentured surface workers were cheap and replaceable, much more so than the quartz morphs they were downloaded into, and they perished permanently on a consistent basis here. Even though surface mining contracts were the expedient route to earning a mid-range biomorph in the shortest period possible, Hines was now doubting he would ever survive the term with his sanity intact, let alone alive. If he was caught within a sudden swell of molten rock or crushed in a mining cave-in, his stack would be unrecoverable. Though the Octavian Mining Concern possessed a backup of his digitized consciousness, Hines was acutely aware that the hypercorp was exploiting a contractual loophole, labeling his backup as a fork with no legal rights or claim to Hines’s legacy. If he died, his “fork” would be signing a new contract and starting the term from scratch.
A week ago, Hines witnessed the demise of Clava, another indenture shelled inside a quartz morph, identical to his own. Only four days were left on her term. A drillbot teleoperator wasn’t paying attention, ground too deep, and undermined a pillar suppo
rting a twenty-meter cave, collapsing the whole thing right on top of her. Hines bet that Clava didn’t even see it coming. She was probably too wrapped up in repetitive mining ops, dreaming of scratching her own flesh with the actual fingers she would soon have earned. Dreaming of any sensation beyond the searing heat reflecting off quartz limbs. Dreaming of coolness upon skin. Then, splat, oblivion. Hines laughed at the absurdity of it. For the poor, it was here one second, gone the next.
The teleops were the biggest threat to surface workers. What did they care? Those slugs tucked safely away in secure storage in the aerostats, high in the cloud cover. Their egos were snug and lazy, trading years and years of service for the long, riskless route to a cheap morph to call their own.
Hines was not going to let the same thing happen to him. He was not going to pay his dues, looking over his shoulder every second for extinction to club his ego. He was not going to let those fuckers slip up and erase him. He refused to become another Clava. He had escaped from perpetual service in the Consortium, pursued the dream offered here on Venus: indentured service for higher risk but a much shorter term and higher payout. He would survive. His fate would be firmly in his own control.
—
Vijja laid back, the lush foam of the bed forming around sky blue skin, pillows slinking over and massaging their flesh, every surface in the chamber programmed to reflect back infinite naked Vijja, sleeved in their most precious morph, distinctly neuter and genderless. Vijja’s hands stroked across their skin, triggering specialized nerve clusters and releasing a rush of endorphins. Vijja much preferred to think of themself as an altogether new type of gender, outside the binary norms, with an alternative sense of sexuality and identity.
With a thought to their mute and nameless muse, Vijja’s writhing, reflected form faded away. A new reality washing over their sensorium. Vijja was now floating in zero-g bliss, buoyed by reflective clouds, surrounded by a perfect experience of the true glory of Venus: the cumulus of the habitable zone in the upper atmosphere, Vijja’s only beloved. The simulspace’s neurostimulators triggered, immersing Vijja in soft, cool sensations as wisps caressed their skin. The wind whispered in Vijja’s ears, the soft and steady breeze wrapping their body in an ethereal embrace. Cloud engulfed them, cool with electrostatic shock, then entered inside, leaking into every pore, expanding with ecstasy within. Sex with another gob of flesh could never compare.
Just as the purest pleasures of the sim kicked in, a call alert pushed past Vijja’s strict privacy filters. It was Rathe Aptuur, the highest-ranking diplomat in the Morningstar Constellation and Vijja’s mentor. With an exaggerated sigh, Vijja ordered their muse to cease the session and, as reality returned, to put Rathe through.
[I have news Vijja. It should please you.]
Despite the interruption, Vijja was always glad to hear from Rathe when her conversations began in this tone. It signified opportunity. And opportunity meant gain, both for themself and for Venus. Yet they couldn’t resist the urge to feign annoyance; it was part of the dance between they and Rathe. Vijja and Rathe both relished in it, but victory in these little exchanges was not paramount for Rathe. It was the play that mattered. Victory was everything. It was all Vijja had ever known.
Well, I was seeking my own pleasures when you found it necessary to interrupt. But I suppose my work is never done, is it?
Rathe chuckled. [Surly Vijja is undoubtedly my favorite Vijja.]
That may be, but surly Vijja would like to return to personal business. With all due respect, of course, Emissary Aptuur. Again, a gambit in their play; Rathe despised it when Vijja addressed her with a title. The formality broke her heart. They had been through so much, as mentor and protégé, as rivals and colleagues, as lovers and enemies, then back again to their current status as the standard bearers for Venus.
Rathe opted to cease the banter, accept a tiny defeat, and get down to business. The fun had been quickly drained. The image of a woman, an exquisite sylph morph with skin the color of rust dusted with gold and eyes of emerald green displayed in Vijja’s entoptics. [Allow me to introduce you to the newest Consortium rep to be stationed here on Octavia. Her name is Jeue.]
Vijja smirked. Never heard of her.
[No one has. And that is where the intrigue lies. And the challenge. She is due to arrive next week and you are to meet with her. Given the exit you provided the last few so unfortunate to hold her position, I predict an icy introduction.]
Vijja instructed their muse to do a mesh search. On immediate results, it found nothing but a press release announcing Jeue as the next Planetary Consortium rep to be sent to Octavia. No qualifications, no history. At first glance, she had not even existed until today.
“Is this some kind of a joke, Rathe?” Vijja said aloud.
[No. Quite the opposite.] Rathe’s tone shifted, dark mockery coded over her vocals. [How will you destroy an adversary without a past? That is your weapon of choice, is it not? The secrets of the past?]
You should know by now not to doubt me, Emissary. That PC puppet will not last a month on this aerostat. Now, before I get to the task, I would appreciate some time alone to finish what I began with your exquisite gift.
[The cloud sim is a gift from the grateful populace of Venus, Vijja. Not I. You know I cannot play favorites.]
But you still do. And rightfully so.
[Farewell, Vijja.] With a smile and a nod, Rathe’s avatar blinked out of Vijja’s entoptics.
Vijja returned to the cumulus sim, the giddy anticipation of political maneuvering streaming through their circulatory system.
—
“I want that fucking freak ruined. Finished. I don’t give a fuck what it takes. Any and all resources are at your disposal.” Charlie Boy sliced into the boiled fugu testes upon his plate, speared the white spongy delicacy, then slid the thin portion of blowfish balls between his enormous and perfectly white chompers. Swallow. The neurotoxins present in the testicles immediately began their assault on his system, forcing nerve endings to fire, tingle, then numb. The medichines in his blood counterattacked, nanobots neutralizing the poisonous invasion, converting death into euphoric endorphin swell. Thin lips from red, to lifeless blue, then back to red. He cracked his neck, side to side, satisfied, then continued.
“Now, I know I don’t need to remind you what the price of failure is.” Pause, another bite. “But I will. Cuz I’m a detail guy. I prefer clarity over ambiguity, and if I don’t make my intentions clear, I’m the fool.” Slice. Bite. Jeue waited patiently for the swallow, knowing what words were about to escape from beyond Charlie Boy’s obscene teeth.
“There is no you without me. I made your fucking ass, and I can take it all away. Snap. Snap.” Charlie Boy snapped his chubby cigar stained fingers twice quickly, echoing his words. “A nanosecond away from extinction. Don’t forget that.”
“The opportunity of a lifetime, Charlie Boy. I’m aware.” Jeue raised a full cocktail glass of gold liquid to her gold lips, sipped. She swished the pure scotch around in her new mouth. The sensation of taste on a biomorph tongue overwhelmed her. She closed her eyes. It had been so long, over a decade. She wanted to scream in victory.
“Good, yeah?” Charlie Boy asked, eyes all over Jeue’s lips as he instructed his muse to order her another one.
She swallowed the liquid, felt its burn spread over her vocal chords and down into her chest. She opened her emerald eyes. “Fuck yes.” She smiled warmly. Charlie Boy returned a hot cinder glare.
“This moment on, you watch yer fucking mouth, girl. Yer class now. Best this dusty rock has to offer. Leave the back alley whore in the back alley. Kill her dead. Remember what you were before that, back before the Fall. I’m counting on you to be that world-class negotiator again, the one no one knew you were when your ego was beamed offworld and ended up in the triad’s databanks.” His point made, Charlie Boy’s put-on jovial demeanor flashed back onto his fac
e. He took another bite of his dish, raised wild, not from a vat or nanofabbed, and gestured to the floor-to-ceiling window less than a meter from their table. From a hundred and fifty stories up, Valles-New Shanghai looked like a carpet of twinkling diamonds stretching to meet the deepening orange Martian sky of early evening. “Look out there. Tell me what you see.”
Jeue looked through her reflection. She polished her scotch just as the waiter placed down her next drink. She had never seen the canyon like this, from the heights, from the towers of wealth. Until today, she had only seen Mars from the inside of bunraku parlors and dollhouses, as viewed from the dead eyes of a pleasure pod waiting for the next client. She had no idea how her infugee ego had ended up in the syndicate’s hands or what had happened to her old friends and family from Earth. One day, she had been an up-and-coming UN negotiator, making sure to back herself up regularly as a precaution in the trying days of war and conflict. She must have died soon after that, in the Fall, but her backup was transmitted offworld. The next she knew, she was a slave, a prostitute, just another mind in a box downloaded into the body of choice according to the sexual appetites and fantasies of a non-stop parade of creeps.
Katarine, as she still called herself, despite the triad’s efforts to keep her nameless, was a survivor. She made the best of her circumstances. The skill set she required wasn’t all that different from what she had trained in for years. All she needed was an opening, and she found one: Charlie Boy. From client to friend, friend to savior. He had seen through her mask to the potential underneath, the genius of her charm. He paid the triad for details, investigated her past, and found an opportunity. He saw that her talents, her old training were being wasted. A plan came to mind in which her lack of a background was an asset.
Charlie, a behind-the-scenes player in the Consortium’s foreign consulate, answering directly to powers within the Ministry and Hypercorp Council, was waiting for her answer. Her chameleon nature came to the fore, manipulating herself to be exactly what he wanted her to be. “I see all the little people, Charlie.”