by Eyal Kless
Vincha gripped the sides of the med bed as she felt Sci’s instruments inside her skull.
“No sedation,” she blurted through clenched teeth.
“Then help me by not moving, got a loose wire here . . . right . . . don’t . . . move . . . now!”
Vincha winced and stifled a cry.
After a short while, Sci appeared in her line of vision, holding his instruments and a wire, all covered in mucus and blood. He was a short, thin man, bald, despite looking relatively young. His eyes betrayed his ancestors’ race.
He wiggled the severed wire between thumb and forefinger. “Done for today, but we should do this again in a day or two. I can’t describe the amount of infection your plugs caused . . . Now, look at me.”
He bent down to check her pupils. Normally Vincha would have felt very uneasy being in a vulnerable position with anyone, let alone a stranger standing so close to her. But there was something in the way Sci handled himself that made her feel at ease in his presence.
“I’ve taken out all that I could, but we don’t have the time to remove the deeper devices,” he explained. “The healing process will take too long, and Nakamura-san said not to risk it.”
Vincha lightly touched her shaved head and felt crusted blood on her fingertips. “Well. I would have been happy to keep my gear, so I guess we’re even. Do you have any idea how much my hardware cost me? You better keep my gear intact for when I come back . . .”
It was a jest of sorts. Sci’s workshop contained enough hardware in it to outfit an entire guild house. In truth, it wasn’t about the coin. Without her gear, Vincha felt defenceless, deaf and blind to her surroundings, almost naked. She hated every moment since it was removed, but that was part of the deal with Nakamura; no Tarkanian attachments of any kind. The fact that none of Nakamura’s crew carried augmentations was a small consolation. In theory they would have been at a disadvantage compared to any Troll crew from the Hive, but the outcome of the last fight with was proof of Nakamura’s crew’s lethal capabilities. She still could not erase from her mind the image of Deesha’s severed head rolling on the cave’s ground.
“You’ll do much better without your gear.” Sci took off his mask and peeled the bloodstained gloves from his hands.
“Well, a girl has to make a living, you know, and there are only a few things I can do well beside channel . . .” She made the comment even more flirtatious by adding a smile, testing his reaction for a possible advantage she could exploit in the future.
But Sci answered in all seriousness, “Your attachments only caused you pain and sufferings, believe me.” He dumped his instruments into a bowl of clear liquid. “And the cost is much greater than whatever you paid for it.”
“I could deal with the pain,” she answered testily, “and a bag of Skint doesn’t cost much these days.”
Sci just shook his head again. “Tell me, when was the first time you had a device installed?”
Vincha hesitated. “I was . . . fourteen.” For some reason she’d felt compelled to lie. In truth, she was even younger when a rogue CommMan named Slice hooked her up to a cheap device and scarred her head in the process. He was also the one who handed Vincha her first bag of Skint, promising an easy cure for the debilitating migraines. Then he had sex with her. Vincha stiffened as she remembered.
Sci’s voice brought her back. “So you’ve been carrying Tarakan objects inside your body your entire adult life?” He turned his back to her, and Vincha thought she saw him shiver, as if disgusted by the thought.
She shrugged. “The gear makes me useful.”
Sci took a large plastic cup in his hand and dropped a few dried leaves into it. “I think in time you will see that the Tarakan devices were hindering you more than helping. I think all of humanity needs to stop attaching Tarakan technology. It wasn’t meant to be used in the way you’ve been using it.” He pressed a button where he stood, and Vincha’s bed began to move and change shape into a chair.
Vincha winced as her body was slowly moved into a normal sitting position. “What do you mean?” she’d said. “Of course they’re meant for us. Why else would the Tarkanians leave these items all around their cities?”
Sci poured hot liquid into the cup, and stirred the leaves slowly. “I’ve been dealing with Tarakan technology my entire life—studying it, applying it, curing people from their addiction to it—and the one thing I am absolutely sure of is that these artifacts were not meant for us to use in the way you and the rest of the Salvationists are using them.”
He came back and sat next to Vincha. “Think about it. In any other field or form, Tarakan technology is perfect, from their highways to the puzzle locks or the nodes themselves. When a Tarakan device works, it works perfectly. The Tarkanians would have easily found a way to use these augs without any side effects, if that was indeed their intention. Most certainly they would not have resorted to something as crude and addictive as Skint. Remember, it’s we humans who made green powder from the skin and blood of dead Lizards. Which reminds me.” Sci released the clamps restricting Vincha’s head with a touch of a button and handed the plastic cup to her. “Drink this and do not spit it out, no matter how much it stings and burns.”
Vincha wrinkled her nose. “What is it?”
“This should boost your resistance and diminish your cravings for the powder. You’ll have to drink it three times a day for a long while, so better start getting used to it.”
Vincha eyed the cup with suspicion. “I thought if you remove the devices—”
“—the symptoms fade?” He shook his head. “I’m afraid not. It’s an addict’s myth. The cravings persist long after you go vegan, and so does the pain. Now drink.” His tone turned severe.
Vincha took a careful sip from the drink, grimaced, and only just managed to keep it down. “Rust, fuck, that was awful.”
Sci’s laughter rang across the large med hall. “It’s my own home brew, and that was the weak version. I had to dilute it for you, with your condition and all . . .”
“You know?”
“Yes, Nakamura-san told me, and I saw what happened in the cave. You’re not showing yet, but I guess it is stupid of me to wonder how he knew.” Sci chuckled but then grew sombre. “The question is if you want to keep it, because if you don’t, the sooner—”
“Rust, I’m keeping the baby.” Vincha didn’t mean for her tone of voice to be as aggressive as it sounded. She half-expected Sci to follow up with the question about the father’s identity, as Nakamura did back in the cave, as his claw grabbed her exposed middle, but Sci only nodded. “I have a few leaves that could help you with nausea and give you some energy, but first priority, especially in your condition, is to get the Skint out of your system. You know that babies of Skint users tend to—”
“Yes, I know.” Vincha got up to her feet, or at least tried to. The world suddenly swam in front of her eyes, and if it wasn’t for Sci’s quick reaction she would have fallen. He wasn’t able to save the cup, though, and it smashed to the floor, spilling the rest of the brew.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled as he gently sat her back, feeling embarrassed at her weakness.
Sci picked up the cup. “It’s okay. That’s why I love these old things—they just never break. But you are not to move until I make you a new cup. And this time, drink it all up.”
Vincha sighed and leaned with her shoulder on the chair’s back. Sci returned, and this time he had made a cup for himself as well. He handed one to her. “I made it a little sweeter this time. Maybe it will go down better.”
Vincha accepted the cup with both hands. For a moment they sat in silence, sipping brew. When she gathered enough strength to speak out loud she said, “Tell me about the other Puzzler. What happened?”
It was a gamble, an educated guess, and Sci almost managed to keep a straight face.
“What Puzzler?”
“You removed my hardware, not my brain, Sci. The nodes in this part of the Valley were always empty. Y
our workshop has enough gadgets and hardware to outfit the ShieldGuards. Don’t try to sell me lies. If we are going to be in the same crew, you better level with me.”
Sci nodded slowly. “I only knew the girl.”
“But there were others—”
“I only knew the girl,” he repeated and sipped quickly from his cup. “A young woman, really, but only in age, not in behavior. I think she was the reason Nakamura-san sent Daeon to recruit me. He wanted me to help her.”
“Help her? How?”
“It was tragic, really. She was very sickly, physically weak, but also . . . not exactly in her right mind.”
Vincha thought of Pikok, scratching his strange symbols on tables and walls.
“I tried to help her the best I could, but . . .” Sci did not complete the sentence.
“How did she die? If he hurts the boy, I’ll—”
“She didn’t die by his hand, Vincha.”
“Then tell me how. A botched run? Did the Lizards get her?”
“No.”
“Rust, Sci . . .” If she was any stronger, she would have attempted to interrogate the man by force.
In the face of her fury, the thin man’s voice remained calm and soothing. “She died by her own hand, Vincha, that is the sad truth. I used to sedate her at nights but she tricked me, tricked everyone, really. Herev found her in the morning. There was nothing we could have done.”
“And there were other Puzzlers before her.”
“I only met Nimora. You should ask the others if you want but I suggest you leave this one be.”
“I want to see Rafik.”
Sci shrugged. “It is not up to me, and you know that. But you should know Nakamura-san has no reason to hurt Rafik.”
“No, he’ll just use him, then—”
She guessed she had reached the limit of Sci’s patience, because he said, “Excuse me for saying so, but haven’t you done the same?”
“That’s different,” Vincha answered hotly. “You don’t know how they were treating him there. Nakamura promised me he’ll free the boy, and I intend to hold him to his word.”
Sci stared at the contents of his cup, perhaps considering his words. Finally he said, “I suggest you use this time to rest and recuperate. I am sure you will see the Puzzler soon.”
Vincha got up stiffly, but this time she managed to stay upright. “His name is Rafik.”
“Yes, Rafik, of course. Do you need me to bring you back to your room?”
Vincha walked to the infirmary’s door as fast as she dared. “No need, I remember the way.” As the door to the corridor slid open she turned around. “Tell Nakamura I demand to see the boy.”
“You might want to cool your temper before you talk to him,” Sci suggested, but by the time he finished the sentence, the doors had already slid shut behind her.
53
Vincha wandered along the wide corridor. She’d refused Sci’s offer to walk her to her sleeping room out of sheer anger, but now she was lost. She tried to open almost every door she passed, but the place was huge, probably as big as the Hive. The corridors and halls she’d walked must have been a mile long, and she had been told there were several more levels underneath.
Yet despite the vastness of the underground bunker Vincha felt trapped. The band they’d clamped on her wrist—she resisted the urge to try and pull it off again—let her open the doors to her quarters, the mess hall, and the infirmary. Access to the rest of the complex was denied to her. She suspected that even if she found a way out and tried to run, the wrist band would pinpoint her position, or even incapacitate her—and even if she managed to escape and evade pursuit, where would she go? How long would she be able to survive the Valley alone and without her weapons and gear?
Vincha tried another door. She waved her hand in front of the blank surface and heard the familiar blip of denial. These were not puzzle locks, just the ordinary kind, found all over the Valley. Only a few days ago she could have walked through these doors simply by hacking into their systems with her head gear. Now she was vulnerable, weak, useless. She was not a CommWoman anymore, just a woman.
She leaned her forehead on the shinning metal and hammer-fisted the wall in frustration. When she withdrew her head, the stain of sweat from where her skin touched the wall was already in the process of being absorbed by the Tarakan steel. It was so clean and polished, she could see her image reflected in the shiny wall. Examining her appearance, Vincha let out a soft groan of dismay. She would never have admitted it to anyone, but her voluminous red hair was really her only source of feminine pride. It hid her tattoos and the Tarakan artifacts attached to them. People told her she was beautiful, but now she just looked hideous . . . full of ugly scars, the gaping holes of the metal plugs, and bloodred tattoos. She remembered the first time her skull was penetrated by a drill. How it felt against her skin and how she screamed. She suddenly felt light-headed, turned and leaned against the coolness of the steel wall and covered her face with her hands, shuddering.
Memories of her time with Slice flooded her thoughts and intermixed with the stench, images, and echoes of the Keenan crew massacre in the cave battle. The moment she crept up to Ramm and shot him in the back of the head flashed before her eyes. She had imagined before that killing him would give her satisfaction, for she was sure the brutal Troll had murdered her Doro, but all that was left in her since the fight in the cave was emptiness and sorrow. Nakamura’s face filled Vincha’s vision next, and his guttural whispers rang in her ears. She shivered as her body remembered the Troll touching her middle. Still covering her face, Vincha slid down the wall and sat on the floor.
The consequences of her actions began to dawn on her.
She’d made a desperate deal with Nakamura but was now at his mercy, gearless and a prisoner in all but name. Worse, Narona’s body had never been recovered, which meant that she might have escaped. The Lieutenant was resourceful enough to survive the valley on her own and reach the Hive. The Keenans suffered a staggering blow—their commander, their main crew, and their only Puzzler were lost—but Narona was a capable warrior and a natural leader. She might regroup, and then she would come back for revenge . . .
No, Vincha wiped her tears away. She had made her choice. There was no turning back. Her contingency plan had been a long shot anyway. She smiled bitterly at how stupid and frightened she was to act the way she did when she heard of Doro’s death. She was pretty sure she knew what any of the Trolls she’d forced herself to fuck would say if she came to them saying she was carrying their child. Most would shrug her off, claim it was Doro’s or that it was not their responsibility. One or two of the more decent type might offer her some coin to get rid of it at the Menders. Her hand touched her middle. She wondered how long it would take for her to show. Nakamura told her it was a girl. Another shudder coursed through her and with it, a resolution. She would hold Nakamura to his end of the deal, and she would have the baby, and then she would disappear. There had to be another corner in the world where her kind would be welcome. She’d go there.
Vincha emptied her mind and tried to become attuned to her immediate surroundings. She might have lost most of her gear, but her talent was still there. She could still feel the invisible world all around her even though she couldn’t hear it: the voices, the music, the static. All whispered softly in the background, but she could not hear them clearly, let alone manipulate them to her will no matter how hard she concentrated. The headache that attacked her next was expected, but its intensity wasn’t. Vincha breathed deeply and massaged her temples, remembering Sci’s warning of the bouts of nausea that would likely happen often. “Do not be sick here,” she mumbled to herself.
The scream behind Vincha was so sudden that it caused her to jump to her feet, spin around, and then lose her balance and fall back to the floor. It was a long scream that turned into a choked wail only to be followed by another primal howl. She scrambled to her feet, her back against the wall on the other side of the corr
idor. Rust, the walls were thick, and yet the scream was clear and loud. Whoever was producing these sounds was terrified or in terrible pain, or both. Was it Rafik? Were they torturing him? She tried to open the door again, first with her diminished powers, then manually.
It was a futile attempt, and a foolish one. If Nakamura wanted to torture the boy, she couldn’t stop him. Vincha thought this even as she banged on the door in frustration.
She was so disoriented by the upsetting sounds that she didn’t notice that she wasn’t alone until a heavy hand touched her shoulder. Her battle reflexes took over. Vincha spun around and threw a straight punch, then followed it with a kick to the middle. Daeon managed to catch her fist and side block her kick with his own leg, then grunted as her knee bashed against his groin guard. Vincha did not stop fighting. Her first two moves were pure instinct, but as she realised who was touching her, her next attempts were executed with full intent. She sent a left-handed back fist, a head butt, and a knee to the ribs in his direction. He was shouting something at her while blocking her attacks, but Vincha wasn’t listening. Like a cornered animal, she just kept lashing out at him. It was only when the world turned upside down and she hit the floor hard and his weight pinned her down, that Daeon’s voice penetrated the pounding in her ear.
“I said relax, damn it.”
She stopped struggling, but then surprised him with an upward surge. She was put down again, this time more roughly, and she felt the cool floor against her cheek and the weight of Daeon’s knee pressing on her back.
Then she just lay there, completely exhausted, defeated and alone. He could easily have raped her. She knew that. He’d been strong enough to apprehend her when she was geared and ready for the fight in the cave, and now she was helpless and weak. She half-expected his hands to grope her body, the same way he’d handled her in the cave, but Daeon suddenly stepped back.