by Meg LaTorre
“Come with me.” The woman took Gwen’s hand, leading her to a secluded spot outside of the tent.
They didn’t take long to pick up where they left off.
Within moments, they were gasping.
Gwen pulled the woman’s blouse free from her trousers, slipping her hand up to cup small breasts. Nipples hardened beneath her touch. She traced a line of kisses down the woman’s neck, nibbling salty flesh.
Hands loosened Gwen’s belt, fingers running along her waist. Then the fingers slipped beneath her pants, teasing slowly at her entrance. The next moment, they were inside her, plunging in and out, a thumb caressing Gwen’s clit in slow circles.
Even as she felt herself growing wet from desire, hips moving in rhythm with the woman’s fingers, Gwen’s mind retreated.
What the fuck is wrong with you? You have a very willing woman in front of you. The Grim Reaper can wait.
But Gwen couldn’t focus on the beautiful woman or what she was offering. All she could think about was her inevitable end and the worms—rather than fingers or cocks—about to fill her vagina. And no quick finger fuck in a questionably discreet public area would change that.
Suddenly, a sharp whistle blew.
Fuck, Gwen thought. Already?
A hush descended and a moment of tense silence passed. Then voices in the tent behind them shouted in unison.
“Feds!”
The woman ripped her hand free of Gwen’s pants. Without a word of farewell, she turned and ran for the storage yard.
Hordes of people swelled from the circus’s main entrance, scrambling over each other in their rush to get away.
Gwen quickly belted her pants and bolted toward the storage crate where she’d stashed her skimmer. Her head swam as nausea and bile rose up her throat in tandem. Shaking it off as best she could, she pushed through the swell of bodies. Eventually, she made it to where she’d stashed the skimmer.
Kicking the engine to life, she took to the sky.
Streaks of another rising moon revealed a copper city beyond the loading docks and storage fields, pocketed with alleys and massive generators with clicking gears.
As suspected, the feds shouted at her, demanding she disembark her vehicle, but she didn’t listen. Flying low between stacks of storage crates, she tried to lose the feds flying on Union-grade hoverboards.
At the edges of her sight, she caught a flash of movement and heard the humming of engines.
Beyond the storage yard, plumes of inky smoke puffed into the air above brick towers and turning wheels and mills. Smoke bounced off the gravitational field and skirted back toward the moon’s surface. If she could get to that smoke, she would be home free. There was no way the feds could keep track of her in there. Gwen pressed her goggles snugly against her eyes and tightened her neck scarf over her mouth.
Before she could clear the storage yard, inky blackness crept down over her vision.
Panic surged through her veins.
Not now.
Of all times to have an episode from her illness, why now?
A wave of dizziness washed over her. Her body felt strangely light, and she tilted sideways. Eyelids heavy, she fought as they fluttered closed.
It was a fight she knew she’d lose.
Her grip on the board loosened, and she fell into open air.
For a moment, she thought she’d float endlessly, as weightless as open space.
Too soon, the jagged edges of the crates scraped against her leather jacket as she bounced atop several more. She skidded to a stop on the ground. Nearby, her board’s engine had clicked off as it slammed somewhere in the storage yard.
Gwen tried to lift her head but couldn’t. Pain thrummed behind her eyes, and her heartbeat slammed in her ears. But the pain didn’t drown out the protests of men and women as louder voices infused with authority read out rights, demanded permits, and shot pistols.
The throbbing in Gwen’s head drummed in time with the growing chaos.
Get the fuck up or you’ll be next.
It was no use. Her arms and legs were trembling noodles, and a headache glanced between her temples, blurring her vision. She was in no condition to run, let alone fly.
Fear bolted through her at the thought of spending her final days being interrogated—to die from poor treatment and not her brain tumor.
A squad of feds on hoverboards appeared above her, and they weren’t alone.
More feds escorted countless cyborg laborers on foot. Their faces were bruised and bloodied. Interestingly, there were far fewer of their human counterparts—none of whom seemed nearly as roughed up as the cyborgs.
But all were cuffed. All would be deposited into cells.
Sighing, Gwen nodded to the nearest feds, ignoring the fear squeezing her chest. “Hello, officers.”
Without further preamble, she blacked out.
Chapter 2
Gwen kicked the railing of her bed with her white prison-grade sneakers. “Shut up!”
Head pounding, she wasn’t sure if she was well enough to get up from the metal bunk bed. But she was well enough to hear her cellmate snoring loud enough to wake the dead—or the dying, in Gwen’s case.
The top bunk creaked as a massive body rolled over in sleep. The frame shook, and for a moment, Gwen wondered if the entire thing would collapse on top of her.
When the feds dumped her into this cell, they had declared she would get the formerly occupied bottom bed due to her illness. Doctors had examined her on the way into Anchorage’s prison, declaring what she already knew: she had a fatal brain tumor. As such, she was prone to bouts of nausea, dizziness, and death.
Her neighborly cellmate had done her the courtesy of pissing herself in the bottom bunk before vacating.
But the generosity didn’t stop there.
The feds notified Gwen of her posted bail—fifty thousand marks. A bail only the wealthiest merchant or high lords could afford. Associating with cyborgs without permits was one of the Union’s highest offenses. As such, the feds intended to make an example of the schlepps who were too slow or too busy dying to get away. It was either pay the bail or wait it out in prison for one year.
At least paying for a room at the inn was no longer an issue.
Gwen’s stomach twisted as she thought of the family she’d never see again.
She might have taken an apprenticeship on a departing merchant vessel five years ago—leaving Orthodocks and her family behind—but it didn’t mean she didn’t care about her parents or siblings. Country life suited them, but she hadn’t been made for a quiet life on the most conservative planet in the Union. So, she’d left, and she hadn’t seen them since.
Thankfully, they had parted on good terms. Her parents and siblings had wished her well and made her promise to write. She had only done so sparingly, though, courtesy of never being on a single planet or moon for long—and never long enough to receive mail.
A deep sorrow swelled in Gwen’s chest, and she struggled to take a deep breath.
Footsteps pattered down the hallway.
Gwen looked up. With the single light bulb in her shared cell, she could see the empty hallway through the barred window in the cell door. The guard on duty wasn’t due to walk down their hallway for some time yet, if their previous rotations were any indication.
A strange clicking accompanied the soft pattering of footsteps. Step, step-click. Step, step-click. That was followed by the familiar shuffle of the guard’s heavy steps and clinking of keys.
The sound drew nearer until it stopped. A guard’s face appeared beyond the barred door. Hinges creaked as her cell door was unlocked from the outside. The light of bare bulbs from the hallway fell harshly on two men in the doorway, the latter a tall gentleman dressed in formal dinner attire. He wore black dress pants and a vest with faint white pinstripes, a white button-up shirt, a red tie, and a top hat. Over his arm was a black jacket with matching pinstripes and countless pockets and gears. In his hand he held a black cane covered in intricate patter
ns and topped with a bright red gemstone at the end of a curved handle.
That explained the clicking.
Gwen didn’t bother to get up from where she lay on her bottom bunk. Not that she could, anyway. The nausea and persistent headaches had yet to go away since the feds had brought her in.
“Do you need anything else, my lord?” the guard asked, hand already on the cell door.
A what now?
What was a lord doing in a dank dungeon cell on Anchorage? No one of importance came to this moon.
“No,” the lordly man said. “That will be all.”
“Not sure why you’d want to see this dreadful lot, sir, but call if you need anything.” The guard spoke with unusual politeness before leaving and locking the door behind him.
Slowly, the man turned, surveying the room.
The light bulb’s eerie luminescence revealed sharp features—shortly cropped black hair, olive skin, and dark eyes—hidden beneath the shadows of his hat. Despite the fancy-as-fuck clothes, he reminded her of a wild animal.
In a single movement, his eyes swept over the room: a set of bunks, one toilet, one sink, one desk, and one stool. Nothing his type was likely accustomed to. Seeing as the only other options for a seat were to either cozy up on the bottom bunk next to Gwen or the floor, the man lowered himself onto the stool without a word.
What would a man dressed in formal cocktail attire want with Gwen or her roommate in the middle of the night? Her thoughts stopped as she swallowed back bile, waiting for the room to settle as another wave of dizziness washed over her.
“If you’re here to glean end-of-life wisdom, you might as well leave now,” Gwen said into the silence. “I have no message from the Reaper to share with you.”
Speaking was more effort than she cared to think about, leaving her nauseous.
The man sniffed but didn’t immediately reply. Instead, he pulled a small scroll from his pocket. Unfurling it, he read: “Gwendolyn Grimm of Orthodocks. The Union’s lead ship tinkerer and only twenty-five. Got your first job as an apprentice and have since traveled to eight of the Union’s thirteen planets.”
The hair on Gwen’s arms prickled. She hadn’t told the feds her name when they had arrested her to keep her family from learning the truth. There should be no way he could know any of this.
“Diagnosed with a brain tumor, late stage. According to the fools running this prison, you have a few weeks left to live.”
Gwen pulled herself to a seated position on her bunk, nearly puking on the bleached floor from her effort. She looked the man in the eye, surprised by the barely restrained power in his gaze. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced.”
Beneath the shadows of his top hat, the man was unflinching under her glare. “Do you want to live, Ms. Grimm?”
Gwen flinched as though slapped.
She was dying. Advanced surgery could save her, but no one would risk the wrath of the emperor and Union. It would mean certain death or very uncomfortable life sentences in prison for all involved.
“No sane person wants to die,” she replied.
He leaned forward on the stool, casually resting his wrists atop his cane. “What if I told you there was a way to heal you from your sickness?” The man paused for a heartbeat before adding, “How much are your memories worth to you?”
Gwen sighed heavily. It would seem the only way to die in peace and quiet around here was to indulge this man. “All right, mister…?”
“Kabir,” he said. “My name is Bastian Kabir.”
Gwen stiffened, growing suddenly still.
Sitting before her was the ringleader of Cirque du Borge.
Every time she’d heard whisperings of the circus in the past decade, his name was paired with it. Yet looking at him, he couldn’t be much older than she was. She wondered if cyborgs aged differently.
How had this bastard escaped the feds and impersonated a lord? Moreover, why bother? The circus should be long gone from Anchorage by now. And they would have had to pay a hefty bail of their own.
Seeing the recognition in her eyes, Bastian smiled. “Good. You’ve heard of me.”
But it was more than that. She’d seen this man before.
His black suit with pinstripes and matching top hat were strangely familiar.
He was the idiot on stage with the cyborg animals. The man surrounded by the arctic bear, albino wolf, and tiger.
Standing, Bastian walked over to the bunk. For a moment, she thought he neared her to speak. Instead, he poked her cellmate with the end of his cane. Her snoring caught for a moment before resuming once more.
“We are looking for someone with your particular set of skills, Ms. Grimm. As you can imagine, all machines require tinkering over time.”
Gwen blinked, her mind reeling. Was he offering her a job? She was dying, for stars’ sake. She felt tempted to lie back down on her scented bunk and close her eyes, pretending the Reaper had come. It seemed like the only way she could rid herself of Mr. Kabir and die in relative peace.
“All our employees are required to sign a thirteen-year contract,” he continued. “For the duration of your contract, you will be a full-time employee and provided with food, lodging, and compensation. You will be granted free time to spend as you wish, though this will vary depending on the time of our performances.”
Bastian strode back to the stool and reseated himself. Despite the shadows marring his face, fervor lurked behind his gaze. “During your contracted time at Cirque du Borge, you are prohibited from contacting your family or friends, and you may never share any information regarding the circus and its operations.”
Exhaling heavily, Gwen rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I’m dying, Mr. Kabir, as you so kindly pointed out. A tinkerer on a deadline such as mine isn’t the most reliable employee.”
Bastian waved a hand in dismissal before removing black leather gloves from his pocket and pulling them on. “We can remove the brain mass, and we have medications that can assure it will never grow back. With our lead scientists, we’ll have you good as new. But you’ll be different at the end of it.” He looked up from his gloves. “You’ll be one of us. As a cyborg, you will lose your human memories over time.”
Gwen couldn’t help it. She laughed. She laughed so fucking hard she got hiccups and then vomited on the floor.
Wiping her mouth, she looked up at the revered Bastian Kabir, whose nose scrunched in distaste.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re eager to share my cell, Mr. Kabir. You know as well as I do that advanced surgeries were outlawed years ago.”
Bastian sniffed. “I didn’t think you particularly cared for Union laws. Not after the venture that led to your current predicament.”
“Laws are far less applicable when you’re dying.”
“What’s the difference now?”
She hesitated.
What was the difference? Only minutes ago, she’d thought she’d spend her last days in a prison cell infused with the smell of urine and in the company of a short-tempered cellmate. She’d thought her life was over, and she’d never work as a tinkerer again. Now, when a second chance waltzed into her cell in crisp black leather boots and a pinstripe suit, she hesitated.
One thing she knew for certain—she loved working as a tinkerer, and she was fucking fabulous at it. Solving challenges were her bread and butter. Could she leave her life and reputation as Gwendolyn Grimm, the best ship tinkerer in the Union, behind?
The authorities knew her name, so they would be aware of her condition. They’d never hire her on again. What did that mean for the years after her contract was up? No one would want to hire a cyborg, regardless of her skills. That is, if the feds or other local authorities didn’t discover her true identity and sentence her to death for breaking the Cyborg Prohibition Law.
Beyond that, what would becoming a cyborg do to her? Would it change her mind or how she thought? Perhaps she’d simply forget her past life and go on as she always
had. But how could you be the same person without your memories?
If what Bastian proposed was true, he offered a way to evade death. It was either join the circus and maybe create a new life for herself afterward or die in this cell.
There was no choice for her.
“What—” Gwen cleared her throat and tried again. “What happens at the end of the thirteen years?”
The light bulb’s harsh light glinted off Bastian’s square, white teeth.
That smile said one thing: He had her, and he knew it.
“You are free to do as you please. Most performers and circus staff choose to stay on at Cirque du Borge, but that’s entirely up to you.” He stood then, extending a hand to her. “I’ll offer this once, and only once. Would you like to join Cirque du Borge, Ms. Grimm?”
With a sigh, Gwen took his hand. “I hope you have fifty thousand marks to pay my bail. Because I sure as hell don’t.”
Gwen leaned heavily on Bastian’s arm as they exited the prison.
Lord Bartholomew Blight had paid Clara Cabbell’s bail, as they were old acquaintances and he’d been passing through Anchorage when he’d heard of his friend’s predicament. Or that’s the story they’d told the jailer.
It felt good to have her own clothes on again. One of Bastian’s associates with a mechanical arm—that was barely concealed by an oversized trench coat—carried Gwen’s skimmer as they walked out the front doors of the detention center and into the dark street.
How had he convinced the jailers to return her illegal skimmer to her, and with the engine still attached, no less?
It was hard to believe she’d lived rent-free for less than one day.
Occupied with watching her steps and remaining upright, Gwen didn’t notice the carriage until the door swung open in front of her. Like Bastian’s cane, the horse-drawn carriage was covered in intricate carvings on the outside. Inside, there were cushioned red seats. Though nothing marked the outdated vehicle as Cirque du Borge’s property.
She hadn’t been in an actual carriage with horses since the remembrance festivals on Orthodocks. Most travel was by train, steam-powered cars, one’s own feet, or by ship when journeying between planets.