The Cyborg Tinkerer

by Meg LaTorre

  Keep going. If you stop, you’ll lose your hand.

  A warmth settled in her chest, and she clung to a deep-rooted determination and flicker of hope. If she was going to perform for the emperor, she had to win. She’d already lost her chance once, and she wasn’t going to do so again.

  When she neared the tubes, she noticed the faint outlines of bodies in all three of the tunnels. In the left- and right-most tunnels, the performer in each moved steadily upward. In the center tunnel, the shadow didn’t move but remained at the top.

  She couldn’t stall her climb until they finished. Icy shock stiffened her limbs, and her entire body was wracked with chills. When she moved to the left-most tunnel, she found herself hesitating, looking back toward the center tunnel.

  Where the body still hadn’t moved.

  For a moment, she thought of her dreams of getting a patron, how she had to come in the top thirty-six acts to get past this round in the competition. But her mind immediately retreated to the images of Asa, Charles, and the third cyborg dead in the icy water. She couldn’t let another person die. Not if she could help it.

  Diving under the water, she came up at the base of the center tunnel. The tube was slick with water and lacked any handholds beyond the ribbed texture of the tunnel itself. Like the bike ramp, she recognized these tunnels from an old set.

  Looking up, she saw the performer at the top of the tunnel tremble, body and limbs twisted. Even though most of what she could see was the performer’s backend, she knew perfectly well who it was.

  Thaniel Chors.

  One of Abrecan’s closest comrades was stuck at the top of the tunnel.

  She shook her head. It had to be him. But she didn’t dare go back now. She’d made her decision.

  “I’m coming up,” she called.

  Pressing her palms on opposite sides of the tube-like structure, she slowly made her way up the tunnel. When her cyborg hand kept slipping from the wall, water dripping between her robotic fingers, she pressed her back to one side of the tunnel and her feet to the other, shimmying up the tube slowly and pushing beneath her with her hands.

  “G-go back,” Thaniel said. “There’s n-no way I’m getting out of this f-fucking tunnel.”

  “It’s nice you’re—” She bit back a chill threatening to send her body into spasms. “Concerned for my safety f-for once.”

  “F-fuck you.” His words didn’t hold his usual bravado but were quiet and resigned.

  Eventually, she was only a few feet from Thaniel. His trembling had subsided, and her breath caught. Was he about to pass out and bring her down to the bottom of the tunnel with his unconscious body?

  “Is that how you treat your rescuer?” Locking her knees, she pressed her back against the wall, icy water dripping from her undergarments. She tried to determine where his body started and where it ended. Like Abrecan, Thaniel was a large man, both in height and stature. “I’m going to try to give you a boost.”

  “G-go away now, or we’ll b-both d-die,” he rasped, his body going dangerously still.

  Moved by impulse, she slammed her fisted cyborg hand into his back.

  “Hey!” he cried, his usual obstinacy returning to his voice.

  “Quit being lazy and do something for once.”

  “You sound like my lovers,” he mumbled.

  “You’re despicable.”

  Still, he was talking again, which seemed like a good sign.

  Eyeing him, she positioned herself below his shoulders, where his head and neck were wedged. “I’m going to push your shoulders up. Try to move on my count. Ready?” She didn’t bother waiting. “One, two, three!”

  Stretching her arms up, she heaved, pushing with all her might. Thaniel remained where he was, hardly moving. Hands slipping, she skidded down the tunnel, barely managing to catch herself. He was just too big, and she was far too small.

  “It’s n-no use.”

  “Again,” she called as she climbed back up beneath him. “One, two, three!”

  When he still didn’t move, his body only managing to slide back down toward the frigid water, she shimmied up even farther. In a most ladylike manner, she shoved her head and shoulder into his back and pushed, pressing her hands and feet to either side of the tunnel.

  Something slipped, and Thaniel shifted up. The sudden lack of pressure had her skidding back down the tunnel. Before she’d slipped far, a hand gripped her human one.

  Above her, Thaniel was upright in the tube with one hand holding her wrist. He nodded to her, releasing her once she got her footing. They both made their way up to the top of the tunnel. When she climbed out, the juggler was waiting for her.

  “This doesn’t make us friends.”

  “Stars, I hope not,” she replied. “I plan on beating you tonight.”

  The corner of his lips twitched. Not a smile, exactly, but it was more than they’d ever shared before.

  Thaniel turned from her without a word, moving to their next obstacle. Rora followed.

  The two performers who had been in the other tubes were crossing the next obstacle now.

  Rows and rows of small gymnastic rings hung suspended over a pit of icy water. Unlike the first rope they had climbed up, here there were enough rings that they wouldn’t have to take turns swinging across.

  The man on the left struggled to keep his hold. His hands slipped more and more as he swung from one hoop to the next.

  Rora looked down at her own hands, both dripping wet.

  The man lost his grip, falling two stories to the water below with an icy splash. Moments later, his head broke the surface, and he swam backward—toward the three tunnels.

  Rora gaped.

  If they fell, they’d have to climb back up those awful tunnels and risk getting submerged in the icy waters again.

  Still trembling from the cold, she wasn’t sure she’d survive another plunge.

  Thaniel wiped his palms on his wet shirt before extending a hand out to the nearest hoop at the edge of the platform they stood on. Without further preamble, he swung forward, moving from ring to ring. Rora expected him to struggle with his massive gut, but he moved with ease.

  Taking a deep breath, she followed suit. Though, she had to jump up to reach the first hoop. She caught it with her human hand. Short as she was, she had to swing her legs to get enough momentum to swing to the next hoop. Halfway through the course, her arms shook, and she struggled to keep her grip. Not only were her hands wet, but so were nearly all of the hoops—from six other wet performers using them.

  Suddenly, her hand slipped and she threw up her cyborg one. Catching the hoop, she latched her fingers onto the wet wood. As she did, Thaniel’s feet thudded onto the opposite platform. Gritting her teeth, she swung forward.

  She would not lose to Thaniel. Not after saving his sorry ass.

  Eventually, she reached the other side, passing the woman who’d been climbing up the tube earlier. Like the man who’d fallen, she struggled to keep her hold.

  Fifth place, she realized, with three performers dead and two behind her. I need to do better.

  Adrenaline surged in her veins.

  I can do this. I will make it to one of the top ten spots.

  Rora moved in a fog through several more obstacles, all of which were recycled pieces or props from former shows. Some of them she’d been in, while other sets were unfamiliar to her.

  Throughout, she never once saw Abrecan. Slowly, she passed three other performers until she was in second place. But Abrecan was nowhere to be seen.

  Until now.

  At the final obstacle, with the remaining performers at her heels, she finally spotted him.

  Above her were two parallel obstacles.

  Two sets of walls were set several feet off the ground. Once again, there were no handholds, and the two walls of each were wide enough apart that most performers would have to put their backs to one side and their feet on the other to shimmy up.

  Abrecan was a quarter of the way up on t
he left one. Since he was so tall, he was able to have one foot and one hand on each wall as he slowly pushed himself up toward the finish line where there were watchmen with timers.

  Thank the stars the man wasn’t skilled at climbing, or he’d have beaten her by now.

  Sprinting, she leaped upward. She slowly inched her way up, but her arms and legs were nearly at their full distance just trying to touch either side. As she climbed, the ground growing distant below her, her sweaty palms and feet kept sliding back down.

  “I must say,” Abrecan’s voice called. Was that a hint of fatigue she detected? “I’m surprised you made it this far. I thought you’d be as dead as Asa. Though I wish I could have assisted in the process.”

  Rora’s knees locked, and she froze in place. “You killed Asa?” She could have sworn she’d seen the blackened flesh and metal, a sign she’d short-circuited.

  “She made a little tumble off the first wall,” Abrecan grunted. “Hit her implant on the way down, poor thing. She short-circuited during the swim shortly after. Must have busted her implant somehow in the fall. Really too bad. But if we’re being honest, she didn’t stand a chance.”

  Unlocking her knees, Rora forced herself to keep moving.

  He’s trying to distract me because he knows I’m gaining on him. He’s big, and for once, it’s not an advantage. That means he’s slow.

  Sweat beaded on her brow, and her arms and legs shook, utterly exhausted from the competition. Despite years of training and having a mechanical advantage to regular humans, her muscles were stiff and fatigued. She had to finish and soon, or she’d run out of energy.

  More importantly, she had to beat Abrecan.

  She threw every ounce of energy she had left into her muscles, pushing toward the top, rotating hands, then feet, then hands, then feet. Her arms shook, and she breathed in ragged gasps.

  Soon, she was close enough to the top to see the color of a watchman’s blue eyes behind the mask.

  When she threw a hand over the edge, her fingers landed on a platform. Gripping it, she pulled herself up as another body tumbled beside her.

  Several watchmen stood above her, looking down at a clipboard.

  “We have our winner.”

  Gasping, she nearly vomited as she sucked in air, her head swimming.

  Turning, she saw the truth in Abrecan’s eyes. He rose to his feet, but she didn’t have the strength to get up.

  With a snicker, Abrecan brushed his hands together. “You lose, dyke.”

  Chapter 10

  Gwen paced in front of the door where the performers met their fates.

  How much longer?

  Heeled shoes clicked against the floor, and she spun around at the sound. “Piss off.”

  “Keep your voice down.” Bastian’s eyes flicked to where the watchmen were stationed every few paces and at each exit.

  Were they waiting for something?

  Rora could be dying right now, she thought, cursing her inability to do a damn thing.

  Looking around, she saw that the Mistress still hadn’t returned. Celeste had disappeared with the show management team down a hallway near where the performers had vanished what felt like hours ago.

  Gwen didn’t bother hiding her glare as she strode past Bastian and sat down on a nearby windowsill.

  You knew. You knew, and you let this happen.

  Begrudgingly, he joined her. His silence sent spikes of anger shooting through her.

  Against her better judgment, she turned to face him. “Why?”

  Bastian raised an eyebrow.

  “Why warn me and not them?”

  Veins in his jaw bulged, and he hesitated before saying, “I don’t know.”

  Gwen shook her head. “Isn’t this violating the contract? Don’t performers have thirteen years before their contracts are through? The Mistress can’t—”

  “The Mistress can do as she pleases. Never forget that.” The warning in his voice faded as he sighed. “There is a clause in the contract that states the circus can terminate a contract at any time and for any reason.”

  Standing, Bastian straightened his coat.

  “I tried to warn you, Ms. Fucking Grimm. Try to remember that tonight.”

  The Mistress and show management team strode through the room and onto the stage. Moments later, the watchmen opened the doors at the opposite end of the room.

  A relieved laugh escaped Gwen’s lips as Rora and Abrecan stepped into the ballroom. Both had towels draped around them and shook visibly. Was that ice in their hair?

  Before they’d gotten far, Rora stumbled over to a potted plant against the wall and vomited for several long moments. She eventually stood, wiping her mouth with the back of an arm.

  Abrecan waited beside the watchmen with a tapping foot.

  When they resumed walking, Rora didn’t look at Gwen, staring straight ahead as several watchmen escorted them across the empty ballroom. Her bare feet slapped against the floor, ribbons of cloth barely clinging to them. Abrecan, on the other hand, seemed completely unfazed by whatever horrors they had just faced.

  Before Gwen realized what she was doing, she ran over to Rora. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

  Bastian materialized at Gwen’s side, and the watchmen and performers all stopped walking. “Mr. Brower will see to your injuries.”

  The healer appeared, his head bowed and eyes glued on the floor as he nodded.

  “You are needed for another task,” Bastian said to Gwen. Turning to Abrecan and Rora, he said, “Ms. Beckett will speak to you now.”

  Rora’s mouth drew into a thin line, but she didn’t say anything to Bastian or Gwen.

  Looking toward the stage, to where the show management team now stood, Gwen stiffened as she realized Celeste was staring right at them—at her. Gwen looked away and cursed herself for a coward.

  “Congratulations on your victories,” Celeste said, palms upraised as though in prayer. “You completed the competition with such swiftness that your names won’t be placed in the lotteries. Therefore, you will both move on to the next round of the competition. After you see the healer, go to your rooms and rest. You have the morning off.”

  There was a lottery system? The idea of life or death boiling down to a name drawn out of a metaphorical hat was preposterous.

  Bastian’s fingers encircled Gwen’s elbow. “Come with me.”

  It was an order if she ever heard one.

  Gwen thought of objecting or lingering to see if Rora was all right. Instead, she accompanied Bastian to a room off the main ballroom with several watchmen at their heels. For some reason, the room had been set up similar to her office. There was a massive patient table at the center and a tub beside it. On a table on the opposite wall, her cyborg eye fixed on the metal tools. Unlike the tools in her office, there were no screwdrivers, pliers, or other common tinkering tools, but hooked metallic instruments.

  Tools for extraction.

  Shaking her head, she backed away from the table. Her pulse thumped like an executioner’s ax against a stump.

  She couldn’t—

  Again, Bastian caught her elbow. There was an almost imperceptible shake of his head as warning filled his eyes. Don’t, he seemed to say.

  A moment later, a young woman Gwen’s age was towed into the room by watchmen who pulled her by the wrists. Tears streamed down her face. “Please,” she begged. “Please don’t do this. I can be useful. I’ll improve my act. I can—”

  The Mistress strode into the room after them.

  “Ms. Charlotte Laney,” Celeste began, her voice as mechanical as the cyborg parts in all of them. “Due to your inability to complete the course, your contract will be henceforth terminated. All properties of Cirque du Borge will be removed, and you will no longer be bound to the circus. Thank you for sharing your talent with us.”

  When Celeste stopped speaking, she didn’t move or even acknowledge the words tumbling from Charlotte’s mouth as freely as her tears. The Mistress stood res
olutely, hands behind her back, as Charlotte was forced onto the table by the watchmen and strapped down.

  Like Rora, Charlotte had a cyborg hand that extended to her elbow.

  “Ms. Grimm,” the Mistress said, her voice as cold as the ice falling off Charlotte and splattering onto the floor. “You are to extract her cyborg implant. The chips installed into the mainframe in her skull can remain, as those cannot be repurposed.”

  Not long ago, this seemed like some stupid circus with petty politics she could easily keep a distance from. But now? This wasn’t some competition for the emperor—it was a massacre.

  Bastian, the Mistress, and the show management team knew Gwen wasn’t qualified to safely extract cyborg implants. Even if she was qualified, she wouldn’t do it. She wouldn’t help them hurt people.

  “No.” To Gwen’s surprise, her voice didn’t tremble. “Her implant is integrated into her muscles and tissues. If I detach it, she could lose the use of her whole arm or worse—she could bleed out and die.”

  Charlotte wailed louder and pulled against the restraints strapping her to the table. All she managed was to twist her neck around, directing panicked, pleading eyes at Gwen.

  A half-smile flicked across the Mistress’s face. She nodded to one of the watchmen, who loosened the wooden baton at his hip.

  Without warning, the guard strode over to Gwen and swung. The baton connected with her bare shoulder. Pain erupted, coloring her senses in a violent shade of red. She stumbled backward, too surprised to defend herself as the watchman swung a second time. The air was knocked out of her as he struck her stomach.

  Gasping, Gwen crumpled to the ground in a pile of golden skirts.

  Did that fucker just break one of my ribs?

  “I don’t think you quite understand the predicament you’re in, Ms. Grimm,” the Mistress said. “You work for me, for this circus. If you don’t obey my instructions, there will be consequences, and those consequences will be severe. Don’t fool yourself. I don’t need you. Even as a surgeon and scientist, I’m a far better tinkerer than you will ever be. But I don’t have time for such trivial matters.”