Coil

by Ren Warom

The use of his birth name makes Spaz smile, as ever, reminding him of his mother. Reminding him why he’s playing the long game. Connaught uses Spaz’s birth name as an insult because, although Spaz is the gang name he earned for less-than-sensible exploits as an unruly teen, it’s also his honorific, and to use it is a sign of respect. Not one of his people would dare call him Eadin. No one but his mother, who always called him the name she chose for him until Connaught’s war stole her voice by ending her life. She gave everything she was to protect their people, and Spaz honours her memory by giving no less. He takes his seat, his mental focus needle-sharp. These men are living on borrowed time, and Yar lives only because Spaz allows it. When he decides Yar’s time is up, he’ll end it personally, with his bare hands.

  Chapter 40

  Tress gasps a bolt of air, bracing against the weight of hurt her body has become. Somewhere out there, in the cold dark of these never-ending tunnels, he’s come at last. He must have because everything’s changed. The air feels charged with purpose, a purpose that only ever comes with him. Tress begins to sit, levering herself up on shaking elbows. Her clothes, though no longer filthy, chafe against her raw wounds and she moans. She’d expected soreness, but this is awful.

  Straining with every ounce of strength, she pushes herself up in small, wincing movements, each one wringing another moan from deep within her chest, and the occasional liquid belch as she fights down the urge to summarily eject the paltry contents of her stomach. Once upright, she leans forwards, allowing her legs to drop off the side of the shelf she’s been given for a bed. A strangled yell escapes her mouth as her muscles shriek defiance. She’s so weak and feels so helpless. It’s not just the pain, it’s the memories of what she faced in that tunnel drilling gaping holes in her strength, her will.

  The attack made her feel helpless for the first time since childhood, cutting deeper wounds in her confidence than those carved into her flesh. A sick sort of dread dogs her thoughts, ebbing and rising in waves. She can’t fight it, she has to work around it, and Tress can do that. She’s not a quitter. She’s a street rat, just like Stark, but she came up from the Rat Gulley, from the down-belows, not the streets of the Gyre as he claims to be.

  He’s hiding the truth of his past of course, but she’s got too much respect for him to snoop. Wherever he’s from, it’s got to be the gang territories, the hard places, he’s too much like her for it to be anything other. This, however, is her place, her old stamping ground, or enough like it for comparison. She can do this. Stark’s depending on her. So is Burneo.

  Tress lowers her feet to the floor, hissing as they flatten to the rough surface of concrete. If she’d thought the pain of sitting up was bad, she was kidding herself. This is pain, it’s fucking horrendous. She doesn’t know whether to puke, scream, or surrender to unconsciousness. She chooses to wait, instead, and breathe through it, though her lungs appear to be stuffed to the rafters with barbed wire.

  Eventually, as she knew they must, the motion sickness and the hurt pass enough for focus, and Tress launches off her hands, throwing her weight onto her feet and screaming at the pain of it. She throws up a little and sways, in the grip of profound giddiness. Teeth clenched together so hard, her jaw feels misaligned, she leans her weight onto the wall and begins to walk, forcing tired, pain-wracked legs to obey.

  Step by step, the pain ebbs to a dull throb and the weakness shifts, replaced by a crazed sort of energy. It’s only adrenalin, but she welcomes it like an old friend. It’s enough to work with, enough to hold her solid for a while. Hopefully long enough. She’s got to be able to reach Burneo, somewhere out there by what he calls his “river.” That’s where he’s going to bring Stark. And she’s got to find a way to tell Stark what happened in that tunnel, no matter how much it scares her.

  It’s so important that he knows there are monsters in the sewer.

  Chapter 41

  Stark leaps across another sewer threshold, the impact of his landing echoing a ghostly accompaniment. He holds up one hand to stall his team and walks forwards a few paces, his footsteps hollow tolls in the darkness like warning bells. He sweeps his torch around, searching every hidden inch. Stark’s hoped at every step that this might be the one that brings them to Burneo, or Burneo to them. For every step that’s failed to summon him, the tension wound within rises by one unbearable notch. Though he’s hiding it, he’s in an absolute state. And this, this is not helping. It’s all wrong. This is not a tunnel at all, it looks like the terminal they’ve been searching for. But it was supposed to be far further on than this, the map indicating another two or three miles of narrow sewer tunnel to traverse. That singular fact unsettles him deeply.

  He recalls what happened after they lost Tress, how far they came in so short a time. He hopes to hell it hasn’t happened again, taking them away from where they need to be, to some other terminal, hidden deep in parts of the sewer they’ll never find their way out of. If this is a terminal though, there should be lights. So, why this darkness? Stark looks up. Fitted into the high arch above are wide, flat bulbs filled with coils of fibre optics to filter light from way above at street level. The delicate bulbs, protected by dense, round cages of grimy alloy, look undamaged. He frowns and follows the thick, black wires running between with his torch. They’re vulgar and ugly things, like swollen veins, and they end in a bulbous loop, spewing ragged filaments of frayed white. It’s not rat damage; it looks like purposeful, frenzied destruction. He moves his torch to illuminate what lies beyond, a featureless wall. He can’t tell whether it’s supposed to be there or not. Dirt accumulates rapidly down here, borne on the feet of rats and growing like fungus in the dark and the damp.

  Stark motions Suge forwards. “That new?”

  Suge’s eyes become lambent, he shakes his head, “No, boss, it’s as old as it looks.”

  Stark nods and continues to sweep with his torch. Along the sides leading to the wall, spaced wide apart, are a series of ominous archways. Gaping mouths filled with profound black. Five altogether. Two on the right. Three on the left. There’s a rancid breeze floating in from the tunnels on the left, bringing a heavy waft of the usual sewer stench and the slightest aroma of sulphur. He doesn’t like this, does not like it at all. Stark rubs at his chin and tries to dampen his unease, to rationalise it, but his gut is not going to back down. He opens his mouth to air his concerns to Suge, but a voice from behind fills the silence before he can.

  “This is wrong. Something’s wrong, Stark.” Nia’s there, behind him, rubbing her arms. The sewer’s been hard on her, but she’s battled on without any complaint. Already high, his respect for her has skyrocketed.

  He reaches out and places a hand on her shoulder. “I know it, sister. You okay to move on?”

  She visibly pulls herself together. “Well, I’m not going back, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Then let’s move.”

  They take the central tunnel of the three on the left, which should lead to an area of the sewers underneath the left arm of the River Head, deep in Burneo’s territory, the most likely place they’ll find him by Stark’s reckoning. Stark has them all switch to low beam on their torches, keeping the light squarely on their feet so they won’t trip and Suge takes the lead, acting as their eyes. A tangible field of apprehension surrounds them, makes the rats brave, forcing them to use their torches as batons in an attempt to keep the continuing attacks at bay. Pushing through water and hitting at rats becomes an endless routine until Suge stops without warning, blocking the whole tunnel. Stark and Nia careen into him, a snarl of limbs and torches, sending slops of water splashing into the tops of their thigh-high rubber wading boots. Nia cries out in dismay.

  Fighting the rise of temper as his feet soak through, Stark grits out, “What is it?” Suge is absolutely rigid, like a bloodhound on a scent, his every bone frozen to position. Stark grabs his arm and yanks him down to eye level. His voice is a warning, “Suge.”

  Suge blinks, the lights at the backs of his eyes
briefly hidden. He says, “There was something huge up ahead. Someone. Never seen anyone that big. Didn’t think it was possible …”

  Stark experiences a rush of elation so sharp it’s painful. “You certain?” Suge tips his head, just once, and Stark takes in a breath that feels like a cry of victory. “Weapons out,” he says. “That includes you, Nia.”

  There’s a brief scuffle as they all take out their weapons. Stark takes a moment to show Nia how to hold her gun and the torch in two hands, one above the other.

  She gives him a grateful look. “Thank you.”

  He leans close. “Remember, we’re not here to kill Burneo. Weapons are a precaution, at this point, just in case I’m wrong. If we need to engage him, try to remain calm. The torch will highlight your target. Go for the largest areas of skin. No kill shots. We’re not here for that. And wait for my signal. No popping off all trigger happy, okay?”

  Nia jerks an affirmative and Stark signals to Suge that they’re ready to move. Suge leads them on to the accompanying roar of water, catching up with whatever it is he saw. After a moment, Stark, too, catches sight of Burneo, or rather his shadow on the tunnel ahead, a moving shade of immense size and startling grace. His alien disproportion, in comparison to how he was when Stark knew him as Aron, makes Stark realise at last that this is not the man he knew. He’s known this intellectually, but to see it is to finally understand it as reality. Burneo is a stranger, and Stark has no idea what he’ll say to him, what he’ll feel in his presence. He’s too numb to know what lies in his heart. So much has changed since they were young. Only his pain hasn’t, his anger. They’re as fresh as they were the day he shot Teya.

  Up an incline and through an archway, they enter the confines of a conduit reservoir, where faint light from up ahead filters through, lending the walls a bluish glow. Suge leads them around the sides. Stark holds Nia steady as they go. The ledges are narrow and the reservoir’s scary deep. Under its dank, yellow surface, the shadowed circles of conduits emit occasional bubbles and the dark fleeting forms of rats. Stark glances ahead, trying to keep track of the hulking silhouette. No longer entirely in shadow, now, thanks to the vague light, Burneo’s a jumble of flesh colours interspersed with the flat gleam of metals. A hiss of vapour fractures the air above him like heat on tarmac. Recognising the configuration of this tunnel, Stark moves up and touches Suge’s shoulder.

  “Let me take point,” he says.

  Suge nods and Stark steps past. As he does the light of Suge’s augment flicks off. In the semi-dark it resembles the abrupt dulling as life deserts the body. The image brings Stark a wave of unwanted distress. Reminds him too acutely of the very real possibility that they’ve already lost both the people they’ve come to save. The roar of water grows ever louder until it’s all that fills his head, a boiling torrent of sound. White noise.

  “Boss?”

  Suge’s voice cuts through the roar, and Stark begins moving. The blur of flesh and metal, paused to wait for them, flits out of sight, fast as a rat under water. Slow and easy, Stark follows until a flood of glaring brightness all but drowns their vision. Cursing, he stops for a moment, allowing his sight to adjust before leading Nia and Suge through a steel doorway onto the side of a canal filled with a rage of water. Black bridges span the watery turmoil, leading to a caged walkway identical to one they’re stood upon. It’s not the place Bone was given his gift, but it’s an extension of the same network. This is Burneo’s territory. This is where he will wait for them.

  Chapter 42

  Bone jerks in his bonds and comes half-awake, ragged nails of dream still sunk into his eyes, gouging holes. They strike out of nowhere, unconscious or awake. Snippets. Tendrils. Grabbing at him from the darkness and from the deep trenches of his subconscious.

  Scattergun explosion of glass … Muted ringing in the darkness …

  His teeth chatter incessantly. Ahead of him, along the two ropes rising away from his shoulders, black diamonds glitter. The eyes of his ever-present companions. Rats. Their fat bodies wobble as they run towards him and he screams to frighten them away but his voice is reduced to whispers and they simply scuttle on past. Just a highway. They’re not after his flesh. Not yet.

  He moans, closing his eyes. Better to die of cold than to be eaten alive from the inside out by rats. Behind his lids, vague flashes flicker to greater speed, swooping swift as bats across the fabric of his mind. Whispers skitter amongst the glass. Shadows of red circles multiply into one another in endless hypnotic patterns. They know something he doesn’t.

  Bone snaps his eyes wide to drive them away, but in this relentless darkness they linger on the retina, taunting him. He tries to replace them, thinking of his mortuary, of Nia, but the weight of their volition outdoes his own and more scraps from his dreams lash out hard as hammer blows.

  Sharp searing in the skull … The world zooming in … Zoning out …

  Desperate to escape these incoherent scraps, he’s saved by the unexpected, the skin of his back beginning to tingle, clear and very sharp. The tingles sink deeper, curling in towards his spine and he realises what it must be: the tattoo, the nanites in the ink. Somewhen in this darkness, this cold, these unending visions, they must have completed their connections. Has there been time? It’s like Lever all over again, lost hours he’s done nothing to welcome upon him.

  The thought fills him this time with helpless rage at the theft of his choice, his time. So much taken without permission. As it reaches his spine, the tickle of nanites becomes a cooling tide sweeping upwards against the pull of gravity, suffusing each vertebra in turn and flooding into the base of his skull, into his brain. There’s no pain, nothing but that glorious sensation, akin to dunking his head in cool water on a boiling hot afternoon. He sinks into it, allowing it to lap over him. It doesn’t matter now what these nanites do, he’s dead one way or another. Either Rope will come for him, or time. Either one will be enough.

  The cool escalates to cold, then prickles of startling heat. They spark in his brain like faulty wires under water. He laughs, the sound ragged, and from the whirl of red circles a shred of clarity rises with such speed it blacks his vision, and sight becomes words. It’s a form of synaesthesia. Words seen as images. They take him over until they find what they need, the will to be spoken.

  “The wrong skin,” they say through his mouth. “He was wearing the wrong skin.”

  Chapter 43

  Stark follows the curve of the wall until the walkway opens to a platform where the massive bulk of the man-machine waits. At the sight of him, Stark stumbles to a halt, the shock of recognition intense and bewildering. The grief that follows too raw to bear. This is not the stranger his glimpse in the tunnel gave him leave to imagine––it’s Aron, altered beyond comprehension. The damage to his body is catastrophic, an endless catalogue of modifications so extreme, Stark’s gut contracts to knots in sympathy. This Burneo his old friend has made of himself, this man-machine, is nothing but an ugly ruin. A mangling of scar-tissue, half-healed wounds and steel, driven by clattering pistons producing heat that even from this distance warms Stark’s face.

  How does the flesh not melt? How does he stand the pain? And where does that astonishing grace come from? Nothing so awkwardly, ruinously mechanised should display such elegance of movement. He can’t understand how Aron lives, how it is he’s survived such appalling self-harm. The will behind it must be terrible, indeed. It robs Stark of his breath, brings tears to his eyes, stealing his anger and replacing it with a weight of sadness so dense, he feels it pressing against his spine. He tries to see Aron’s eyes, to see if he knows him in return, wanting to reach out to him, somehow, but they’re obscured behind a fall of dark hair, bedraggled and damp.

  “He is lost in the dark and the glass.” The deep voice is not Aron’s, as Stark recalls it, but a lifeless monotone resonating within his chest, as if he’s being spoken into, the words imprinting on his very flesh.

  “Who’s lost?” Stark calls out.

>   He’d like to say more, but he doesn’t know how, or what to say. He can only watch, impotent and voiceless, as his old friend lifts his head in a slow movement that looks painful, as if he carries an intolerable burden. The dark mass of hair falls away. Behind it, Aron’s eyes are closed. Not as if he’s sleeping, but as if he can’t bear to see, and another immense, unexpected surge of grief hits Stark’s solar plexus, sickening and all-encompassing. Shaken to his core, he’s unprepared for the shock of the small, ragged figure that steps out from behind Aron on unsteady legs.

  Stark’s gun drops from senseless fingers. “Tress?”

  He takes a step forwards, but stupefaction’s stolen the function of his limbs and he can go no further. It’s Tress. Safe. Alive. She’s gaunt, though, and frighteningly frail, her clothes tattered, her body marred by vicious wounds, sewn crudely shut with thick, black autopsy thread. Too dark against pale skin, they riddle her torso and face. Stark hears the unmistakable cocking of Suge’s gun.

  He raises his hand to command a hold of fire as Tress spreads her arms in front of Burneo and shrieks, “No! Please don’t hurt him.”

  Her voice is a cracked husk of such desperation, Stark snaps out of his stupefaction and strides across to her, pulling her into a long, hard hug until she squeaks pain. He pushes her back, then, and takes in every millimetre of her features, feeling every raw scar like a wound on his own body.

  “How?” he asks.

  She lets out a frazzled little laugh. “He saved my life.”

  Stark looks up at Burneo, wanting to thank him, but the words lodge in his throat like shards. There’s such distance in his old friend and it feels like a reproof. Makes Stark feel small and petty. Ill at ease with himself.

  He turns back to Tress and gives her a shake. “What happened? We thought Rope had you. We were coming for Burneo to make him take us to you.”