Coil

by Ren Warom

  He floats in thick, pale yellow liquid, sporting a mass of tubes and bristling with probes to stimulate his muscles, his blond hair waving gently about his head, obscuring that pretty face.

  “Is it his?” She doesn’t even know.

  Everyone seemed to think he was Bone Adams, even those who’d have known him from when he was a child. Colleagues of Leif’s and executives at GyreTech, people who wouldn’t have been privy to the deception. So, he must look like him. She sucks in hard, her heart pounding. Is that what this was all about? The real Bone Adams wanting revenge on the man they replaced him with? And what of the patching? Rope wanted to break his patching. If he’s not Bone Adams, then what is it exactly that the patch is covering? And what did Rope say to him down there in the sewer, before they arrived? Before he attacked him? Nia recalls Bone telling her about Lever’s skin, the way it fell off, and remembers his skin down there, sliding loose from his face. Nia moans as she finally understands what she’s seeing here.

  “His skin. That’s his skin.”

  There’s Rope, skinless, and her Bone, wearing a face that isn’t his. She covers her mouth, holding in a cry of horror. Does he know what’s been done to him? Does he remember losing himself? Hot tears begin to crawl her cheeks, spattering her scrubs. Bone’s such a mess of wounds under those tubes and probes, his torso criss-crossed, his face, thighs, and arms savaged. He looks so vulnerable and so small, despite his height, like the Bone she’s always seen beneath the snark and spark, a wounded animal hiding from daylight. From the whole world.

  “Who are you?” she whispers.

  Chapter 46

  Usually buzzing with conversation and the hum of computers, Stark’s floor at Central is a wall of silence. Dressed with his usual cheap panache, Stark weaves between desks, paying no attention to the stares. Of course, they’re all fascinated. He’s a titan about to fall, and whilst some dreaded this day, others have awaited the fall of the axe with anticipation. Stark’s gone his own way, done his own thing. He hasn’t made enemies as much as created tides of resentment that swelled and ebbed in his wake. But he’s never concerned himself with the opinions of others, and he doesn’t now. This is between himself and Burton, and he’s made his peace with it. Made his peace with throwing away his career before he went down into the sewer. After leaving Burneo down there, and leaving a whole hell of a lot more besides, some twenty years of basic personal dishonesty for a start, he’s come to realise the badge should never have been his. He’s not about to decry two decades of righting wrongs, but he’s ready to start righting the wrongs he created, to pay for his mistakes.

  He arrives at Burton’s door, does his usual double tap, and goes on in. For once, Burton’s not on the phone. He’s stood there, looking out of his window across the Central Mace skyline, his shoulders set into a solid line of pure tension. He doesn’t turn around when Stark shuts the door.

  “Take a seat.”

  Burton’s voice is not the usual bellow, nor even imbued with any hint of vitriol. But Stark expected neither; he expected disappointment. He obeys without his customary flippancy. He’s not feeling very flippant these days. Hasn’t felt that way since leaving the sewer almost three days ago. He’s so different to how he was, he almost doesn’t recognise himself. Burton turns to face him. His hands are rammed in his pockets, and his entire body language speaks of defeat. He’s looking creased, his face worn and tired, and a few millimetres of stubble mar his jaw. It takes Stark aback. Burton’s never been one for failing to groom properly, that’s usually Stark’s brief. He can’t count the amount of times he’s been hauled in and bawled at for not presenting the proper Central image. He’s never paid attention. What you look like is only important if you’re dealing with surfaces. Stark’s always had to go deeper, deal with the shit where it arises, and wearing your Sunday best whilst shovelling the shit is plain ridiculous.

  “I can’t believe what you’ve done,” Burton says tiredly.

  “Really?” Stark was not expecting that particular admission. Burton’s aware of how he is, what he’ll do.

  “You’re one of the best defences I have, for fuck’s sake,” Burton snaps, flaring anger. “There’s very few I can trust to do what needs doing. You were my number one for situations that needed handling without bullshit, and now I have to let you go.” Burton shakes his head, the anger dropping from him like snow from an overburdened branch. In its place, disbelief and bewilderment cloud his face. “You have no idea how little I want to do this. I understand what you did. Hell, I even understand why you did it. I couldn’t applaud it more. It got the fucking job done. But the Notary is holding me to my word and that’s that.”

  Stark frowns. “Hold up, you just said you can’t believe it and reamed me the hell out for making you take my badge, but you understand? I don’t get it.”

  Burton huffs out a tired laugh. “No. I’m not making much sense. Not a bit of it. Let me make the distinction. As your boss, I cannot fucking believe how stupid you’ve been. It’s recklessness beyond any kind of idiocy. You just threw it all away, and threw me into a right mess, to boot. There were options: you could have approached me, I could have given you leeway. You know that!”

  Stark shrugs. “I knew. I didn’t want leeway, I wanted to save my teammate, retrieve Bone Adams, and stop Rope, and I did. Any later to that sewer, any waiting on leeway, and I’d have lost Bone for sure, and maybe Tress, too, because she sure as hell wasn’t in any shape to be down there much longer.”

  “Which is why, as your friend, I applaud it.”

  “I see. So, what now?”

  Burton finally takes his chair, collapsing into it as if his muscles have all ceased to work. “Well. You get one week to wrap up the loose ends of the Rope case and sort the rest of your caseload for handing to other detectives, and then you hand in your badge. I’m going to flout the recommendations of the Notary and give you a final paycheque. I’m also going to free up your retirement fund. If you’re quick and access it before your badge is gone, you’ll have enough to live on for a while. Won’t be much, but it’ll grant you some space to find another way to make a living.”

  Some of the stress tightening Stark’s chest, stress he’s been trying to ignore, fades away. “I appreciate that. You didn’t have to.”

  “No. No, I didn’t.” Burton’s mouth turns down and he glares at Stark, simmering with rage. “I was told not to, but fuck that shit. Kicking you out is one thing, something I can’t damned well avoid. But I won’t let you starve. That’s fucking immoral after all you’ve done for Central, for the goddamn Notary, for this city.” He sighs, and it sounds like the world coming down. “I’ll warn you, Stark. Connaught Yar is extremely interested in this case. He’s arranged a meeting, wants to talk to me about it. If I were you, I’d make whatever it was that tipped you off disappear.” Burton pins him with a meaningful eye. “Whatever led you down there to Rope, I don’t think you saw it in a goddamn dream, or had some massive gut instinct spark you in the right direction, but I am going to make pretend I do. Understand?”

  Stark understands all right. “I owe you one.”

  “You don’t.” Burton stands up. “You owe me nothing, not a damn thing. Don’t you dare try and pretend you do. I still remember when you were just a bad tempered prick, who got the both of us into too much trouble. I’ve seen you covered in goddamn blood, your nose smashed to one side, and still swinging at some fucker three times your size. You could never have sat in this chair, and I could never have stayed out there to do what you’ve done. It scared the shit out of me.”

  “Notary meetings scare the shit out of me,” Stark replies with a grin, standing himself.

  Burton laughs, shaking his head. “Me too, my friend, but it’s a clean, bloodless sort of terror. Beats the hell out of street fighting.”

  “We agree to disagree on that.”

  “Somehow, I knew you’d say that,” Burton says, reaching out and shaking Stark’s hand. “Take it easy, huh?”


  Stark walks to the door. “There’s no easy left in me,” he says softly, and leaves without any further words. There’s nothing more to say. He’s done, and he doesn’t care.

  He heads out through the resonant silence of the office. They’re disappointed to have been denied the shouting and the drama, but that’s their fucking problem, he wasn’t here for their amusement, or their satisfaction. There’s some staring in the hopes he’ll get uncomfortable and rush on out of here, but they’ve underestimated his significant lack of give a shit. He takes his time, walking slow and easy, shaking the hands of those who’ve shown him support. He’s not ashamed. He’s done nothing wrong, not in this case at any rate. The only real decision he has left to make is what to do with Spaz’s file. No matter what Burton said, he’s got to consider what it could do. How it could be used. His old self, the more reckless, bullish Stark, would’ve used it without a second thought. But he’s not that man anymore, and he has serious reservations. The file could do irreparable damage to Bone, who’s been punished severely as it is, and to the Spires, possibly starting that war he’s been fighting to keep at bay. That doesn’t seem worth the benefits of exposing their lie, not even if the Notary suffers.

  He heads out, wanting to get to his HQ and get started on sorting files. There’s no point in stalling, and he’s not much of one for dragging his heels, anyway. As he hits the door and exits to the street, his cell vibrates in his pocket. He slides it out to check, hoping it’s from the hospital, maybe some good news about Tress. She’s been bad. Not just touch and go physically, but struggling mentally, as well. But it’s not the hospital, it’s a mail from Nia. He’s not been to see Bone, hasn’t spoken to Nia since they parted ways at the hospital after she promised to autopsy Rope and try to uncover his ID. He should see her, to congratulate her. She’s been promoted to Head Mort at Gyre West, the first woman to make that leap. That’s one hell of a mountain to climb against significant, prevailing winds, but she’ll make it. He’s certain of that. She’s got steel, and she’s dependable, too, someone to be relied upon. She’s certainly come through for him. The mail contains test results for both Bone and Rope, alongside other, less legal information.

  He scans it through and stops dead. Reads it again, more slowly this time, and then takes a seat because he finds he needs to sit down. He’s outside Central and there are no benches to speak of, so he just sits against the side of the building. After a moment, he stares up into the cold, grey sky and begins laughing. Once he starts, he can’t stop, hunched over on his knees, his shoulders shaking. The street, as ever, heaves with bodies, but they push back to the sidewalk edge as they reach him, to give him a wide berth. He must look insane. Crazed. Sat there, laughing and laughing, tears streaming down his cheeks. But he’s not crazy. He’s relieved. And shocked. More than both of those, he’s just goddamn delighted. He couldn’t begin to explain it because it’s awful. Nia hasn’t said as much, but she has no need. Stark’s made a living building conclusions, and this one’s clear. Just as Lever shed her skin, so must Bone Adams have shed his to become skinless Rope. Their Bone, whoever he was, was forced into that skin, into a lie, and by that simple act, became the target of Rope’s fury, baited and terrorised and almost killed for something he very likely had no say in. All that is dreadful beyond words. No doubt about it. But here’s the thing: he’s not Bone Adams. He’s innocent.

  Stark’s never understood how a decent man managed to exist over the hidden wreckage of a psychopath, and Nia’s theory of the patch replacing Bone’s personality felt too much like vain hope. What happened in that lab was not scientific curiosity, it was psychopathic impulse, just like Rope’s recent killings. A patch couldn’t change the man who did that, and he could not see that man in Bone, because Bone was not that man. It’s a burden of doubt lifted, and even better, frees Stark from having to think about that file. The file is just another lie, some cock and bull they’ve concocted for official record, and you can’t use a lie to expose the truth, that doesn’t work. His laughter finally winds down, and he sits there, mouth rested on his knuckles, smiling. After a moment, he gets up and carries on walking, making his way to his HQ, his head not precisely at peace, but filled with purpose.

  The important decisions are made. The file is going back to Spaz, back to safe keeping, and Stark’s report on the Rope case is going to be one unholy, great lie with no mention of transmog. He discussed the report contents with Burton on the phone two days ago, and now Burton’s left it to him. It’s still his case, and if Yar has interest in the case, then Stark wants to crush it. Bone doesn’t need Yar sniffing around him. The Notary Chair is downright crooked, and Stark has never trusted him. If his final act as a CO is one that blocks Yar, then he’ll consider it a job well fucking done.

  Chapter 47

  Grey lights erupt in his skull and pain ignites across his body, a great mass of it all at once. At the centre: noise. Seething and incoherent. Heavy liquid presses him into place, hard as ropes, part of the pain he can’t escape, and something’s pulling where his face should be, a frantic scrabbling like rats trying to burrow down towards soft innards. It reaches his mouth. But there’s no mouth. Only this hard lump. And he’s screaming, the sound dulled and obstructed. Those scrabbling paws are pulling at the thing where his mouth should be, and with a knifing sensation that splits him from throat to gut, it’s gone and liquid’s gushing in. Flooding in. Nothing to stop it. He’s drowning, filling up with liquid. His body slams against hard surfaces. He’s trapped. He’s trapped in a box, and he’s drowning.

  §

  Bone’s drowning. He’s torn the tubes from his mouth and he’s slowly going blue. His wounds are sealed, but the violence of his early movements, his battle to escape, send tendrils of bright red through the pale yellow liquid of the sus unit. Alarms blare through the room. The specialist sus team fight to drain the unit as swiftly as possible and get to Bone before it’s too late. He needs to come out as he went in. Being put in a suspension unit is a procedure, and removal is the same. Only this small team is qualified to do it, but despite their skill and the speed with which they’re working, the process is taking too long. Bone’s gone limp already, his limbs twitching in movements that look too much like the last nerve-driven motions of death. They’re shouting and half-panicked, but they don’t stop working, and with an insanely loud rushing noise, the liquid finally drains away. The various tubing and needle-probes automatically disengage, storing themselves away, and one of the team stabs in the code to open the unit.

  The sides hiss as it unseals, and in one smooth movement, yawns open, releasing Bone into their arms. They lower him to the floor and inject him full of a mixture of fairly brutal accelerants because, at this point, CPR won’t work. They need to kick-start his body from within, and the range of drug-carrying nanites in the injection stimulate organs directly. His eyes pop open as the nanites hit their targets, and he jackknifes off the floor, sending the nurses flying. He starts coughing, choking up sus liquid in great gouts, and screaming. The noise is hideous, like an animal in pain. He scrambles back against the wall, incoherent, wild eyed, and moving as though his limbs are half-paralysed. It’s truly horrendous to watch, his horror leaking into the room and infecting the small team. But they have more to do. They lunge for Bone and he shrieks, high-pitched and piercing as a drill, as they wrestle him onto a gurney.

  He’s delirious and that screech goes on and on until one nurse slams the injector against his neck, firing in a raft of sedatives and relaxants. For a moment, Bone strains up against the straps, his back an excruciating curve, then he slumps, pale and limp, onto the gurney. The team finally relaxes, smiling at each other. Daina Uri, the ward sister assigned to his post-unit care, waits by the door, her arms crossed. She raises a brow as the sus team wheels him out.

  “That was clumsy,” she snaps.

  The doctor heading the sus team shrugs, unrepentant. “He almost fucking killed himself, there. He’s been lucky.”

  Daina
sniffs, unconvinced. “If you say so.”

  She takes over, then, wheeling Bone to a private room on the upper floors as per Spaz’s orders. There, she and her team try and dress him in soft pyjamas, but even unconscious, he resists, pushing the clothes away and making distressed sounds that cause one of the younger nurses to cry. In the end, Daina gives up, covering him with a light blanket, instead. She hooks him up to various monitors and leaves him to sleep.

  §

  It’s nearing evening when he finally wakes. Nia came straight from the Mort, when she heard he’d come out of the unit. Visiting hours are long since over, but she’s Establishment family, and for once she’s glad that rules don’t apply to her in this place. She’s sat next to him, her tablet on her lap, going through the giant caseload she’s inherited and feeling just a little overwhelmed, when she looks up to find him watching her, his eyes solemn.

  “Hi,” she whispers, smiling at him.

  He blinks slowly. It looks like it hurts. “Hi.”

  She puts the tablet to one side and takes his hand. “I’m here. It’s okay.”

  Those solemn grey eyes of his, dark as stormy weather, fill with tears. “It’s not,” he tells her, in a voice that cracks dangerously and he catapults up from the waist, as if yanked by unseen hands, and vomits so hard over his blanket, the tendons on his ribs pop.