Hullmetal Girls

by Emily Skrutskie

  “What does that mean, exosys—” Woojin starts.

  He doesn’t get to finish. Marshal Jesuit narrows her eyes, and something snaps in my head. My awareness explodes, ballooning outward as three new pieces of consciousness smash headlong into mine. Our exos weave together, our identities meeting and merging and diverging over and over again. We mix like water, plunging into sameness, our sources indistinct. Then like oil and water, each of us pushing the others away. Then like thread, braiding into something stronger.

  I’m in each of their heads, feeling Woojin—he prefers to be called Wooj—reel back in alarm, feeling Praava’s confusion, feeling Key’s simmering disgust. I know little details about them as well as I know myself, from the scar on Wooj’s palm to Praava’s XY chromosomes.

  You wanted contact, the exo cackles against my brainstem.

  The connection twists deeper. I feel their stories sink into me like I’ve been hearing them all my life. Their histories, their memories—I’m halfway to living them.

  I’m Wooj with nowhere else to go, sleeping in the piping between the hull walls of the starship Orpheus, Sixth District. I feel a life’s worth of nervous energy humming through me, the residuals of years spent running illicit jobs, smuggling goods across the ship. My own heart aches for his desperate scramble to get off the Orpheus, to move up in the Fleet, to make something out of nothing. And then there’s the hollow, sunken feeling from three weeks ago, when he was caught the day after his eighteenth birthday and forced to choose between a jail tank and becoming a weapon of the General Body.

  Praava’s mind is a comforting space, haunted by a flavor of love I know so well. But hers isn’t a split infinity like my own—it’s focused on one entity in particular: her older sister. A brilliant doctor, the family’s gem, working on the starship Aeschylus, Fourth District. I slip into her life, living in the shadow of my sister’s greatness, believing in that greatness so wholeheartedly that when a grant fell through, I decided to offer up my body at its altar. My salary goes to funding her research on the wasting fever, knowing in my heart that one day my older sister is going to save the whole damn Fleet. My body, my path, my own life—it’s nothing against that.

  And I know that Key is from First District, the very head of the Fleet, and…well, not much else about Key. The information I’m getting from her feels odd and disjointed compared to the others. It’s like she has…holes. There are no images, no specifics, only the immediacy of her thoughts. She’s washed out by panic as she takes in three new minds and sees that none of them are like hers. With a smoothness that betrays its familiarity, I feel her exo clamp down on her alarm until it dissolves into the cool disdain she wore when she introduced herself. Key goes willingly, her contempt for us backenders radiating through the system in place of any concrete memories.

  We’re all young, born within a year of each other, which the exo assures me is normal. The prime age for Scela integration lies somewhere in the late teens, when the body is grown enough to take the metal and the mind isn’t too entrenched to welcome the exo. It’s the reason the General Body knocked the age of legal adulthood down to sixteen a few decades after the Fleet launched. As I think of Pascao and all the other older people who knew the risk, tried anyway, and got snapped in half before they ever got a chance to become what I am, a sick feeling twists my stomach. The others share my sympathy—even Key.

  The longer we mix in the system, the more our selves rise to the surface, until finally we’re out of our heads and back in our bodies. I find that I’m crouching, my hands on my knees, taking long, deep breaths that swell my chest against its metal reinforcing. Wooj is flat on his back, and Praava kneels beside him. Key’s the only one of us still standing tall. We can all feel the sheer stubbornness keeping her legs locked and her spine ramrod straight.

  Marshal Jesuit claps her hands together. “Looks like you’re settling into the exosystem.” Eyeing Wooj sitting up on the ground, she continues, “This is the vehicle for ensuring the distribution of orders and enabling the cohesion of a Scela unit. You may be able to bend hullmetal, but this connection is a Scela’s true strength. Does your system feel balanced?”

  Our system feels confusing and chaotic, but our exos understand the gist of her question. None of us is overpowering the others, though Wooj’s connection feels a little unsteady. We nod.

  “Good,” the marshal breathes. “No Big Bobs. Great way to start.”

  We raise our eyebrows in unison, and she smirks.

  “Big Bob is one of the scariest Scela we have. Not physically, of course—guy’s scrawny as a toothpick, looks like a damn joke walking around in his full rig. But Big Bob and his exo get along a little too well. You all have probably seen him before. He’s the one in the recruiting videos.”

  I remember the video. It was on loop in the office just outside the waiting room. The man lies calmly, quietly in the saddle as the needles sink into the back of his skull and the exo spine clamps down on his bones. Nothing about it meshes with the memory of my own integration, and my experience quickly twines with the others’. Praava saw it when she volunteered. Wooj doesn’t remember. Either he wasn’t paying attention when they showed it to him, or he wasn’t shown it at all, and the resentment seething through our system tells me it’s the latter. Key isn’t sure whether she’s seen the video or not, but she’s rooting around inside herself for something to match the memories. She presses down the panic again, trying to focus on the marshal’s next words.

  “Turns out Bob has a natural talent for interfacing with his exo. Wields willpower almost as well as the Chancellor herself. So the first time we jacked him into an exosystem, he was able to seize control over his squadmates. Basically turned them into drones to do whatever he wanted. Not what those poor bastards signed up for. Took a while for his instructor to pick up on it, too.”

  “What happened to Big Bob?” Praava asks.

  Marshal Jesuit smiles, Scela-wide. “He’s one of our most valuable assets. But he works in a squad of Scela who can stand on equal footing with his abilities. Balance is critical when you’re working with minds in concert,” she says, looking each of us in the eye.

  “Hold on, hold on,” Wooj blurts. “So one of us could have seized control of everyone in the system?”

  The marshal’s smile drops, and a shift blows through the exosystem like a gust of wind on an Old Earth cast. A buzz starts up on the back of our necks. Wooj tries to reach back and touch his exo—tries, but the impulse never makes it from his brain into the machine on his back. We’re frozen in place, trapped by a foreign will rattling through us.

  “This,” Marshal Jesuit says quietly, “is willpower. This is how direct orders will be delivered to you from your superiors, both Scela and human. It’s also how you can control other Scela, should the need arise. There are systems of permissions in place that allow you to combat it with your own willpower, dependent on rank. Your exo can also circumvent an order in some circumstances for your own sake—again, contingent on how far up the chain of command your orders’ source is. In a squad’s exosystem, it’s every Scela for themselves. But if you find yourself under orders from a General Body member or the Chancellor herself, you will carry out those orders. This is the pact you signed, the autonomy you forfeited in your integration. Respect it. Is that clear?”

  The buzz lifts, and all four of us nod in unison. We’re still swept up in the shock of the exosystem, trying to balance being inside four heads at once, and this new information is almost enough to overload us entirely. But despite that, our bodies are settling into a shaky equilibrium, our heartbeats thudding in uncomfortable synchrony. We draw breath as one.

  “Enough dallying,” Marshal Jesuit snaps, her voice suddenly harsh and authoritative, though a smile edges back into it. “Give me twenty laps around the deck perimeter. Welcome to basic.”

  I wake to the soft buzz of an order, with the gho
st of a dream dissolving around me.

  It’s the same one that’s been haunting me throughout my recovery, and my memory of it is as frustratingly vague as ever. I sit in darkness, illuminated by blinding lights. Somewhere past their glow, a golden boy watches me with cameras for eyes, unblinking lenses devouring me as the lights get brighter and brighter. No other details make the leap to my waking mind, and my exo gently encourages me to keep it to myself. No reason for the other three people in my head to get a glimpse of just how fucked up my head seems to be.

  Our room is nothing special—sparse, undecorated, holding only four beds and a dresser full of one-size-fits-all Scela clothing. Last night, Wooj and Praava claimed the top two bunks instantly, while Aisha and I simultaneously offered to take the lower ones. It’s a little eerie how conflict-free settling sleeping arrangements was, but it’s one of the few things made simpler by the exosystem.

  Waking up in the system, however, is a mess. The gentle buzz that startled us awake fades, and my squadmates’ noise rises to fill its place. We’ve had an entire day to settle into the way our minds weave together, but the morning makes it brand-new all over again. As I roll out of my bunk, I drown in the chatter. Aisha’s already wondering if there’s a way she can contact her aunt and siblings, even though it’s been explained to her over and over during recovery that the Dread’s communications are locked down. Praava fills our shared headspace with a keen, confused longing for the mornings when her sister dragged her out of bed by her ankles. And Woojin can’t seem to keep his mouth closed for more than ten seconds, much less rein in his thoughts—he’s already prattling on both internally and externally about what we’ve got on the schedule today.

  Which, granted, is exciting. I can’t deny that, and even if I tried, my exo would vehemently disagree. But it’s not enough to distract me from the fact that my memories are still missing. I’m nowhere near figuring out why I took the metal. Barely anyone from First District volunteers for Scela conversion—there are plenty of better lives to live in the frontend. Plenty of choices that don’t involve the risk of being killed by an untamed exo. The Scela from First District who give up their bodies to serve are supposedly noble. Or at least they’re supposed to be a better class of Scela than the desperate and the backend felons who make up the brunt of the General Body’s fighting force.

  I must be noble.

  I have to be better.

  So I keep my thoughts corralled and follow the rest of my squad obediently as we dress and swing through the mess for bowls of a protein-packed, stewlike substance that’s simply—and unhelpfully—labeled “breakfast.” A massive display takes up one wall of the cafeteria, covered with a complicated-looking, ever-shifting web of information. Focusing on one area, I see that each node represents a Scela, and the glowing threads are their exosystem linkages tying them together into squads. Occasionally the linkages shift or break as people drop in or out, as systems combine or dissolve, as the structures mutate to accommodate the Fleet’s needs.

  With only one day of training under our belts, we must not have earned a place on it yet. My exo informs me that each squad’s position on the display marks their rank, and their coloring indicates their tier of pay. The blinding white stripes of the Scela elite at the far left of the screen hold my gaze as I drain my bowl. Something close to hunger awakens in my empty spaces.

  When the marshal shows up to collect us, all four of our exos snap alert with anticipation. She leads us through the Dread’s wide hallways, past other squads of Scela who move together like pack animals on an Old Earth cast. Compared to them, we’re blunted, awkward, gangly little creatures, our heads still bristly and our hides still marked with the unmistakable red striping of a fresh conversion.

  I bite down on the urge to sneer at them when their gazes flick our way. Better, I remind myself. Be better.

  “This is Assembly Deck,” Marshal Jesuit announces as we reach the terminus of the hall and step out into a massive bay. Our footsteps fall in sync as we file behind her. When all of us are focused on an objective—like following the marshal’s orders—our connection feels smoother, but already I can feel Woojin getting distracted by the back of Praava’s exo.

  As I keep my eyes fixed on the marshal, the rest of the squad starts to space out. The clamor is overwhelming—engines firing, dockworkers shouting, the heavy rumble of Scela footfalls. The metal beneath our feet vibrates with the energy of the place. The others take in the shuttles parked in their docking slots along the far edge of the deck and the bays where hundreds of full Scela rigs rest. A flutter of numbers pours into the exosystem from Praava as she calculates how many rigs are in use. Roughly seventy percent, she concludes.

  Woojin wonders if it’s because of the Fractionists, and I let out a low, exasperated growl. The Fractionists are nothing. Just a bunch of backenders bent on chaos, insisting on splitting off from the Fleet as if that will get us any closer to finding a livable planet. They’re desperate and bitter about being from lower districts, and so they do their damnedest to rip the Fleet apart. But their movement’s dying off, and with so many Scela in action, it won’t be long until they’re stamped out for good.

  “These bays are yours,” Marshal Jesuit says as we approach, gesturing to a row of four rigs. Just seeing them feels like they’re calling out to our exos, and for a moment I’m wrapped in the dream of wearing one, the sensation of sheer electric power rushing over my skin. My exo’s delight snaps through the system, rebounding off the others, and I’m nearly knocked senseless by the ricochet of four overexcited computerized entities bouncing around between us.

  The bays are built out of scaffolding and metal mesh, each of the full rig’s pieces strapped into their outlets. I move to the one I know is mine, guided by the exo. It wants the chestpiece first, so I grab it from the center, jerking it roughly from its plugs. It settles onto my shoulders like it was sculpted just for me and melds against my ports, clicking into place as the exo adopts it.

  My vision goes fuzzy as the new body part attaches, my augmented nervous system reaching out to embrace the piece as one of its own. A data structure blossoms within the exo, a tree with a single node that branches out into leaves of information. The most prominent leaf quietly informs me that the piece is one hundred percent charged. The chestpiece winches snugly around my midsection, and just like that, it’s part of me.

  The rest of the rig goes on easier, once I’m past the strangeness of snapping on new body parts. I align plugs with the ports that dot my skin, and each new piece makes me feel a little more complete, a little more grounded in myself. New nodes attach to the tree, uploading a report of each piece’s status. Unlike the muscle enhancements, there’s no learning curve for the rig. The exo knows exactly how to move each piece, and it coaxes my brain into working in tandem every time I pick up a new part.

  My body becomes an elegant assemblage of metal. The curves of the exo meld into the harsh lines of the rig. The pieces hum with energy, and everything feels mine. Feels right.

  Then the headpiece slams down.

  I stagger backward as darkness plunges over me, the exo doing its best to mute the sensation of spikes pricking into the ports that dot my jawline. My mind melts into it, and my vision flares back in brilliant digital color as the headpiece’s cameras take over. A HUD flickers to life, though I can’t tell if it’s a construction of the exo or an actual feature in the headpiece. There’s no way to tell which inputs are from my eyes and which are an addition wrought by the exo’s intermingling. The thundering pulse of my heart echoes in my ears, trapped there by the protective plating that encases my skull.

  Suddenly I’m the sole denizen of my mind and body, and it knocks me sideways. Beneath the headpiece, my vision goes black. Don’t panic. Don’t let them see you panic. Don’t give in to it. Some of those thoughts are the exo’s. Most are mine.

  I catch myself on the grated metal of the b
ay, shaking my head as I adjust to my new field of view. An electric buzz settles into my skull, comforting and cradling, and I feel my heartbeat slow. This is right. This is what a Scela is meant to be. A living weapon, a replacement for the ancient guns that blew holes in the hulls of ships we lost so long ago that their names are no longer taught. We’re more elegant weapons. More civilized. Less clumsy or random. We’re built with the strength to hold this Fleet together.

  For the first time in two weeks, I’m proud of what I am.

  As I adjust to the power glowing through me, I find the dividing line between myself and the others. The full rig’s metal sharpens it, grounding us in our bodies, making the exosystem a choice. My exo nudges me forward, and I slip into the collective, already bracing myself.

  In the next bay, Woojin’s rigged up and on his knees. His exo’s alarm spirals into the system as it tries to get him back, but he only rolls forward, pressing his shielded head against the deck floor. A low groan shudders out from between his teeth.

  “Lih!” Marshal Jesuit barks, thundering toward him. I follow in her wake, the exo guiding me into a flock as Aisha and Praava settle into formation at her side, both of them assembled in their rigs. A ping of delight warms through me as I notice Aisha’s having a hard time keeping her right armpiece attached, and it only doubles when she senses my mirth radiating through the exosystem.

  Woojin clasps his gloved hands behind his head, the metal wailing as he squeezes his fingers together.

  “Something wrong with your exo, Lih?” Marshal Jesuit’s voice snaps like a whip, but there’s a note of genuine concern in there that I don’t have to be linked to her to detect.

  Through both the exosystem and the helmet’s hypersensitive audio sensors, we hear his panting breaths. I swear I can smell the sweat curdling off him. Woojin’s integration is eerie in a way I can’t quite put a finger on. His exo’s control is somehow loose, and his mannerisms skew uncomfortably human. But the full rig has reversed all that—his exo’s grip is ironclad and his mind is lost in its hold, reducing him to a hyperventilating puddle on the Assembly Deck floor.