Hullmetal Girls

by Emily Skrutskie

  I’m so caught up in the idea of seeing my siblings again that when I skid into Assembly, I nearly run headlong into Marshal Jesuit. “Slow down, Un-Haad,” she says, catching me by the back of my exo. I resist the urge to squirm at the way the sensation jerks through every piece of machinery rooted in my body. “Your shuttle is waiting at the end of the bay. You’ll have three hours on the Reliant, and then you’ll be shipped back to the Dread. Understood?”

  I nod, a snap of my chin. We have the day off—most everyone in the Fleet does on the day after Launch Day—but the marshal clearly isn’t included. Something had her up early this morning, and it’s a matter that needs her in her armor. She wears the full rig, her headpiece cocked back and her hair in a complicated plait that runs parallel to her exo spine. It’s hard to tell, but I think she’s exhausted. She catches the suspicious sweep of my eyes. “I’m delivering your first progress report to the General Body this morning. They…prefer to see Scela in full rig.” She shrugs, but my exo notes a hint of discomfort in her voice.

  With a more pointed nod, the marshal dismisses us, and we jog down Assembly, passing rows of shuttles that include—

  Even with the uncontrollable urge to run for my siblings driving me, I stagger to a halt, transfixed. As a former deck janitor, I know spacecraft wear and tear as intimately as scripture. I know how dirt accumulates on the shuttles that ferry people between starships and across the tiers of the Fleet. But I’ve never seen damage of this sort in person.

  These ships have heat shields. These ships have burned. These ships have been to planet surfaces, scouting for our promised home.

  My eyes sweep down the swell of their Faster Than Light drives, fear and thrill warring inside me at the thought of traveling that fast. In my lifetime, the Fleet’s starships have never accelerated past the brink of light speed. We’ve been coasting on the same trajectory for years, and it’s been decades since the last time we elected to fire those drives. But these shuttles do it routinely. Over feeble protests from my exo, a prayer rises on my lips for the holy work they do. It’s humanity’s grandest purpose in the sight of God, finding a habitable world. Three hundred and one years of searching has been a test of faith, and my prayer takes a selfish twist as I conclude my strain with a plea for that search to end in my lifetime.

  I steal a guilty glance back at Key, all but hearing her condescension in my head, but she’s gawking at the shuttles too, her expression confused and almost vulnerable. She catches my eye and scowls. “Move,” she grunts.

  I move.

  “Morning, ladies!” a friendly voice calls from farther across the deck. I turn and find a human beckoning us over to a smaller passenger shuttle. He wears the gray uniform of the Dread’s dockworkers, but the stiff, drab fabric does little to diminish his warm brown skin or his glowing grin. “You two must be the ones shipping to the backend today,” he says.

  Key’s lip curls into a sneer, and I can’t tell whether it’s for the overly cheerful boy in front of us or the prospect of descending past the First District. I’ve been in her head enough to know she must be boiling with disdain about this excursion, and I’m especially glad that I won’t have to share her thoughts when we land on my birthship.

  “Ride’s ready to go,” the dockworker says, rapping his knuckles against the hull. “Name’s Zaire—I’ll be getting you two ready to launch.”

  “Thanks,” I tell him earnestly, and Key sniffs haughtily at my side.

  “Let’s hurry it up!” a harsh voice calls from the front, and I’m surprised to see a Scela pilot leaning out of the door to the cockpit, spinning a set of key fobs lazily around her thumb. “We’re wasting starlight just sitting here.”

  “Nani,” Zaire begs. “Don’t harass the fuzzheads.”

  The Scela woman scowls, her expression rough and exaggerated against Zaire’s subtle human quirks. Her hair is loose and wild, much of it woven around her shoulder pieces in a way that looks both unintentional and painful. “I got business I could be doing,” she mutters.

  “Ooh, business,” Zaire says, wiggling his hips. “What dreamboat are you gonna find on the Reliant?”

  Nani smirks, a forceful look on her restructured face. “One with deeper pockets than you.”

  Key scoffs, and I wish I were linked to her, just so I could shove her without these two noticing.

  Zaire ignores her disdain. “C’mon,” he says, beckoning. “You’ll be riding in the back.”

  My stomach drops as the door to the passenger hold folds open. Three weeks ago, I took my first shuttle ride, along with three other Scela conversion candidates shipping from the Reliant. If my stomach hadn’t been empty for the anticipated surgery, it would have been by the time we docked with the Dread.

  Repeating the experience when we shipped to the Porthos yesterday wasn’t terrible—but it was such a short trip. A brief jaunt in the void, with too much going on around me to get properly anxious. Now my exo’s crooning in the back of my head, promising me that it will keep me from hurling, but even so, I feel the panic creeping up my spine as we mount the stairs and slide into the seats.

  “Word of advice,” Zaire mutters as he snaps the restraints around us. “Don’t ever let Nani into that system thing you’ve got going on. She’s been in the middle of some kinky stuff, and she won’t hesitate to use it against you if you piss her off. Makes me glad I don’t have it,” he says, tapping the side of his head.

  My stomach turns. Key bares her teeth at him, and he jumps.

  “All right, no need to get nasty,” Zaire laughs. “Enjoy the backend, you two.” He pats the ridge of her exo, then leaps away before she can take a swipe at him and skips down the stairs. The shuttle’s hatch swings shut behind him, and I’m left with nothing but silence and Key Tanaka fuming next to me.

  Then the shuttle lurches forward. Instinctively I slap my hand backward, pressing my fingers into the hullmetal behind us. The exo urges me to keep my prayers internal, but the wiring in my brain can’t override my fear.

  “We aren’t even in the void yet,” Key groans.

  The shuttle’s wheels bump over the Assembly Deck floor as dock crews drag us to the launch tube. It barely matters. We aren’t in the void yet, but we will be any second. The prayers come faster.

  Something whirs. Something clunks. I add a second hand to the hullmetal.

  The wall starts shaking behind me. A roar builds in pitch, then vanishes like a snuffed candle, the vacuum dampening it to the low rumble that vibrates through the shuttle. Acceleration sinks me into my seat, my restraints going loose around my shoulders. My exo forces me to unclench my jaw before it shatters my teeth.

  The change sweeps over us like a wave, the gravity below our feet evaporating as the shuttle glides out of the launch tube and clear from the Dread’s gravitational field. I lift against the restraints, and the taste of bile leaks into the back of my throat despite the exo’s best efforts. My prayers go quiet as my focus shifts to keeping my nausea in check.

  “Thank God,” Key mutters beside me.

  * * *

  —

  “These things are outrageously safe, you know,” Key says, breaking the silence of the journey as we clamber out of the shuttle. She raps her knuckles twice against the ship’s hull, then wrinkles her nose as the smell of the Reliant’s only intership deck hits her.

  We stalk down the stairs and across the deck—stalk, because there’s no word more appropriate for the gait of an unrigged Scela. With our enhancements powering our muscles, our strides lengthen, bearing our bodies feather-light in a way that draws the eye of every human in the vicinity. I wonder if anyone will recognize me, then quickly dismiss the idea. They’d remember a girl with a headscarf, a girl who lived in constant fear of the universe consuming everything she loved.

  They wouldn’t see her in this monster of flesh and metal.

  But even if t
he Reliant has forgotten me, I haven’t forgotten this deck. The smell of engine grease and burned-off fuel carries memories of sweat and rust, days when my life was reduced to cleaning solvents and the ache of my shoulders. Deck janitorial kept my siblings in school and out of the steaming hell of the Reliant’s dyeworks, and on top of that, the rough physical work was probably what made me strong enough to take the integration and conversion in the first place.

  The exo wants me to be thankful.

  I want to rip it from my back.

  “Spirits alive, calm down,” Key says, as if she’s read my thoughts. My lips peel back from my teeth. Ever since I became Scela, I’ve been a mess of contradictory impulses, and Key’s been no better. She doesn’t get to judge me when I can’t keep whatever’s left of my humanity in check.

  The people on the deck would be hard-pressed to see any humanity left in us, especially given that Scela don’t get shipped out to the Reliant often. There isn’t much of value on a Seventh District ship, after all. Glimpses of them were always limited to casts from the front of the Fleet and the rare occasions when a crime would bring a small pack of them prowling through the market streets. They never blend in, and we certainly don’t now. Even if we slowed down, hunched over, shortened our strides, limited the pulse of our muscles. Even if we hooded our heads to hide the wicked ridges that rise from our skulls and the bulk of the metal that structures our shoulders. Even if we didn’t move in sync.

  There’s always something that gives away a predator in your midst.

  I lead the way off the deck, through the gateway that connects it to the main body of the Reliant’s habitat. As we step out into the open, an ache hits my chest. Now that I’ve seen the Porthos’s immaculate streets, I can’t help but compare them to the Reliant’s dingy, slightly crooked landscape. The sight of the habitat dome above us is crowded by the apartments that have stacked higher and higher over the years as the ship’s population overflowed the edges of its carrying capacity. The streets feel even more claustrophobic in my new body, and I find myself tucking my elbows carefully against my sides as we wade forward into the crowded market.

  My birthship’s warm, familiar air sinks into my skin, and I breathe deep. Decorations are still up from the Launch Day celebration, and the streets have the turned-over, post-festival look. Despite the press of the crowd, the humans around us shy away, giving us a two-foot berth. Fear, I think, just as the exo insists, Respect.

  “…just kids,” we hear from behind us. Key’s head snaps around.

  I yank her back by her support struts. “Leave it,” I growl. I’m not giving her a chance to cause a scene before I get to see my siblings.

  Key mutters under her breath—something about the breeding in backend districts—and the exo has to keep me from punching her right then and there. No one explained why she had to be the one to escort me home, and I’m desperately wishing either of my other two squadmates were at my side today. They’d have some compassion. They aren’t as classist as Key Tanaka.

  I keep moving forward before my human impulses get the better of me. But even that proves impossible, because out of the corner of my eye, I spy a familiar dome, and every atom in me gives thanks that Key isn’t listening in on my thoughts right now. To get to Yasmin’s, we have to walk right past the entrance to the Reliant’s Ledic temple.

  I clench my hands into fists, tamping down the urge to divert, to walk through that doorway, drop onto one of the kneelers, and plead for just a little more grace. Just a little more of God’s strength to get me through this. The old hurts rise in me, but I remember the feeling of Praava’s hand on my back and let the exo help me keep my body steady. I feel stretched thin by the time that’s passed since the last temple service I attended, but there’s nothing I can do about that today. Not with Key and her infuriating judgment on my tail for no apparent reason.

  Yasmin’s orphanage is situated just off the main square, under the vaulted sky’s highest point. Approaching the side door to the part of the building that houses her apartment doesn’t feel real in this body. It feels like I’ve been gone for much longer than three weeks. My exo tries to soothe me, urging the thunder of my heart to slow as I step up to the door and press the buzzer.

  The door swings open, and I notice three things in rapid succession.

  First, the look of horror in my ten-year-old sister’s eyes as she takes in what I’ve become.

  Second, the shine of her hair, no longer wrapped under a Ledic scarf.

  And third, her hands.

  Malikah’s hands are dyed blood-red.

  Rage flushes through me, unchecked by the exo. I step forward, allowing my frame to fill the doorway as Malikah shrinks back. “You weren’t supposed to be working in the dyeworks. Why does she have you in the dyeworks?” I ask, my teeth bared. My little sister’s fear registers, but my exo urges on my fury before I can react.

  There’s something even more wrong with this picture. The stain on her hands is too vibrant. Too ingrained. To work up to a stain like that, Yasmin would have had to move Malikah down to the vats the minute I walked out the door. My gaze moves from her hands to her eyes. She squints up at me, her spine straightening even as silent tears track down her face. Her expression is somewhere halfway between terror and delight, so painfully human that it makes me wish I’d never done this to myself.

  “Aunt Yasmin said you…you might not…”

  “Malikah,” I say, lowering my voice to an even growl. “I’m here. I’m fine. And you were supposed to get my signing bonus and salary. This shouldn’t have happened.” I glance over my shoulder at Key, but she shrugs. She’s never worried about money before—why should she start now?

  I turn back to Malikah, whose gaze is stuck on the ridge embedded in my skull. When I start to get down on one knee, she flinches away from me. “I’m sorry,” I tell her, holding out both of my hands. She takes them, but I feel her tense when her fingers skip over the ridges of metal and resealed skin. I trace the brilliant dye that marks her forearms. “This will wear off in a few days,” I say, trying to ignore how frail she feels, how a single mistake could pulverize her in my grip. “We’ll make sure the money comes.”

  “Not your fault,” she mumbles, before throwing her arms around my neck.

  I don’t dare hug back, not with Scela power in my muscles. The most I can do is set one hand on the small of her back and rest my head as gently as I can manage on her shoulder. For a moment, I let the past day, the past week unravel around me until I’m human again, home again, on the starship I’ve belonged to my whole life. And in that moment, it’s all worth it.

  Then my exo yanks me back, mentally and physically. It knows I can’t linger in a near-human headspace, even if I’m getting better at managing the reality of my new body. I snap to my feet like a puppet on strings, nearly knocking Malikah backward. As my awareness of the machine in my head sharpens, I feel my blood grow hot.

  My body. My sacrifice. My purpose.

  “Where’s Yasmin?” I ask through my teeth.

  Fear creeps back into Malikah’s expression. She lifts a shaking hand, pointing down the hall that connects the apartment to the orphanage next door.

  I start down it without another word. I can feel my exo honing the violence inside me to a bladed edge, shivering with anticipation. As I tear the door open and turn the corner, Key’s footsteps reluctantly give chase.

  The narrow hall opens into a dimly lit, grungy cafeteria. It must be lunchtime—dozens of red-handed children chatter at the tables. But my eyes settle on the woman who towers above them at the other end of the room, bent over to answer a question that’s being shouted in her ear.

  The noise fades. I feel the weight of the children’s eyes fall on me as the whole room stills.

  Yasmin straightens, looking as if she’s seen a ghost.

  But her eyes aren’t on me. They’re
fixed somewhere over my shoulder. My exo picks up the quick flutter of my aunt’s lips, barely more than a strangled whisper—angel, she mouths, then swallows the words.

  I don’t know what that means, and I don’t care to find out. I stalk forward.

  “Why does my little sister have red hands?” I snarl. The exo tugs at my shoulders, rolls my neck, pulls me up to as tall as I can stand. There’s something so awfully, wonderfully right about it, like I’m stretching my muscles for the first time after a long sleep.

  Scela power overwhelms me, and the only human thought that passes through my exo is a quick note that I wasn’t taller than my aunt three weeks ago.

  “N-now, Aisha,” Yasmin stammers, nearly tripping as she staggers back.

  As if words are enough to calm me. She’s crossed a line that can never be uncrossed. “Explain,” I demand.

  “Your money didn’t come. We had to do something—there wasn’t enough to pay for—”

  “I told you to keep her out of the dyeworks. Have her on janitorial, have her fucking dancing in the streets for coins!” The curse isn’t mine—there’s something in my wrath that snatches it out of Key’s lexicon and hurls it from my lips.

  “There’s always work in the dyeworks,” Yasmin mutters.

  I lunge forward, grabbing her roughly by the front of her shirt. My exo blinks a half-hearted reminder that I haven’t been trained to handle humans yet, but its glee at my unfettered rage warms through me all the same. I lean in until the edge of my ridge knifes into her forehead. “You know exactly why there’s always work there,” I growl.

  Key’s hand comes down on my shoulder, snapping me back. “Holy shit,” she hisses. The ringing in my ears clears, and I hear faint whimpers from the kids cowering at their tables. Reluctantly I release Yasmin, blinking, and she sways, clutching the end of her plait as she stumbles away from me.

  I glance back and confirm my worst fear. Malikah stands at the edge of the cafeteria, leaning slightly against the door frame. Those silent tears aren’t silent anymore—she has a hand over her mouth to rein in her sobs, and in her eyes, I see every inch of the monster that I’ve become.