Hullmetal Girls

by Emily Skrutskie

  When Aisha emerges at last, something’s changed about her. Her lips are pursed, her brows set in a determined line. The anger that nearly had her decking Yasmin in front of a bunch of kids has cooled, but something still gnaws at her.

  Unsurprisingly.

  Her sister’s at her side, and I can’t help but stare at the barbaric dye on her hands. I’ve never seen workers’ marks up close like this, and I feel a morbid fascination take over through my exo’s disgust. She has her little red fingers wound around a port on Aisha’s forearm. My exo mirrors the ghost of the sensation even without a connection to Aisha’s mind.

  “And it was huge,” the little girl chirps, clearly halfway through a story she’s keen on finishing. “And the rep was right there, and I got to shake her hand, and I told her that one day I’m going to be a representative too.”

  Aisha nods, her facial muscles strained as she smiles Scela-wide. Her eyes still look lost in thought, and there’s an extra element of tension that I’m sure comes from imagining the contrast between her sister’s red hands and the representative’s undoubtedly spotless ones.

  My exo keeps nudging me with the countdown until our report time, and I’m sure Aisha’s is doing the same. She’s dawdled long enough, eating up every spare minute of the marshal’s generous three hours.

  “Un-Haad,” I warn, just in case she’s not getting the message.

  Aisha crouches low next to Malikah, holding out her hands and turning her palms upward. I flinch as the little girl’s red fingers skim over the metal. I have to look away. My enhanced hearing feeds me the soft words that pass between them anyway, and I stuff down a twinge of jealousy, telling myself they aren’t worth it.

  “I’ll come back,” Aisha promises. “Soon as I can.”

  The exo’s disdain runs parallel to my own. We both know she’s blatantly lying. She has no idea if the words she’s saying are ones she can follow through on—she’s not the one who decides when she gets to visit. With a sinking feeling, I realize I’m dreading the moment her mind reconnects to mine. I’ll be forced to share the weight of this day. This moment and its fallout. The longer she wallows in it, the worse it’ll be. I turn my back and start off down the street, knowing her exo will pull her in my wake.

  I never want to come back to this ugly, forsaken place.

  * * *

  —

  On the ride back, Aisha stews quietly. Maybe it’s over her sister. Maybe it’s over her brother. Maybe it’s her aunt, or maybe something else entirely. Whatever it is, she’s rattled enough that she didn’t utter a single line of prayer when the shuttle launched.

  Her aunt certainly rattled me—something about that woman put my exo on edge, and I didn’t care for the way she flinched at the sight of me. I could do without humanity’s horror, especially coming from the horror of the backend.

  “What happened in there?” I finally ask. Not that I’m interested, but some noise is better than the empty rumble of the shuttle.

  Aisha doesn’t bite. Her gaze turns to the rear port, and I follow it. We watch the Reliant fall away, fading into its position in the District formation. Just over the ship’s left wing, a shadow lurks farther back. The Panacea.

  Aisha finally presses her hand against the hull, muttering prayers for her brother. Only a handful of people from Seventh District make it off that ship, and all of them must have been on the upper tiers.

  There’s an impulse inside me to comfort her. I don’t know if it comes from the scrapings of my humanity or from the Scela urge to see Aisha as my comrade, my squadmate, part of a greater whole. All I know is that I can’t do it. I can’t tell her it’s going to be all right—because I don’t believe that. I’m not sure if I’ve ever believed that. And unlike Aisha, I won’t waste words that could be worthless later.

  I do what I can. The bare minimum. I watch the rear port with her until the Panacea is out of sight.

  * * *

  —

  By the time we unload on the Dread, a notification from the ship’s systems tells us to report to the mess for lunch. Wordlessly, we follow the impulse it feeds us, winding through the narrow, darkened hallways until we spill into the low-ceilinged cafeteria.

  I’d forgotten my hunger, or maybe my exo repressed it, but in the presence of a simmering cauldron of chunky stew, it lets my stomach rumble. Aisha and I load up massive bowls—far too heavy for any human to carry—and find a spot along a bench in the back row of the cafeteria, underneath the rankings board. I spare it a quick glance, though with no training this morning, there’s nothing that would have boosted our position farther left or dragged us farther right than the last time I checked in. After our shaky start, our standing has been improving steadily. But it’s not enough for the gnawing ache inside me that won’t settle for anything less than the white stripes of the elite.

  There’s no time for lunchtime chatter. Scela wiring makes us efficient about everything, including eating—we have to be to consume the amount of food it takes to power our bodies. We tip our bowls back and chug. If the weird, protein-packed concoction has a flavor, my exo keeps my brain from registering it. The cooks aboard the Dread have only three meals in their repertoire—breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Some of the older Scela swear they can taste the difference.

  I try to remember the last thing I ate that was delicious, but I only end up stumbling into the big gap in my memory, like I’ve just run up against the edge of a precipice.

  Now I think the stew has a taste. I think it’s sour.

  I’m just starting to wonder where Woojin and Praava are when a siren wails. Lights flash along a strip on the wall, and the ship’s broadcast snaps into me as if I’ve been loaded directly into a Dread-wide exosystem.

  ALL AVAILABLE UNITS REPORT TO ASSEMBLY DECK FOR IMMEDIATE DEPLOYMENT TO STARSHIP AESCHYLUS, FOURTH DISTRICT.

  The cafeteria dissolves into the closest thing to chaos that we’re capable of. Scela wolf down the last of their stew and make for the door, filing in orderly lines, guided by the tug of their exos.

  Aisha glances at me, lowering her bowl. “They can’t mean us, right?” she says, her fingers tightening. “The marshal said—”

  What the marshal said is irrelevant, because all of a sudden the marshal’s in our heads. Sorry, kids. Your day off has been cut short. The situation aboard the Aeschylus is ripe for another field test, and after today’s report, the Chancellor has given orders to push your training forward. A note of skepticism needles through our exosystem in the wake of her announcement. Seems like the marshal isn’t convinced that we should be out in the field so soon. What situation is going down on the Aeschylus that she doesn’t think we could handle? A perfect little storm of resentment rises in me, ready to counter her.

  But Marshal Jesuit doesn’t give voice to her doubt, doesn’t push it into the realm of solid thought. Suit up immediately and meet me on Assembly, she concludes, and I snap back into the mess’s bustle, breathing like a hand’s been clenched on my throat. I tip back my bowl, sucking down the dregs of my stew before the impulse rattling down my spine jerks me to my feet.

  We race down to Assembly to join the frantic pack of Scela preparing to deploy. I skid into my bay, the exo humming with energy as it practically begs for the parts that will complete my body. I snatch the chestpiece from its mounts. Getting the rig on is far easier now, and as the data tree blossoms in my mind, I bask in the sensation of being whole.

  Then something clicks in my head, robbing me of that wonderful feeling as three other minds slam into mine. The relinking of the exosystem leaves me paralyzed, clutching the metal grating. I close my eyes, half of me trying to sort through the jumble of thoughts, the other half trying to block them out entirely.

  But something’s wrong with the exosystem, and it’s not even coming from Aisha. It takes a moment for me to process what’s different, what the strange sens
ation creeping across my brain is. Then I start to clue in on the signs. Aisha’s exo smacking away her blush response. Woojin and Praava holding back a strange cocktail of laughter and embarrassment.

  Why? Aisha groans internally, squeezing her eyes shut as if that’ll do any good.

  Woojin breaks first, a cackle slipping from his lips, loud enough that the nearest Scela whip their heads around. Praava glances across to his bay, and suddenly the exosystem swells with the memory of her hands tracing down his enhancements, of his unnaturally warm body pressed flush against hers, of ports clacking awkwardly together and sweat and flesh and—

  I instinctively shake my head, trying to clear away the images, the sensations, the sex. I’ve never regretted the exosystem more. Why have you done this? I ask flatly. Don’t you dare tell me that you two—that there are feelings involved.

  We were curious, Praava says, scoffing. Wanted to see what it’d be like.

  And you put no thought into the fact that the four of us basically share a brain? Aisha asks. She clenches her fingers, and I catch a flash of worry from her before she tucks it back inside herself.

  Woojin smirks. Aisha, we share a brain. Do I really seem like the kind of guy who puts thought into anything?

  I want to bury my head in my hands.

  It’s not that bad, c’mon, Praava urges.

  It’s not only bad. It’s ridiculous. I don’t even know what I signed up for, but I definitely didn’t sign up for this.

  Do you think— Aisha starts, then frowns. Do you think we should maybe discuss this? How this whole thing is going to work? Because if this affects us as a squad, clearly we should have discussed this before.

  Oh, so I’m gonna need permission from a Ledic prude before I—

  Woojin doesn’t get a chance to finish that thought. Aisha’s reaction sears through the exosystem, her will coming down on Woojin like a sharpened blade. All four of us feel the rattling buzz that overtakes the back of his neck and yanks his speech away before he can say anything more.

  His eyes go wide. The breath stops in his lungs.

  Aisha loves it—the feeling of having a life in her hands. Warnings flash through the exosystem, even though her exo seems to enjoy it just as much as she does. Let’s start with this, Aisha growls. Take any cues from my religion about how I see sex again and permission won’t be—

  Praava slices through Aisha’s hold on Woojin’s mind, and for the second time today, I pull Aisha back before things get ugly, mentally shoving her away into her own mind. Woojin gasps in relief, his memory flickering to a similar moment—I get a flash of a Sixth District gangster pinning him against a wall with an elbow on his throat before he suppresses the image. Point taken, he says once his head clears.

  Can we all just stay in our own heads and discuss this? Can we have a rational discussion, like rational mechanically enhanced people? Praava mutters.

  That’s asking a lot, I groan.

  I’m aroace, Aisha declares. So you won’t get this problem from me.

  Woojin rolls his eyes. I’m pansexual, and it isn’t a problem. That’s not what’s holding this squad back, and you all know it. He dares us to say otherwise, but we know better.

  I’m hetero, Praava says, just to round it out.

  They nudge me.

  And I recoil in a way I don’t fully understand. It’s a simple question. It’s a question I should have an answer for already. And yet—

  There are chasms in who I am that I haven’t even begun to explore. Holes that go deeper than the memories I’m missing. I think of my dreams, of the camera-eyed boy—did I like the way he watched me? Did I like him, or just the feeling of being watched? It’s just a dream, my exo insists, but the more it tries to shepherd me away from the edge of my empty spaces, the more I want to dive. Something is getting more and more solid inside me, something that begins and ends with a golden boy and an unblinking lens.

  But I can’t—

  I try—

  Fuck this.

  Key? Praava asks across the system. I feel her brace herself to leap into my head and see what’s eating me, but Aisha and Woojin hold her back. Surprised, I thank them. If all four of us are going to share heads, we can’t be allowed to wrench secrets away from each other. Some things we should be able to keep to ourselves.

  It’s only when we fall back into our own headspaces that we notice a fifth presence in the system. Across the deck, Marshal Jesuit raises an eyebrow at us. Well, you all handled that way better than most recruits, she observes, and even her thoughts are having a hard time holding back laughter. This is my favorite part of any fresh batch.

  Does this happen…a lot? I ask.

  Every damn time, she says, and strains to keep her chuckling internal. There’s always at least two fuzzheads who want to see what it’ll be like with these bodies. Weirdos.

  Woojin crumples.

  Oh, now you’re embarrassed? Praava cackles.

  And just like that the mood switches, the unsettling question of…whatever the hell that was brushed aside as the others start to grin. I play along, letting the edge of my smile out, but there’s nothing genuine in it. I need answers. I need to know why I’m missing so much.

  The marshal shakes her head. Enough of that. We’ve got a job to do. Report to shuttle—

  Her words get sliced in half by an incoming transmission. The herald of the Dread system swells in our heads, blasting, THREAT OF HARD VACUUM DETECTED. EQUIP BREACH SUITS.

  A flurry of emotions passes through the squad, and for a moment our identities blur as we’re folded into the tumult. We’re nothing but fear, anxiety, excitement—until Marshal Jesuit swells her presence and brings us back to ground. Suits are on the racks in your bays. Trust that your exos know what to do, she says.

  I grab the breach suit from its hanger on the scaffolding and wrestle the skintight garment over my ridges and augmentations. It’s cumbersome, near impossible to get on straight, and my rapidly accelerating pulse isn’t helping.

  I’ve barely had time to process what happened on the Reliant. But the rest of the chaos in our exosystem—Wooj and Praava, Key shutting down, the threat of breach—is a blessing, and as I get my thoughts in order, I make sure to thank God for it. The exo maintains those gentle barriers between myself and the others, screening each thought that flows out of me. Its urge for self-preservation has brought it down squarely on my side of this, and it’s doing its best to make sure no one gets wind of the treason I’ve agreed to.

  The headpiece slams down, my HUD flares up, and metal creeps down my neck, interlocking with the breach suit’s edges and forming a seal. My breathing echoes in my ears as my vision adjusts to the cameras.

  Whatever’s happening on the Aeschylus, there’s a risk a hull could blow, venting the ship’s air. Though my human remnants curdle with fear at the thought, the exo soothes them, its cool logic reminding me that my breach suit is airtight and insulated to protect me from the void. I reach out into the exosystem to find that my squad is boiling with nervous energy but ready to deploy.

  There’s too much going on for me to be anxious about packing into the shuttle. A constant stream of data pours into our exos, lecturing us on combat forms that my enhanced muscles have never put into practice. On my left, Key gulps down the download, her mind whirling with thoughts of greatness, of finally proving herself, of putting all this new knowledge to the test. Across the bay, the data’s doing little to put aside Praava’s worries. Her thoughts jumble between the download, her birthship in danger, her sister and parents, and the hell there’ll be to pay if anything happens to them. And Wooj is utterly overwhelmed—between the full rig and the years of knowledge and facts being slammed into his brain, he’s practically catatonic in his seat.

  A hint of derision rises out of Key, pointed at Wooj and, for no clear reason, at me too. Already she’s bracing h
erself for one of us to mess up and sink the squad’s position on the rankings board before we’ve even set foot on the Aeschylus. I shove her headspace, which earns me a snarl from my left and a mental swat that makes my HUD flare blindingly white.

  Marshal Jesuit’s attention whips around. She knocks us back into our own heads, her scrutiny settling like a weight on my shoulders. What happened on the Reliant? she asks. I can’t see her from where I’m strapped in, but she must be up front with the higher-ranking officers.

  Everything’s fine, I tell her. I’m lying, and I’m fairly sure she knows I’m lying, but hopefully Marshal Jesuit believes I’m lying because it’s what I need to tell myself. Not because I’ve struck a deal with the very movement I was recruited to combat.

  I press a hand back against the hullmetal and pray for strength. The Scela on my right openly stares, his headpiece still cocked back and his expression unreadable.

  “What’s it to you?” I snap, letting the exo pour its harsh edges into my voice.

  “You really think that’s going to do any good?”

  Though my exo hums warnings about respecting Scela who clearly outrank me, my lips curl from my teeth, a hostile snarl brewing at the back of my throat.

  “I used to be like you—before I was like this,” he says, knocking his knuckles against his exo ridge. “Went to temple every week. Kept my hair covered whenever I grew it long. Prayed my Morning and Evening Strains.” He slaps his hand back against the hullmetal in a gesture that conveys equal parts familiarity and bitterness. “Did everything right. And sure, I made it off the Kronos in one piece before it melted. But the rest of my family didn’t.”

  My gut drops, as if the shuttle has already launched into the void. “I’m so sorry,” I tell him, my hand flinching off the ship’s hull, but the Scela’s already turned away, snapping his headpiece down to cover his face.