by E J Frost
roll my shoulders experimentally and when
there’s nothing more than a grumble, slowly
sit up. A thermoblanket falls to puddle in my
lap, baring my chest to the night air. The
air’s pleasantly warm; it’ll cool down a few
more degrees overnight. Good sleeping
weather. All we’ll need is a groundcloth to
sleep on, and a light cover over us. Or a nice
thermoblanket.
“Think Doc Gray would mind us
borrowing this for the night?” I ask Kez,
fingering the thermoblanket.
She sits up beside me. “No, but I think
we should ask.”
I chuckle. “Such a low opinion you got of
me, kitten.”
She rubs her cheek against my shoulder. I
stretch my left arm around her cautiously;
smile at the absence of pain. “The doc patch
this up, too?”
“Mmm-hmm. You tore your rotator cuff.
And a bunch of ligaments in your knee.”
“All that and new fingerprints, too.” I lift
my left hand from Kez’s bare arm and flex
my hand between us. When I touch my thumb
to forefinger, I can feel the slight roughness
of my new fingerprints. “You got a good
price, kitten.”
“I also got some clothes. But I didn’t
think to ask for a blanket.” She sighs. “I’m
glad you’re awake.”
“Me too.” For lotsa reasons.
She swings her legs off the cot, pushes
the blanket aside and stands. She’s wearing a
sleeveless, loose shift that falls to her ankles.
Her breasts and hips create soft swells
against the dress’s straight lines. Not too
revealing. A pattern slides across the fabric:
pale gray roses. Then another one, pink
hearts that pop in sprays of bubbles. I
chuckle. Not my kitten’s style. Not at all.
She catches me staring and smiles at me.
I know that smile. Not her mischievous grin.
This is a wicked smile. Nothing good comes
of that smile. “I picked out something for
you,” she says.
She moves to the autodog slab, ducking
the tangle of diagnostic arms that hang over
it. She picks up a blue bundle from a folded
pile sitting on the slab and holds it out to me.
“Anythin’ in black?”
Kez shakes her head. “What you see is
what you get.”
Blue check, haylon green, deep red and
dusty orange. “I’ll go naked.”
Kez’s smile widens. “I’m sure the
Marketers would appreciate that. Civil
Patrol? Probably not so much.”
I take the blue bundle from her. Hold it
out, expecting it to unfold into pants. It
unspools into a long rectangle with ties at
either end. “You’re just fucking with me
now.”
“Nope. All the rage here. You’ll fit right
in.”
“I am not wearin’ a skirt.”
“What, too feminine for you? Come on, if
I have to wear this stupid LeLo dress, you
can wear a skirt.” She gestures at her dress,
which has shifted to stylized kemwars,
running in spirals from her breasts to the
hem.
“Suits you, kitten.”
She snorts eloquently. Gathers the rest of
the clothes into a bundle that she tucks under
her arm. Guess the other options are even
less appealing. I stand slowly, getting my
balance. Shake out the skirt and wrap it
around me. When I tie it off and look up, Kez
is watching me, grin stretched as wide as an
orclas.
“Nice calves.”
I shift so I can give her the finger. Feel
the breeze around my balls as I move. “Well,
it’s easy access, I’ll give it that.”
“Let me get the Doc. He wants to check
you before we go.”
“No need, Miz Kerryon.” A skeletally
thin man pushes through the plaz drape.
“Although I may look it, I’m not deaf.”
When he turns to me, I see why he’s
running a black-market medcen. He’s an
extreme Mod: so heavily geneered and
surgically modified that he can’t pass for
human anymore. His skull’s been stretched
into a peak. His ears have been removed:
crescent depressions on either side of his
head are all that remain. His eyes have been
replaced with silvery fish eyes. I can see gill
slits on the sides of his neck, and webs
between his fingers.
“What’re you doin’ on land, Doc?” I ask.
“It’s orclas mating season, Mister Snow.
Not the best time to take a dip. As you
discovered.”
I sit down on the cot so he can examine
me. He prods at the newskin seal with cold
fingers, and I have a vague memory of how
cool his hands felt digging the tegli out of my
shoulder. Soothing. I can see why his
chopshop is busy, despite his modifications.
“Excellent adhesion,” he says. “You’re
good to go. Try not to get eaten by any more
tegli, Mister Snow.”
“Thanks, Doc. Any chance we could
borrow this for tonight?” I finger the edge of
the thermoblanket.
“Take it with my compliments. I’ll find
you some pillows, too. My apologies for not
being able to offer you accommodation.
Between orclas attacks and a tainted load of
Hex that’s just hit the island, we are
unusually busy tonight.”
I look over my shoulder at him, searching
for the catch. I’m not used to such generosity
from strangers.
He looks back at me with those strange,
flat eyes. “I don’t like kicking my patients out
half-healed, Mister Snow. Both you and Miz
Kerryon need rest.”
I shift until I can hold my hand out to him.
“I’ll take care of that, Doc. Don’t worry.”
He shakes my hand. His lips are thin and
lightly scaled, but they stretch into a smile.
“Good luck to you, Mister Snow.” He nods
at Kez. “Miz Kerryon.”
Kez follows the fish-doc off to get
pillows and a carrier while I inspect my
boots. They’re a write-off. The lining is
soaked through. The uppers are beginning to
dry and crack. Guess I’m going barefoot. Kez
is, too. Her footwear was built in to the
shadowsuit. If we’re lucky, we’ll find
somewhere on the beach so we’re walking
on sand instead of permacrete.
I pull my kukris out of their sheaths. The
blades are fine, although they still need
cleaning, which I take care of. Once they’re
clean, I cut the sheaths out of my boots, then
a strip off the skirt to hang the sheaths on. I
tie the make-shift belt to my waist, inside the
skirt, and tuck my knives away. Having their
familiar weight at my waist makes me feel
more like myself. Even in a fucking skirt.
I run my hand over my head. Feel the
stubble there. Been a long time since I stood
next to Kez at her house’s triple sink and
shaved. It’s tempting to try to get back to
Nock tonight. But that’s a long way to go
with no credits. Longer when Kez and I are
both so battered. Once we’re back on the
mainland, I’ll be able to call in some favors.
Get us back to Nock with minimum effort.
But out here on the Cloudlands, we’re cut
off. Nothing to do but wait it out. Find a
place to sleep tonight and hop that hover in
the morning.
But I can make us comfortable. Least I
can do for my kitten.
I draw one of the kukris, lather my face
and head with foam from the autodog’s tiny
slot sink, and shave. Step one in making
tonight comfortable for my kitten: not
abrading that soft skin.
Step two is finding us something to eat,
and step three is finding somewhere warm
and dry to sleep. When Kez returns with a
powder-purple, fringed carrier, I help her
fold the thermoblanket into it. Doc Gray
provides two pillows that also go into the
carrier. I thank the fish-doc, tuck Kez’s arm
through mine and get on with step two.
The chopdoc is just a few steps down an
alley from the Night Market. I’ve heard about
Tiv’s all-night market, but I’ve never stayed
overnight in the Cloudlands, so this is my
first time seeing its glorious chaos. Despite
the fact that the Cloudlands have an
ostensible curfew of twenty-one hundred and
it’s already half-past by the chrono in my
eye, the Market is heaving. Men, women, and
some that are not recognizably either pack
the narrow alleys of the city’s waterfront and
spill down onto the long crescent beach.
Small floaters scoot overhead. ‘Bots wind
through the crowd, collecting and delivering.
Kez elbows me in the ribs when I chuckle
too loudly at a woman who strolls past us.
She’s leading a pagia, one of the bipedal,
carnivorous, feathered reptiles native to the
Cloudlands, on a polymem chain. The
woman’s hair is done up in twists that bob
like the lizard’s crest, and she wears a black
and white dress that flutters around her like
feathers. Her legs are bright yellow and
scaled, and I can’t tell if it’s fabric or she’s
had her skin regenned to look like her pet’s.
“Cute couple,” I tell Kez. She gives me a
wry grin.
The beach is defined by the port to the
north and high cliffs to the south. On the
cliffs, the houses of Tiv’s affluent perch,
their bright lights twinkling. There are no
bright lights on the Night Market. Signs,
banners and graffiti fluoresce under UV
panels mounted on the sides of buildings.
The alleys are narrowed by the stalls and
arcades that line them, advertising everything
from fresh flash to an hour on the universal
virtual-sex loop. Down on the beach, bodies
and wares are lit by the mellow flicker of
bonfires. There’s skin everywhere. Men are
mostly bare-chested, and some of the women
are, too. Kez was right about fitting in; no
one gives us a second glance. My kind of
place.
The smell of frying bread, strong even
among the varied smells of the night market,
catches my attention. Makes me aware of the
emptiness of my belly. “You hungry?” I ask
Kez.
She shrugs. “I think we should save our
credits.”
“Let me worry about that.” I’ve already
decided to sell one of the kukris to get us
dinner, and seats on the hover tomorrow.
“Tell me what you want to eat.”
We circle through the market to see
what’s on offer. As we walk, Kez pauses
here and there to read the graffiti that burns
like white phosphorus in the black light.
Where she recognizes clan signs, she names
them for me. The Mirrormen’s bold,
interlocked pitchforks. The stylized shaka of
the Redsand Bra. At a set of stairs that lead
down into thumping music and a good frying
fish smell, Kez examines a set of glowing
white chevrons, shakes her head and turns
back the way we’ve come.
“What’s wrong, kitten?” I ask.
“Deep Whites,” she says. “They’re like
the Kuus Pack. They might . . . I don’t know.
We shouldn’t take the chance.”
Remembering the unfriendly rat-men, I
nod and follow her retreat.
Once we’ve made a circuit of the Market
and I’ve mapped it out in my head, I take the
lead. First stop is a metal stall presided over
by a man wider than he is tall, who wears
nothing more than a stained genSkin apron
over the ubiquitous wrap-skirt. I can smell
his body odor three stalls away. But every
knife on display is gleamingly, lovingly
polished. I offer him one of the kukris
without a word and watch his eyes, set deep
in brown rolls of fat, light up.
He strokes his fingertips over the flat of
the blade. Smiles a gap-toothed smile. “This
is part of a pair,” he says. He presses the
knifemaker’s mark I’ve laz-etched into the
ricasso with the tip of his fat finger. “Says so
here.”
I shake my head. “I need the other one
tonight.”
“Wait, wait.” He rummages around
behind his display for a moment. “Here. Fifty
hard and this for the pair. I can tell you’re a
connoisseur.”
He offers me a survival knife. I let Kez
go for a moment to examine the blade. Good,
strong thermium. Faint oily sheen that says
it’s been coated to avoid the radiation pitting
thermium is prone to. Black microgrip
handle. Good for everything I’d need a knife
for tonight. I test it on my palm. Well-
balanced, but not a throwing knife. Neither is
the kukri, of course, but if I’m going to trade
the pair, I might as well get a little extra out
of it.
“Toss in a real one of those.” I nod at a
pair of throwing knives, hung on the wall of
his stall, which hiss softly and burn with a
pale white flame. Burning-lithium blades are
sexy as hell, as long as all you’re doing is
looking at them.
The knifeseller looks pained. I let him
sweat. I can tell he really wants the kukris,
and fifty hard plus two knives is still a good
deal for him. Finally, he sighs and digs
around behind the counter again. He
produces a classic McEvoy throwing knife,
with a handle that feels like real wood. It
looks antique, and not in a good way. I test it.
Good balance, even if the knife has seen
better days. I nod. Take the second kukri
; from its sheath and lay it on the counter. The
knifeseller sets a stack of five octagons
beside it.
I glance at Kez. She’s got the bag; she can
keep track of the money. I find her looking up
at me with tears in her eyes.
I cup her cheek in my palm. “What’s
wrong, kitten?” Is she regretting selling her
hair when she could’ve sold my blades?
“Your knives,” she whispers. Definitely
not about her hair.
I smile at her. “I can make more.”
The knifeseller leans over his counter.
“You can?”
“Sure.” I learned how to make basic
blades from scrap metal in S.A.W.L. Like
swimming, it’s a skill that saved my life
more than once. Years in the metal shops of
K-G and the Island enhanced my skill and
technique. Usually I make utilitarian blades
like the throwing knives; the kukris were a
labor of love.
“I’ll pay you top credit. As many as you
can make.”
I lift an eyebrow at Kez. “Whaddo you
think?”
“I think we’ll take an advance on the first
delivery.”
I chuckle. My practical kitten.
After some haggling, the knifeseller and I
agree a price. I build in ten percent for
Banks, since I don’t intend to trek out to the
Cloudlands for every delivery. And I kind of
like the kid. The knifeseller balks at paying
an advance, but invites us to his place for the
night when Kez explains why she wants it.
When I gently turn him down – there’s no
way I can stomach his stink in an enclosed
space – he tells us about the Eff Tubes.
“Far side of the port. They’re old outlet
pipes for the Tyng Blue Water plant. I’ve
heard people say they’re a good place for the
night. Safe. There won’t be any Mirrormen
there tonight.”
I shake the knifeseller’s hand, trade
names and K-Net codes with him, and
promise to have Banks get in touch with him
to set up a delivery schedule.
As we stroll away from his stall towards
the second stop, I put my arm around Kez and
give her a squeeze.
“I was wrong about somethin’,” I tell her.
She snorts loudly enough to be heard
over the crowd. “Jeez, it’s the end of the
world . . .”
I poke her in the ribs. “Sarcasm’ll just
earn you a harder spankin’ later.”
She giggles and lays her head against my
shoulder. “What were you wrong about?”
“Cloudlanders. They ain’t unfriendly.”
Kez considers this for a moment. “I guess