Stars Uncharted

by S. K. Dunstall

  And she had to be sure she didn’t fall asleep in the meantime and fall off the ledge. She could tell from the lethargy of her body and the way her eyes wanted to close that Tamati had been awake the whole twenty-four hours.

  She pushed herself in tighter behind the drainpipe. If she accidentally fell asleep, she didn’t want to fall.

  She pushed too far. The drainpipe gave way. She grabbed at it, for there was nothing else to hang on to. The bracket that held the pipe and roof guttering in place broke free. It tumbled to the ground, bouncing as it hit. Nika pushed back, digging her heels into the ledge. There was nothing to grip, nothing to stop her from sliding. The pipe, no longer connected to anything solid above her, moved—slowly—away from where it had been anchored.

  For a moment, her weight provided a counterbalance, but there was nothing to hold her there.

  She started to slide. She would go over the edge, no matter what. She grabbed at the pipe. She could slide down it, as long as she didn’t lose her hold. If she let go, she’d hit the ground the same way the bracket had. Except she wouldn’t bounce.

  She wrapped one leg around the pipe. The pipe moved away from the ledge. She clung as she lost contact with the only solid piece of the building she could feel, and prayed desperately to any gods listening.

  The pipe seesawed. She hit the wall behind her and wrapped her other leg around the pipe. It swayed the other way.

  Her hands burned as she clung, slid, clung, and slid again.

  The pipe itself was smooth, but whatever had been holding it against the wall was sharp and cutting. Her expensive white nen-silk trousers were no protection at all; they shredded instantly, leaving the inside of her legs open to scrape the surface. Her hands fared no better.

  The pipe crashed against the wall on the other side of the street.

  It stopped her downward momentum.

  She dropped the last body length to the ground, feet first. The guttering and pipe fell to the ground behind her.

  Amarri came out at the crash.

  “Nika. What in all hells?”

  She stood up, wincing. Nothing was broken, but her hands and the inside of her legs were a mess. Her heart thudded with the adrenaline spike.

  “You look like shit. In your brand-new body and all.”

  “I feel it, too. Don’t touch me,” she said as Amarri came over to help her up. She couldn’t think for the pain. “Have you got any nerveseal?”

  They were a food shop. They’d have it in their first-aid kit for burns.

  “Sure, but you’re going to need more than we’ve got. Can’t you—” He looked back at her own shop.

  “Just for my hands.”

  Amarri came back with the nerveseal. Snorri, the head cook and owner, came with him, plus another staff member Nika didn’t know. Snorri’s staff was forever changing.

  “You need us to carry you into your shop?” Snorri asked. He was a big man.

  Nika shook her head. “No. I need—” The numbing spray on her hands made the pain of her legs three times as bad. “I can’t go . . . Do you have any more nerveseal?”

  “It’s not cheap, Nika.”

  “Sorry. I—”

  She needed a regen. She needed it now. “Can you call me an aircar?”

  Snorri spat and looked over at Nika’s shop. “He’s back. You should go to the police.”

  A lot of good that was going to do. The first police officer Nika had called about Alejandro had taken a ten-thousand-credit bribe and “lost” her complaint. The second one had been beaten to a pulp. It had taken Nika six weeks to reconstruct his body. Detective Sanray still hated her for it.

  “I’ve sorted him,” Nika said, though they meant Alejandro and she meant Tamati. “I’m leaving now. You should pretend you never saw me. And keep away from my shop, Snorri. He’s bound to be a little bit mad.”

  She’d be long gone, but the neighbors would have to put up with whatever Tamati did.

  “Good for you.” Snorri finally called her aircar.

  * * *

  • • •

  She went to the docks, because she knew the respectable places would call her injury in. On the way, she stopped at a vending machine and picked up a pair of cheap coveralls—at least Tamati hadn’t destroyed her credit—and pulled them on to hide the damage to her legs. A rust-brown pair, slightly large, but they hid most of the residual bleeding.

  She chose a genemod studio, rather than a medical one. Someone would tell Tamati she’d been injured. The time he wasted looking through the hospitals could only be to her benefit.

  Because he would come looking for her.

  * * *

  • • •

  Nika walked out of the first four studios she tried. She wanted to come out of the process alive.

  Was she setting her standards too high? A woman on the run couldn’t afford to be choosy. And the nerveseal was starting to wear off.

  In the fifth—and last—shop the proprietor met her with a blaster to her face. “We don’t want people like you here.”

  He was about her age, tall and lanky, with red-gold hair almost the color she’d dialed up for Tamati. Nika hoped it wasn’t a bad omen. The weapon trembled in his hand.

  “I thought any business was good business.” She kept a wary eye on the blaster. Nervous people were trigger-happy people.

  “But you’re not here for business, are you.”

  “As a matter of fact, I am.”

  She limped over to look at his machine and hoped he wouldn’t shoot her in the back. A basic model Netanyu 3501, thirty-five years old at least, maybe up to fifty. An antique in cosmetic modeling terms. Still, it had been a good model, and it had a lot of regenerative functions built in. Not like now, where you had to buy them as add-ons.

  The shelves alongside were tidy and dusted. Each jar of plasma was clean and neatly labeled, although some of the labels had faded with time. She frowned at two side-by-side. Who put naolic acid and mutrient next to each other? That was asking for trouble.

  “When was the last time you had this serviced?”

  “I know who you are.” His voice shook as badly as his hands did. “No deal. Get out.”

  Something had him spooked, and it wasn’t her. He hadn’t noticed her hands. Or maybe he had, and that was what this was all about. “I’m not whoever you’re expecting.”

  His voice went up an octave. “What makes you think I’m expecting someone?”

  “Maybe because you held a gun to my head the moment I walked in the door.” The shrillness made him sound young. How old was he really? Nika looked around for the certification papers that all modders had to display prominently in the shop. Certifications were dated, and cosmetic and gene remodeling was a career you entered when you were young and thought you could make a difference.

  The certificate was shiny and new. He’d graduated six weeks ago.

  Nika looked at him again and revised her estimate of his age down by at least fifteen years. “You made yourself look older.”

  He’d done a passable job of it, too. It was his actions that made him young, not his looks.

  She moved closer to check out the work. “Did you do it yourself?”

  He waved the blaster at her. “I’ll fire this.”

  She held up a raw hand for him to see. “Customer.”

  She could almost see the neurons firing as he looked at them.

  “Sorry.” He flushed and put the weapon behind the counter, out of sight, hunching in on himself as he did so.

  She looked at the certificate again to find his name. “Snowshoe? Snowshoe Bertram.”

  He sighed. “It’s Bertram Snowshoe. They got it the wrong way around at the academy and couldn’t fix it.”

  Information was shared electronically. Names should be impossible to muck up, but Nika knew as w
ell as anyone how badly a machine could screw up when something went wrong. And how hard it was to fix once it was wrong.

  “Most people call me Snow.”

  “Well, Snow. I want some work done.”

  “You need a medical center, not a modder.” He reached out to take her hands and didn’t flinch away, which was promising for his career. He would see a lot worse—if he survived his penchant for greeting prospective customers with a weapon.

  She moved away. “I know what I need, and I want to program the machine.”

  He looked down momentarily, then up. His lashes were long and the same copper as his hair. Most modders darkened the lashes. His hair was probably natural. “I program my machine.”

  She approved. “I want to watch you set it up, then.”

  He hesitated.

  “For goodness’ sakes, Snow. It’s not spaceship science.”

  “I know that. It’s not—”

  She waited.

  Finally, he blurted, “It’s just buckets of plasma. It’s not very pretty, that’s all.”

  They taught you at the academy to retain the mystique, but this sounded like experience. He’d probably shown some of his friends, who’d been disappointed that behind the glamour it was nothing but buckets of plasma.

  “It’s art, Snow. It’s the end result that matters. Even a canyon carver uses a drill and explosive.” She didn’t have time to sit here debating philosophy with a kid. She wanted to get fixed. She wanted off planet. The more time she wasted, the less time she would have to hide. “Can we do the job now, please? I’ll pay up front.”

  The shop bell chimed.

  “And I’m first.” She’d drop him in a vat of his own plasma if he tried to service this next customer before he serviced her.

  She recognized the man who entered. Nervous bile rose into her throat.

  Banjo. The thug Alejandro had hired to beat up Detective Sanray. The reason she couldn’t go to the police anymore.

  No wonder Snow had been on edge.

  “Customers, Bertram. You haven’t paid your dues, remember.” Banjo had a deep voice. Strong and bass. Liquid chocolate. It didn’t go with his occupation.

  Nika moved closer to the naolic acid.

  “You know the arrangement. I keep the area safe for you. For a fee. Otherwise who knows what might happen to you?” He glanced at Nika. “Or your clients.”

  “You should go,” Snow told Nika, and cast an anguished glance at the counter underneath which he’d left his weapon.

  It wouldn’t have helped. Nika could have told him that.

  Banjo flexed his fingers, pulling at the knuckles until the joints cracked.

  “You shouldn’t do that.” Snow kept one eye on Banjo even as he flapped at Nika as if he could flap her out the door. “Later in life you’ll regret it.”

  Later in life he could go to a good modder who’d fix it for him.

  Nika unscrewed the lid on the naolic acid, trying not to be obvious about it. She was clumsy with her damaged hands. The pressure of turning the lid made her wince.

  “You really should go.” Snow looked at the jar Nika was trying to open and made a moue of distress. “Don’t touch—”

  “Yes, you should go,” Banjo agreed. “This next bit won’t be pretty.” He stepped aside to let her out the door.

  “I need some work done.” Nika held out her hands. The nerveseal had totally worn off now. All she could feel was the pain in her hands and her legs, and if she didn’t get some work done soon she might scream.

  “Please, just go,” Snow said.

  Banjo shrugged and turned back to Snow. “Well, I’m a busy man. Lots of people to beat up today. Let’s get this over with.”

  Snow ran for the counter, and his blaster.

  Banjo snatched it out of his hand before he could fire. “Carrying weapons around. Naughty. And dangerous.” He used it to hit Snow across the face. Once, twice, three times.

  “Excuse me.” Nika raised her voice above the sound of the blunt object hitting flesh. “Excuse me.” Louder still. She hefted the jar of acid and hoped her hands weren’t too numb to hold it.

  Banjo turned to look at her.

  She tossed the acid into his face.

  “What the?” He ran toward her. Then the acid started to work. He howled and scrubbed desperately at his face to wipe the acid off.

  “Quick.” Nika turned to Snow. “The mutrient. Open the jar.” She couldn’t feel her hands. “Now.”

  Blood from the short beating ran down his face, a cut on his cheek so deep it would need work. He stumbled forward, shaking his head. Droplets of blood flew out.

  She hated cleaning up blood.

  She grabbed clumsily at the jar of mutrient. “Hurry.”

  Banjo lurched toward the sound of her voice, his high-pitched keening adding an edge to the urgency.

  “We should escape while we can.”

  “Unscrew this blasted jar.” Once Banjo wiped the acid off, the mutrient would be useless.

  Some of her urgency must have got through. Snow twisted the lid. Mutrient slopped over and turned pink from the blood on his hands. “Can we go now?”

  As soon as the lid was off, Nika threw the mutrient into Banjo’s face.

  The mutrient in contact with the acid started to bubble.

  Banjo dropped to the floor, keening.

  “And that,” Nika told Snow, “is why you never store naolic acid and mutrient next to each other.” She looked at her hands. She wasn’t going to be able to do this next bit. “Put some gloves on. We need to stabilize it before it eats his face away.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Gloves on,” she said sharply. “If you don’t act fast the damage will be irreversible.” They were modders. They fixed skin problems, not created them. “Every second you waste eats away at his eyeballs. He’ll be blind in another minute.”

  Snow snapped his gloves on fast, although he was shaking hard enough to make it more of a chore than it should have been.

  “Right. Saline solution.” She hoped he had some made up.

  He pointed to a twenty-liter container. It had a tap, thank gods.

  “Add a handful of dendrian salts.”

  “I can’t afford dendrian salts.”

  She looked at what he had. Picked out Arrat crystals and aluminum salts and dumped them in. “Drag him across, so his face is under the tap. By the feet,” she added as he made for the shoulders. “Do everything you can to avoid touching that stuff.”

  He was young, and strong. As soon as Banjo was under the tap, Nika turned it on.

  Banjo finally stopped screaming.

  Snow wiped blood from his face. “What now?”

  “Basic stabilizing gel. You do have that, don’t you?” It, too, was expensive, but it was a staple in any good modder’s workshop.

  He flushed. “Yes.”

  “Good. Cover his face with it. As thickly as you can without the gel falling off. Don’t forget he needs to breathe.”

  “I do know my job.”

  Six weeks from graduation wouldn’t have given him much experience. How many customers had he had?

  Nika knelt beside Banjo as Snow slathered the gel on. “Listen to me, Banjo. It is Banjo, isn’t it?”

  She got something garbled in reply.

  “We’re stabilizing your face right now.” While she waited to be sure he was listening she watched Snow. “Right into the eye sockets. Lots of it there.”

  Banjo said something else, still garbled, but she figured she had his attention. “The gel will prevent any further damage. Then once the machine is free”—because she was damned if she was going to let a thug like Banjo get in the way of her escape—“we’ll set you up in it. It will take a few days to rebuild your face.” The eyes would take the longest.


  She sat back on her heels, exhausted now that the adrenaline rush had faded, sore all over. All she wanted to do was sleep. Or cry. And she still had to escape from Tamati. “I’m using the machine first,” she told Snow. “Set it up for repair.” One good thing about the old Netanyus was they did good basic medical repair.

  “His eyes. Shouldn’t we put him in first?”

  “He’s a thug. He was about to beat you up. Speaking of.” The blood had dried to a sticky red blotch on his face. “You should clean yourself up. Blood around a studio is bad for business.”

  Not to mention that she didn’t want him setting her up with bloody hands.

  She stood up to check Snow’s supplies. Banjo could sleep rather than wait in the dark. It would be safer. She didn’t tell Snow what she was looking for. This fresh out of academy, he was likely to bleat about the need for a customer signature before they gave anyone anesthetic.

  His stock was fresh but basic. She guessed he’d spent most of his money on the shop, with little left over for supplies. He did have some nerveseal—she used it on her hands—and a midrange anesthetic that most people would never have considered, but it was a good one for its price.

  She used that on Banjo.

  “Um, you really should get a waiver before you do that.” Snow rubbed his now-clean hands together to get rid of the last dampness.

  Nika hardly heard him. She looked at the range of chemicals and looked back at Snow. No newbie would gather this collection of chemicals together. Plus, he’d done a good job on his own aging.

  “Let me guess. Your family are modders.”

  He pursed his lips and looked over at the machine. “We should do your repairs before he comes around.” His gaze turned to Banjo and skittered away.

  She knew evasion when she heard it. She also knew it was long past time to be fixed.

  “I want to be conscious the whole way through,” she said, and watched as he set the machine.

  4

  JOSUNE ARRIOLA

  Carlos wanted to break the Hassim apart and sell each piece.