“What happened?” Doc Kamiyama may not have been the most reputable healer around, may not have even had a license anymore after that drug scandal, but he was still all business the moment he saw the severe injuries Ruki and Daniel had sustained.
“Tong Robo happened,” Emry told him. “Attacked us.”
His eyes widened. “Uhh, did, did they attack you or did you—”
She slammed him into the wall. “You really want to make that your problem right now? Fix them! They’re dying!”
“All right! All right.” He hurried over to where they lay on the tables. “But I need you all to wait outside.”
“No way—”
“Stay out of our way if you don’t want them to stay dead!” Whatever fear he’d shown of her was totally gone now. Stay dead? Emry didn’t question him again.
The wait was interminable. Everyone else had run off; the Freakshow had the waiting room to themselves. The zine readers weren’t even online—that would’ve made it easier for the law to track Doc’s clientele—and their onboard articles were all months out of date. Hack and Crack—Shengli and Peter Wen, who’d purchased black-market bionic mods to give themselves an edge on the streets that their slight, weak natural build couldn’t provide—entertained themselves by using their built-in cracking gear to make the receptionist strip and perform for them in various humiliating ways. Meanwhile, Om stared into the office computer’s interface port, linking to it wirelessly through her optic nerves, and did her communing thing. She was the lucky one; Padhma would experience no sense of time for as long as she was in that state. Her parents, crackpots in search of unity between human and cyber, had rewired Padhma Rao’s parietal lobe so it would shut down while her brain was fed raw computer data. This turned off her sense of herself as a being distinct from the universe, like what happened during religious ecstasy. The idea was to let her mind perceive the data as part of itself and turn her into an intuitive data-miner, divining unprecedented new insights into cybersystems. The Freakshow had taken her on in the hope that her ability could help them get around security systems and find new opportunities for profit and mischief. Sometimes Om did seem to turn out uncanny insights, but usually her results were Delphically arcane, untestable, or just plain wrong, so it could’ve been dumb luck. And her mods had a side effect of sending her into fits of transcendental ecstasy upon exposure to various RF or magnetic fields. Overall, they were more a handicap than a boon, to herself and to the gang. But the Freakshow took care of its own.
Or do we? Emry asked herself as images of Overload’s crushed and bloody body burned in her mind. Daniel Weiss wasn’t too different from Padhma. He was one of the guinea pigs they’d liberated from Wellspring, engineered in the womb as part of a failed experiment in sensory amplification. His hyperacute senses made him a great lookout and an uncanny lockpick, but left him prey to the condition he’d chosen as his nickname. Loud noises, fast movement, crowds, spicy food, the mere smell of alcohol, it could all overwhelm him. Touch was almost unbearable to him. Any disruption in a pattern, a speck of dirt, a slightly mistuned speaker, drove him crazy and he had to fix it or get away at all costs. Usually he relied on an inhibitor the Wellspringers had put in his brain to compensate for their mistake, but it left him detached and slightly numb. He enjoyed being able to turn it off, until something overwhelmed him and it had to go back on. Emry felt uncomfortable around him, afraid her raucous style would alarm or hurt him, but he liked having her near. He’d told her that the purity of her face was a comfort to him, at least when she was calm and relaxed. So his presence had encouraged her to strive for greater calm, with help from Om’s meditation exercises. Still, she found it a relief when she could be away from him and cut loose like her normal self—particularly since Daniel’s impediments made him unviable as a sex partner and she was uncomfortable relating to males in any other way. Now, though, she found herself realizing how much she’d miss Daniel’s gentle appreciation, his ability to see gentleness in her, somewhere, somehow. He has to live. He doesn’t deserve this.
Why had they risked coming to Tong Robo’s turf? Those guys were hard-core; they made self-mutilation a requirement for joining, replacing whole limbs and organs with blatantly mechanical parts like something from an old sci-fantasy. They made themselves living arsenals, and not just for show. Emry had wanted nothing to do with them. But they’d wanted to meet Hack and Crack, compare mods and tech specs, and the brothers had figured they could get some good upgrades from the deal. If the Tong demanded something in exchange, Emry figured she and the girls could pay with sex; and if things got hairy, the brothers could always crack the Robos’ systems or flash-blind them so the rest could incapacitate them and get away. She’d been confident they could handle any trouble.
She’d been wrong. Tong Robo’s invitation had been an ambush. They hadn’t wanted to meet the Freakshow; they’d wanted to kill the competition and preserve their own rep among the mod gangs. Such was the price of success. The Freaks had been outnumbered, outgunned, and totally flat-footed. Emry hadn’t seen it coming, and Ruki had been half blown up before she could react, with Daniel falling not long after. They’d barely managed to get away and reach here. For all Emry knew, Ruki and Daniel hadn’t gotten away at all. And it was all her fault.
Emry was distracted from her funk when Padhma made a faint gasping sound—the kind she made when she’d intuited something she thought was important and wanted to be shaken out of communion. Emry obliged and Padhma told her what she’d sensed. Under the older girl’s guidance, Emry had the brothers hack past Doc’s security to confirm Om’s insight. What she saw made her want to tear this building down, but she couldn’t so long as Ruki and Daniel needed it, and its occupants, intact.
Finally Doc Kamiyama came out. Emry was on him in a heartbeat. “Well?”
He sighed. “We’ve stabilized them both, but they’re on full life support. I can put them back together, but it’ll take extensive organ and limb replacements, especially for the girl.”
“Will you be able to make them look the same?” Javon asked. “And … feel the same?” Emry glared at him. She doubted his concern for Ruki’s outward aesthetics was for her benefit.
“If that’s what they want, but it’ll cost more. The parts alone will cost plenty.” The tenets of the post-scarcity economy didn’t apply as much to the underground of society.
Emry got in the doctor’s face. “As much as the parts you installed in Tong Robo? The parts that did this to my friends in the first place?!”
Kamiyama fidgeted. “Look, I just do what they pay me to do. What happens after they leave here, that’s not my problem.”
“You vack-sucking, hull-punking…”
Javon pulled her back. “Easy, Banshee. We still need him.”
She let out a strangled shriek. “Okay! You want to get paid, how about this: you save them and we won’t break all your fingers and burn this rathole to the ground!”
“That doesn’t get me the goods I need to trade for parts,” he said calmly. He had to be used to dealing with violent, threatening types, given that he’d worked for Tong Robo.
Emry snarled. “Okay! Okay, we’ll get you the money. We’ll steal whatever it takes. To fix them—and me.”
Everyone stared at her. “You?” Kamiyama looked her over with a leer. “Aside from a few abrasions and contusions, I don’t see a thing wrong with you.”
She shoved him into the wall again. “Call it repayment, Doc. Way I see it, you owe us for helping our friends get hurt. So you’re gonna help me make sure it doesn’t happen again. You can replace limbs and organs—can you do more delicate work? Reinforce what I’ve got, make me stronger, tougher?”
He thought about it. “Sure. I can do endoscopic work, remote microsurgery, nanoinfusions. Add bracing to the bones, inject nanotube muscle fibers … if you like, I can put standard upgrades in your eyes and ears, or even souped-up versions if the cost is right. And there won’t be more than minimal scarring.” He
looked down. “I even do breast reductions, if those give you any trouble. Smaller breasts are often more sensitive, you know.…”
Emry gave him one last shove and stepped away. “Shut up! Just get to work on our friends. We’ll make sure you get your payment. But until you fix them and me, we’re your exclusive clients, got it? This clinic is Freakshow turf now.”
Kamiyama’s eyes widened. “If Tong Robo finds out, they’ll kill me!”
Javon stepped forward. “Are our friends stable enough to be moved? Could you do your work somewhere else, off Niihama?”
The doc sighed. “Sure, why not? Beats dying. And I’m sick of this dump anyway. Look, I’ll go get started on what your friends need.” He backed away hurriedly.
Javon turned to Emry. “You sure about this, Banshee? Getting upgrades from this old junkie? You’re already rageous strong, you really need more?”
“Can you ask that after what happened today?! I couldn’t protect Ruki and Daniel!”
“Neither could we! You think I’m not as torn up as you are? But there was nothing more we could’ve done.”
“How do we know that? If I had better eyes or ears, I could’ve sensed them coming. If I could run faster I could’ve gotten to them in time. If I were—”
“Hey, hey.” Javon took her in his arms. “Emry, it wasn’t your fault. It was just one of those things.”
“No,” she said. “There has to be more. There has to be a way to keep this from happening again. If there’s anything I can do to keep my family safe, I have to. Anything.”
Javon gazed into her eyes, stroked her cheek. “Family?”
She looked away. “You know what I mean. The gang. It’s all I’ve got. All I’ve ever had. Or ever will have.” She rested her cheek on his chest, still avoiding his eyes. “I have to protect that. I have to be the toughest mod there is, so nobody ever dares to hurt us again.”
7
She Never Metahuman She Didn’t Like
September 2107
Vanguard habitat
Vanguard was currently clear across the Belt from Ceres, six AUs away, so Emry took the Sundiver route. After a sunward push from the Ceres drive beam, Zephyr let Sol’s gravity accelerate him over the next few days, then scraped by inside Mercury’s orbit, radiators extended to full, and used just enough plasma drive to compensate for the gravity that now tried to slow him. He flipped over and decelerated hard on the penultimate leg, slowing him enough for a regional Bolasat to divert him toward their destination.
Vanguard orbited in the outermost Kirkwood gap, off the beaten track even by Outers standards. It was easy to see, though, since at three-point-seven AUs it needed a large solar mirror to focus sufficient sunlight. That bright, solitary beacon had attracted curiosity from afar for decades. The original Vanguard had been a small Bernal sphere, but on relocating they’d constructed a second, larger sphere, counterrotating on the same axis. Telescopic scans suggested that Vanguard’s population had grown to nearly fifteen thousand, substantial for a habitat that had had little immigration for three decades. They must have been breeding like crazy over the past generation or so—but with what goal?
Despite its age and isolation, Vanguard’s docking and reception facilities were state-of-the-art. Emry and several other delegates were met by a pair of young Vanguardians, both quite fit and pleasant-looking, their faces reflecting complex mixtures of ethnic types, their wardrobe designed to show off their superb physiques. Emry took full advantage of that in the dark-haired man’s case until he introduced himself as Babur Kincaid. “Ms. Blair … Emerald? This is a privilege. I’ve always wanted to meet you.” He studied her. “I can see the resemblance.”
“I take after my mother,” she replied coolly.
“Oh, but still, there’s some of mine in you too.”
“You’re … Rachel Kincaid-Shannon is your mother?”
He nodded. “Which makes me your half uncle, I’m afraid.”
“So I guess it’s not a coincidence that you’re here.” She reminded herself not to be hostile. Her assignment dictated that she act interested in her Vanguardian family ties. She gave Babur a tentative smile.
“Well, there are plenty of us around. Mom’s still churning us out even today. You’ve got quite a few uncles, aunts, and cousins living here. Probably hundreds.”
“Great!” she forced herself to say. “I can’t wait to meet more of ’em.”
“I’ll see what I can arrange,” Babur said amiably. “Now shall we get on with the tour?”
She nodded, and he went on his way. Zephyr suggested.
Their subvocal exchanges were quantum-encrypted and unbreakable, but they could still be detected, and too much private radio traffic might seem suspicious.
The group descended from the microgee docking level in a cylindrical tram that took them down the curve of the large sphere, pivoting sideways in response to Cori force so its passengers could remain upright within it while perceiving the landscape as tilting to the left. That was normal to Emry, but the landscape was unusual for a Bernal sphere, terraced into more distinct gravity levels than most. Its equatorial gravity was a full 1.25 gees, unlike most habitats, which topped out at point-nine or less due to the health and cosmetic advantages of moderately low gravity and the desire to minimize rotation sickness. It looked to Emry as though the most densely populated rings were in the point-nine to one gee range, with a wilderness area in the equatorial ring. Most habitats put their faux mountains toward their poles or end caps, but here there were sheer crags thrusting from the equator. Apparently the Vanguardians enjoyed a challenge.
And it showed. Emry had never seen a healthier, more attractive and diverse group of people, even in TSC headquarters. There were few groundcars or slidewalks in evidence; most people were walking or cycling, if not playing or exercising in the extensive parkland around the central district. And they clearly enjoyed showing off their fitness. Bare chests were common among both sexes, and a number of parkgoers were nude. What clothing there was tended to be formfitting, cut in creatively skimpy ways, or both. I always figured my lack of modesty came from Mom’s influence, Emry thought, even as she unzipped her uniform top the rest of the way. Not only was it nice and warm here, but she figured she should look like she was making herself at home.
The main city district was full of buildings as gorgeous as their occupants, evoking the forward-thrusting power of Art Deco and the introspective naturalism of Neo-Organicism at the same time. Through their windows, Emry saw labs, classrooms, and studios filled with energetic people engaged in lively discussion and activity. Yet it all seemed very disciplined. This was a well-maintained, orderly environment; she saw no litter, graffiti, or decay, though admittedly this was a carefully controlled tour.
Emry was surprised that the center of power was in the new sphere instead of the original, and she said as much to Babur. “The old sphere’s our industrial district now,” he said. “It was cramped, basic, not a great place to live.”
“Yeah, but it’s where you began.”
Her half uncle smiled. “We’re far more interested in where we’re going.”
Soon they reached the government complex, before which was a row of larger-than-life bronze statues, heroically nude in the Grecian tradition, representing the champions of the first generation of Vanguardians, those who’d fought for justice on Earth a generation ago: Zhao Liwei, Liesl Warner, Krishna Ramchandra, Soaring Hawk Darrow, Lydie Clement, Michael Jerusalmi, Thuy Dinh … and of course Liam Shannon, her famously martyred grandfather. In the center, towering above them even though he stood on the same level, was Eliot Thorne. Emry smiled as she studied the detail and accuracy with which the sculptor had limned his powerful physique, though the statue barely did justice to his commanding African features. S
he flushed at the realization that she would probably meet the man himself. Despite her discomfort at being here, she felt a remembered thrill of childhood hero-worship toward Eliot Thorne, and some more adult responses as well.
Kincaid pointed out that many of these statues’ subjects now served as leading members of Vanguard’s legislature, judiciary, and scientific and artistic communities. “Along with many you don’t see,” he added. “Those whose contributions were less public but equally vital to making us who and what we are. Such as my own birth mother, Rachel Kincaid-Shannon, who is perhaps Vanguard’s top geneticist—aside from Eliot Thorne himself, of course.”
Emry looked up at that. she asked Zephyr.
Emry whistled softly. Eliot Thorne had not only been one of the first children born with mods to enhance survival in space, but had been one of the first volunteers when the Vanguardians had begun experimenting with more advanced mods, offering himself as a test subject as soon as he’d come of age. Strong, robust, and intelligent to begin with, he’d argued successfully that he was one of the best test subjects they were likely to find, and one of the best potential breeders for a future transhuman species. When the global turmoil had peaked in his early thirties, he had helped convince the project leaders to send their augmented children and volunteers out to fight the chaos. But Emry hadn’t known he’d actually participated in the science. Could he have worked on my dad’s genes? she wondered, not sharing the thought with Zephyr. Could I owe my existence to this man?
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