Chapter 10
THERE ARE ONE HELL OF a lot of dying fish in the corridor.
Wet flopping sounds echo everywhere. I use a rev to dampen my olfactory senses; the air is thick with the exact smell you would expect from a hallway covered in the contents of a very large, violently drained marine habitat.
The water has already mostly emptied away into the damaged Loop system. Sand and small rocks coat the floor.
I pick my way carefully over it all, alert for any sign of Fish Boy.
My revs, as usual, do better than my eyes; I eventually find him hidden behind a mound of sad-looking wet sand, urgently cutting off the oxysuit.
The grey flesh gasps in strips around him, somehow even more disturbing than when he was wearing the thing.
Blood trickles from the severed biolink in his arm.
He realises I’m there, scrambles to his feet, and backs away even as he keeps cutting.
“Those things are gross.” I wrinkle my nose at the oxysuit. “Gotta say, you’ve got a stronger stomach than I do.”
“You’re more form over function, I take it.” His voice is gravelly and slightly breathless, despite his best efforts. Dark stubble on his chin, a mop of damp curly black hair. Athletic. Barely more than a kid. He keeps cutting, never taking his eyes from me.
“I didn’t say that,” I protest as I advance and he retreats. “I just prefer not to wear… you know… living tissue.”
“That’s called being picky.”
“Maybe. I do like to look good.” I sigh. Keep coming. “Look. Just tell me what you know, and I’ll make this quick.”
He actually has the temerity to laugh. He’s finished stripping the oxysuit, dribbles of red trailing from the white umbilical that was plugged into his arm like some sort of reverse leech. The simple titanium blade he was using is now held at the ready.
I don’t bother drawing mine. “I’m from the Keres. Just so you know.”
A flicker in his blue-green eyes. Recognition. And surprise? Fair enough I suppose; the Keres aren’t exactly the protection type. Regardless, he knows he’s dead, now. And he knows that I’m capable of making it quick and painless.
Or not, of course.
“So I’m just supposed to let you slit my throat?”
“Of course not. You’re a professional. I wouldn’t ask that of you.
” I do my best not to be offended. “I’m just saying that before we start, if you could please tell me who sent you and how they know so much about this place—or anything else useful—then I’ll make sure I don’t make a mess.
And if you do win, what’s the difference? ”
“I don’t know anything.”
I squint at him for a few seconds, waiting for him to change his mind. When common sense doesn’t prevail, I sigh. “Alright.”
Activate the somatics in my legs. Spring forward.
He’s expecting it and still barely moves in time.
My cognitive revs slow down the whole scene, let me observe the way his body tenses, calculate both his dodge and his parry.
I adjust very slightly to my right. Reach out as I pass and grab the hand holding the blade.
Somatic revs increase my grip. Crush the bones of his fingers. Snap his wrist. I scoop the knife from him before it falls.
Then I let my cogs go again—using all of them at once is a strain—and skid smoothly to what I would consider a fairly stylish stop behind Fish Boy, his weapon now mine. He snarls in confused pain, spinning wildly, cradling his drooping hand.
“Now. Have another think. Do you know oh for the love of…” I shake my shoe irritably, ridding it of the fleshy strip of oxysuit. “That is disgusting.”
“You broke… my hand.” Fish Boy groans the words through gasps. He’s backing away. “What… the hell…are you?”
“Never mind that.” I tap my ear meaningfully. “Listen, comrade. Listen to what I’m saying. Employer? Source of information? You need to give me something.” I give his knife a showy twirl, just in case it’s not clear what I mean.
“I don’t know anything.”
Somatic revs active again. I’m in close, slashing with easy precision. The blade is a good one, I’m pleased to find, as it scoops out his left eye. Really well weighted.
I stand back and patiently wait for the screaming to end.
“The… the tokens were… anonymised,” Fish Boy chokes. He’s on the ground, hands over his face. Blood pours pretty freely through his broken fingers. “House layout was sent via Q-net. I was told to use the pipe, that the locks would be taken care of. And the oxysuit was delivered via drone.”
I scratch my chin with the bloodied knife absently. My cogs are indicating it’s the truth.
Damn.
“You’re just a canary.”
“A what?”
“Exactly.” With an exasperated underhand flick—rev-enhanced, to be fair—I skewer him through the other eye. The blade’s easily long enough to penetrate his brain. He falls and lies still.
“Well that could have been more useful,” I mutter, stomping over to retrieve the titanium from Fish Boy’s head.
After that, I stand and survey. Water still dribbles down through the mounds of sand and broken coral. The gills in some of the cut-off chunks of oxysuit continue to open and close creepily nearby. Fish of all sizes either gasp their last or lie still. There’s broken glass everywhere.
I should probably go and tell Old Woman I’ve made a bit of a mess, I suppose.