Conscience, Light And Lust
Greasegun slid a scrap of paper across the bar top to a man Kerr had never seen before.
He pulled a scarf tightly over his face and had a crude device interfering with his biosig, but it didn’t take long for Kerr’s Opti to crack it.
Dimitri Belov. Kerr had never heard of him and he departed as soon as Greasegun received their scrip.
“When are you going to the Glacier?” Kerr repeated the same stale joke, the kind that stopped being funny years ago, but repeated so often it would feel like something was missing if she didn’t.
“When are you going to take Chalice’s collar from around your neck?” Greasegun poured a drink and set it down in front of her. They leaned their elbows on the counter.
“We haven’t slept together in two years.” Kerr knocked the shot back. “And that was after a bad breakup.”
“Ah yes.” Greasegun poured another. “The goth one that went nuclear when you pulled iron on the guy shooting his shot. You’ve a jealousy problem, Seacake.”
Kerr placed Tybalt on the bar with a heavy thunk. “She hooked up with him after, yeah? Make of that what you will.”
“Is that why you’re here, dribbling depression all over my club?”
Kerr placed her right hand on the bar top. The ceramic composite clinked gently against the aluminium. “Ten-year anniversary.” She drummed her fingers.
“He was a good man.” Greasegun patted her prosthetic. The drumming stopped. Greasegun poured their own drink and raised it. “To Piston.”
Kerr raised her glass and downed it.
Greasegun placed the shot glass back down. “Now why are you really here?”
Kerr sighed, annoyed that Greasegun saw through her. “Chalice wants to trade with the Adlets again.”
“Smart.” Greasegun nodded slowly. “You know that none of that was really their fault, right?”
Greasegun trying to soften the blow felt like bugs under her skin. They’d taken her arm. Then Piston’s. “He’s her father, Grease.” She curled her ceramic fingers. “How can she do that?”
“That’s why she’s in charge, Seacake.” Greasegun straightened themselves and picked up a bar rag. “She doesn’t let her feelings get in the way. Or hold on to petty grudges for a decade.”
“You call this petty?” She held up her arm.
Greasegun gave a well-practiced stare. The one experienced barmen use when you know the answer to your own question. Everyone knew Kerr had shot first. That Cinder had fucked everything up. That the red-haired one would need a new arm. They’d all seen the Opti footage from various angles.
And yeah, taking Piston’s arm in revenge was a bit excessive, but this was Tyton.
It was standard gang shite. No-one would respect the Adlets if they had let it slide.
Kerr could sulk and stew, but Chalice, and everyone else for that matter, knew that you moved on unless you wanted an all-out war. One they probably wouldn’t win.
“We’ve all lost people, Seacake,” Greasegun said after a beat. “If she can let it go, so can you.” They scooped up her empty shot glass. “And if you can’t, you’re a liability.”
“Maybe Chalice should fucking let go of Lydia, then,” Kerr grunted, but she knew what they meant. Don’t be a wildcard. Don’t be like Cinder. A message popped up on her Opti.
Kerr scrunched up her face. Her room? Meetings took place in her office or in the basement.
Kerr sighed and hopped off the stool, adding her lack of stature to today’s list of grievances.
She paid her tab and made her way up the stairs to Chalice’s room, cursing the fact that she lived on the highest floor.
At least, the highest that had been completed before they’d abandoned construction.
Thermabulle working overtime to compensate, Kerr wiped the sweat from her forehead and knocked.
Chalice yanked open the door and swiftly walked away, expecting her to follow.
Ten years and a fresh coat of paint couldn’t disguise the familiarity of the flat, but it felt like a forgotten favourite shirt.
Too tight and the smell reminded you why you’d stopped wearing it.
“You can’t use the basement suite for this shite, yeah?” Kerr said, flexing her calves to relieve the strain.
Chalice had a way of arranging her face to make you feel like she loathed having to tolerate you. “They hacked the door, remember? And the doorstopper did nothing. Which is why they’re so dangerous. And why we need them.”
“They won’t give us their tech.” Kerr tried to copy her expression, but Chalice was the master. “Especially not after what Cinder pulled.”
“This has nothing to do with Cinder.” Blonde hair in a tight bun, Chalice folded her arms across her chest, like a perennially disappointed figure skating coach. “Sit.”
Kerr did as she was told. Chalice took the seat opposite, unrolling a paper blueprint.
“Where did you get that?” Kerr stared at the relic.
“Doesn’t matter,” Chalice said testily. “The point is, layouts of Model 2 aren’t available in any database, for obvious reasons, but someone still had to build it. That requires plans.” She tapped her finger on the blueprint. “And I have them.”
“Grand.” Kerr sunk back into the chair. “Why?”
“Think.” Chalice looked at her like she was stupid for not knowing what was in her head. “What we could do if we got control of Model 2. We could revive the construction bots. Seal off MB12. Keep the Styx out of our business. We could turn this place into another Glacier.”
“You can’t get in, though.” Kerr crossed her arms over her chest. “Model 2 shut the place down.”
“We already did.” But the faint twitch at the corner of her mouth said there was something else.
“And?”
“We punched a hole in the second floor. There’s something in there that nukes anything with a biosig. Large pieces of metal, too.”
Kerr didn’t ask how she’d come to that conclusion. She decided she didn’t want to know. “So, it’s impossible for us to get it, yeah?”
“For us, yes.” Chalice stared, waiting for her to come to the same conclusion she had. Kerr did not. Chalice rolled her eyes. “Not for the Adlets.”
“And you figured they’d help us with this, why?” As the words left her mouth, Kerr knew she was all but admitting the fuckup was their fault.
“I’ve already contacted Siku.” Chalice held up her hands. “No promises, but he said he’ll ask.”
“You asked them to break into Model 2?” Kerr’s forehead became a venetian blind.
Chalice blew out her cheeks. “These things take time, Kerr. I said we had a job only they could do and he declined. Which,” Chalice dropped her head to emphasise the point, “is fair. We don’t have that sort of relationship yet.
But he’s open to restarting one. Something minor to start. Water filters for override chips.”
Tasting iron, Kerr stopped biting the inside of her cheek.
She examined her right arm – ceramic composite from the elbow down.
If they’d gotten the override chips ten years ago, their DocPods would have been able to replace it properly.
Though she never would have lost it if they hadn’t messed with the Adlets.
Chalice could see her lost in thought. “Just the two of us, in a neutral Koffi bar. They’ll have more support outside the building.”
“And you agreed to that?” Kerr raised her voice, incredulous. “What are you thinking?”
Chalice tried her best to keep her tone calm and even. “One, it shows trust…”
Eyes turning to slits, Kerr interrupted. “But we don’t trust them.”
“Two,” Chalice ignored her objection. “We need this.” She lowered her voice. “No-one is making more DocPod parts and the Styx control the rest. They’re circling.”
Kerr’s face froze, while Chalice’s mask developed hairline cracks.
She hated that after all this time and all the shite Chalice had put her through that she still wanted to comfort her.
But Chalice was like a viper – she’d lash out as punishment for letting her know you thought she was weak.
Kerr held herself tightly instead. “And if they don’t agree? ”
“Then we’re fucked.” Apathy smoothed over Chalice’s momentary lapse.
Kerr returned to her flat – separate from the megabuilding, one of the last things Piston had done for her. Tiny, and the only protection was a group of Chargers that loitered outside on no fixed schedule, but it was hers.
She showered and set her hormone regulator to rouse her at 08:00 the next morning before pulling back the thin blanket. Muted neon colours drifting across her ceiling from the lights outside, sleep refused to come.
Kerr sighed and reached blindly for the knife on the shelf beside her bed. The one that had severed her distal tendon and Osborne ligament before she’d even felt it. She’d gone through the footage from her Opti over and over again without ever seeing it leave her fingers – only that dance.
The practiced grace, like a wicked ritual. The way her body flowed like she had been built and honed her entire life for that singular movement. Like watching a predator kill – terrifying, but impossible to look away. Impossible not to admire its perfect design before it devours your entrails.
Recovered from the scene later, the blade could belong to no-one else.
Kerr ran ceramic composite fingers across its dark edge.
A simple, high-carbon steel – made to keep a fine edge, but requiring regular maintenance.
Who chose something like that? Something that needed countless hours of training when any fool could aim in your general direction and shoot, letting the SmartCartridge do the rest?
What a waste of time.
Kerr held the knife flat against her sternum, breathing deeply, like she could inhale its energy. Squeezing, her fingers coiled tightly around its hilt. If she ever saw her again, she’d bury this knife in her heart.