grips are mother of pearl rather than neoprene. Chrome glints where a slate-grey slide should be, and a small ruby replaces the original red dot sight.
‘U/Free orders,’ it says.
‘What - pimp my gun ?’
‘Not that,’ it says bitterly. ‘Take a proper look.’
The cinder-maker capacity is gone. Some idiot’s taken the world’s first fully intelligent pulse pistol, with advanced AI and battle-precognition capabilities and reconfigured it as something a fifteen-year-old gangbanger would be ashamed to carry.
In the bottom of the box is a holster.
Black leather, silver buckle. A full-dress dagger sits under that, its pommel a skull. Slamming the SIG into its new holster, I ignore the fact it’s now sulking, and say, ‘Let’s get this over with.’
We change on the spot. I have a reason for this.
I want to see Franc naked, just not that way. She’s fit, thigh muscles sliding over each other as she moves. From her cropped skull to the gash of her sex, she still lacks body hair, but I am right about one thing. Her scars are gone.
Seeing me look, Franc turns her back.
‘You plan to redo them?’
When she doesn’t answer, I twist her round so fast she almost trips. The others go still. They’re wise.
‘Well?’ I say.
Scared eyes meet mine.
Franc can remember me killing her. She can remember dying at the bottom of a bleak cliff on some shitty little planet, half gutted by a creature whose ancestors used to be human.
Then she wakes here. In a place she doesn’t recognize.
‘Say it.’
‘Sir,’ she says. ‘Sorry, sir.’
‘ For what? ‘
She flicks her gaze around the room, before settling it on me. Her eyes are dark, her face gaunt. I can tell how badly she wants to look away. ‘I didn’t mean to let everyone down.’
‘ You didn’t— ‘
Then I get it. She is ashamed of being killed.
‘See that,’ I say, pointing to a scar on my ribs. ‘Should have finished me. And that,’ I point to my gut. ‘Hurt so much I wished it fucking had. And this . . .’ I tap my prosthetic arm, making it ring. ‘Got ripped off by a ferox.’
She knows that.
‘You don’t survive shit like that. Not normally. Only I mend fast. You don’t. So get yourself dressed and go party.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Naked, but happier, she salutes.
Chapter 9
WE STOP THE SKY BRIDGE AND GIVE IT AN ADDRESS. THERE IS a slight ripple before the bridge begins to move. Five buildings later, the bridge drops to level ten and creates a door in an outside wall ahead of us. We’re impressed. We’re meant to be impressed.
‘Welcome to tonight’s soirée,’ says the bridge.
Haze snorts, but then he is the only one to know what it means.
On the far side of the door we find a bedroom, leading to living quarters, with an exit onto the walkway beyond. The rails around the walkway are missing, and a dance floor floats in the triangular space where emptiness should be.
This is a small and private gathering it seems.
A dozen U/Free turn to watch us, and then a dozen more. By the time I realize the floor’s floating, and we’re expected to step across the gap from walkway to floor, a hundred people are watching.
And you’ve never seen anything like them.
Well, I haven’t.
They’re tall, they’re elegant, and they’re beautiful. A hundred white smiles, a hundred displays of perfect teeth. They’re all holding glasses, and sipping chilled white wine.
‘ Fuckers ,’ says my gun. It speaks for us all.
‘Sven,’ says a voice from the crowd. ‘How sweet of you to come.’ Paper Osamu’s words ooze warmth. ‘And your friends as well.’ She smiles broadly.
Like we had a choice.
‘I’m sure you need a drink,’ she says.
A waitress appears, wearing a skirt slit to her thigh, with a top tight enough to squeeze her breasts while open enough to reveal their valley. She bows when I take a glass, and the valley gets a whole lot deeper.
Laughing, Paper Osamu says, ‘Come on. There are far more interesting people to
‘U/Free orders,’ it says.
‘What - pimp my gun ?’
‘Not that,’ it says bitterly. ‘Take a proper look.’
The cinder-maker capacity is gone. Some idiot’s taken the world’s first fully intelligent pulse pistol, with advanced AI and battle-precognition capabilities and reconfigured it as something a fifteen-year-old gangbanger would be ashamed to carry.
In the bottom of the box is a holster.
Black leather, silver buckle. A full-dress dagger sits under that, its pommel a skull. Slamming the SIG into its new holster, I ignore the fact it’s now sulking, and say, ‘Let’s get this over with.’
We change on the spot. I have a reason for this.
I want to see Franc naked, just not that way. She’s fit, thigh muscles sliding over each other as she moves. From her cropped skull to the gash of her sex, she still lacks body hair, but I am right about one thing. Her scars are gone.
Seeing me look, Franc turns her back.
‘You plan to redo them?’
When she doesn’t answer, I twist her round so fast she almost trips. The others go still. They’re wise.
‘Well?’ I say.
Scared eyes meet mine.
Franc can remember me killing her. She can remember dying at the bottom of a bleak cliff on some shitty little planet, half gutted by a creature whose ancestors used to be human.
Then she wakes here. In a place she doesn’t recognize.
‘Say it.’
‘Sir,’ she says. ‘Sorry, sir.’
‘ For what? ‘
She flicks her gaze around the room, before settling it on me. Her eyes are dark, her face gaunt. I can tell how badly she wants to look away. ‘I didn’t mean to let everyone down.’
‘ You didn’t— ‘
Then I get it. She is ashamed of being killed.
‘See that,’ I say, pointing to a scar on my ribs. ‘Should have finished me. And that,’ I point to my gut. ‘Hurt so much I wished it fucking had. And this . . .’ I tap my prosthetic arm, making it ring. ‘Got ripped off by a ferox.’
She knows that.
‘You don’t survive shit like that. Not normally. Only I mend fast. You don’t. So get yourself dressed and go party.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Naked, but happier, she salutes.
Chapter 9
WE STOP THE SKY BRIDGE AND GIVE IT AN ADDRESS. THERE IS a slight ripple before the bridge begins to move. Five buildings later, the bridge drops to level ten and creates a door in an outside wall ahead of us. We’re impressed. We’re meant to be impressed.
‘Welcome to tonight’s soirée,’ says the bridge.
Haze snorts, but then he is the only one to know what it means.
On the far side of the door we find a bedroom, leading to living quarters, with an exit onto the walkway beyond. The rails around the walkway are missing, and a dance floor floats in the triangular space where emptiness should be.
This is a small and private gathering it seems.
A dozen U/Free turn to watch us, and then a dozen more. By the time I realize the floor’s floating, and we’re expected to step across the gap from walkway to floor, a hundred people are watching.
And you’ve never seen anything like them.
Well, I haven’t.
They’re tall, they’re elegant, and they’re beautiful. A hundred white smiles, a hundred displays of perfect teeth. They’re all holding glasses, and sipping chilled white wine.
‘ Fuckers ,’ says my gun. It speaks for us all.
‘Sven,’ says a voice from the crowd. ‘How sweet of you to come.’ Paper Osamu’s words ooze warmth. ‘And your friends as well.’ She smiles broadly.
Like we had a choice.
‘I’m sure you need a drink,’ she says.
A waitress appears, wearing a skirt slit to her thigh, with a top tight enough to squeeze her breasts while open enough to reveal their valley. She bows when I take a glass, and the valley gets a whole lot deeper.
Laughing, Paper Osamu says, ‘Come on. There are far more interesting people to
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