6 – Running in the Dark

  Lemon got quiet for a while after that, watching him eat as she puffed on her chem-stick. When he finished, and he set the food container and empty drink carton on the carpet beside him, she leaned forward, blowing a bit of smoke off to the side. “I’d say you’re being dramatic or that you’re full of shit, but there’s something about you—an edge, I guess. You’re not going to hurt me, are you? You’re not, like, a joy-killer or something, right?”

  Joy-killer? That what they call serial killers down here? Hector cleared his throat and shook his head. “I’m not.” He sort of wished he were some kind of sociopath. The fact was, his feelings were so big and so raw that he had to choose just one or two to focus on, and the easiest was his smoldering anger—his need for revenge.

  In a single fluid motion, he rose to his feet, his young, limber joints only protesting slightly, despite what his aura system had done to his body while he slept. He stooped to pick up his trash, then nodded toward the bathroom. “I’ll need a minute.”

  “Take your time. I’m going to sleep for a few hours.”

  Hector frowned. He didn’t like being bound to a pleasure doll’s schedule. “I’ll go for a walk.”

  “What? It’s still dark!”

  Hector glanced at the window display, noting the faux starscape and the little blinking clock in the corner: 0553. “I won’t go far.” He wanted to see the neighborhood—get the lay of the land. As Lemon scowled at him, he walked around the couch and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

  When he finished, he washed his hands and face in the sink, then peered at himself, grimacing to see his teeth. They were white and mostly straight. One bottom tooth was a little crowded, but he didn’t mind it. Looking at those teeth, gleaming and faintly pearlescent, told him he was in the body of a young man who’d taken care of himself. What desperate situation had forced him to make such a sacrifice?

  Maybe he just died.

  It might have been an overdose or a cancer—something a medi-corp could fix, but not for free. Clinics and hospitals made a killing off scams like that. They’d refuse service without payment, collect the body after the poor bastard died, fix whatever killed them, and sell the corpus vivum on the market.

  “Corpus vivum,” he repeated aloud. He hadn’t used the term at all in this latest “new” life, had he? Was he distancing himself from the royals? He thumped his knuckles against his skull. The answers were in there. He knew something. Ever attentive to his thoughts, his neurodeck updated him on the progress:

  //Neural pattern remapping 78.2% complete.//

  Lemon tapped on the door. “Are you almost done?”

  He slid it open. “Spare toothbrush?”

  “Huh? To clean your teeth? Just chew a tab.”

  “Tab?”

  “Oral tabs,” she replied, waving toward the mirror. “In the medicine cabinet. Behind my broken mirror.”

  “Yeah.” He paused, thinking maybe he ought to say more, but closed his mouth. In the cabinet, he found a small tin, like the kind you could buy nic-chews in, labeled Dentibrite. After reading the back, he popped one in his mouth and chewed, keeping his lips pressed closed so the tingling foam wouldn’t spill out. The mint flavor was almost overpowering, rising into his sinuses and making his eyes water. After thirty seconds or so, he swished it around in his mouth and spat into the sink.

  Lemon was still standing in the doorway. “I have to pee.”

  He nodded, slipping past her. “I’ll be back.”

  “You’re really going out? Lunatic! Just…please don’t die, okay? Grando would be so angry…”

  “I won’t.” Hector walked back to the couch and pulled on his shoes and sweatshirt. Pausing at the door, he glanced at the bathroom and saw it was still partially open, and Lemon’s pale eyes gleamed as she watched him. He stared at her for a second, then slipped out into the hall. Whatever urge had gripped him, demanding he get out and move, left no room for argument. He figured he was just pent-up and full of restless energy—hormones and memories, anger and frustration. He needed to burn some of it off.

  Pulling up his hood, he walked to the stairwell with long, quick strides. He flew down the stairs, jumping full flights, hanging onto the railing to propel himself around the corners. When he kicked the crashbar of the exit door and charged outside, the chill, iron-scented air slapped him in the face like smelling salts. It was blood and spit, sex and battle, in that wind. It carried a thousand secrets and a hundred promises. Hector’s vendetta only let him listen to some.

  A train rushed by, sending a curtain of warmer, humid air up over the sidewalk, and Hector laughed, for some reason exhilarated by the sight of the giant alloy serpent ripping through the city. He chased after it, stretching his legs and finding his rhythm. His new skin was a better runner than his original one—not if you considered all the potentia he’d lost, but naturally. It just had longer legs and better lungs. It felt good, like he’d been built for it. He ran for a while, but he kept track of the streets he passed so he could find his way back.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The thought reminded him he ought to get himself some augs so his neurodeck could operate more like an AI agent. Without them, it couldn’t see or hear; it couldn’t connect to the local nets—it couldn’t talk to him. By default design, it was tied into his neural pathways and could feed him messages, but it needed hardware to do more than that. He’d need to get some eye and ear implants, and a wireless jack—all things that he might have expected in a fresh, cloned skin provided by the Empire.

  The train drew away, growing small in the distance, and he slowed, jogging as he looked up and down the narrower side streets. They didn’t have tracks, but he imagined they were busy with pedestrian traffic during the day. Things were muted that early in the morning, but a lot of the city was waking up. He stopped at a corner and turned in a slow circle, trying to determine which way was east. When he faced back the way he’d come, he saw the sky was faintly gray. Nodding, he started walking back.

  Memories vied for his attention, mostly ones he’d already examined—his previous life’s path. How he’d risen through society, how his anger had set him back again and again. He’d overcome, though.

  His brow furrowed. Thanks to combat.

  He wasn’t just being hard on himself; most of his advancement in society had come on the heels of battlefield promotions and commendations. Still, there had been times of peace, times of contentment, if not happiness. He’d built his own little life there at the end—made a place for himself on the days he wasn’t on duty. An image passed through his mind, and he stumbled, but caught himself. Squeezing his eyes shut, he leaned forward, hands on knees.

  A dark cloakroom, a viola playing something morose in the distance, blushing cheeks, hot breath on his ear. Esme’s sultry whisper vibrating his eardrum, triggering chills up and down his spine. “No one has to know. My father’s getting old, and when he passes…”

  “Yo, kid. You’re on the wrong block.” The voice was a stark contrast to the dreamy memory—thick, deep, consonants slurring together. Hector looked up and saw a kid, maybe twenty, standing before him, a pair of buddies leaning close on either side. The guy on the left was older—stocky, but it didn’t look like muscle. The one on the right was also older—thirties, easy. He was wiry with hard-looking muscle, and his elbows and neck were plated in olive-green plasteel.

  “Yo, I’m talking to you,” the kid said with a growl. Hector looked into his yellow-firefly optics, trying to decide if he should feel threatened. He was sure he could take the kid and the big guy. The wiry one, though, looked like he could move.

  “What’s the problem?” he asked, unable to find meek words on his tongue. Out of reflex, he checked his aura pool: 8/8. Of course it’s full. Did you use any?

  “The problem is you,” the kid said, leaning forward, jabbing one thick finger into Hector’s chest. Hector looked down, noting the scars adorning those bulbous knuckles.

  A fighter, huh? Again, Hector didn’t think. He didn’t make a plan; his muscles just moved with memories that weren’t theirs. He snatched the thug’s finger and viciously bent it back, resulting in a loud pop and a scream from the kid as he backed up a step. Unfortunately, his two friends didn’t think it was funny. The big one pulled a fat pistol from his saggy canvas overalls, and the skinny one growled and lit up with a yellow-tinged aura.

  The sight of an aura system in use took Hector a little by surprise. He wasn’t sure why; everyone he had fought one-on-one in his old life had one. He supposed it was just the fact that he was in the slums and he’d always associated aura with nobility. Still, he knew when to recognize a threat when he saw one—or two. He dipped to the side, ducking and weaving as he circled the big guy. The wiry aura-user screamed as his flesh began to pop and crackle with electricity.

  Hector had seen plenty of yellow auras in his time. The thing about aura colors is that nobody really understood what determined them. It didn’t seem to matter how someone trained their class—what boosts or augments they selected, what attributes or abilities they improved. An aura was something that seemed to be based more on personality, or, as the Jovian Ascetics liked to say, one’s spirit.

  There were plenty who’d argue with him, but in Hector’s experience, yellows were usually fighters—quick and tolerant of pain. Lots of them used elemental attacks, and so he wasn’t surprised to see the wiry guy activating a lightning boost. He knew he couldn’t beat him on speed—not while he was lit up like that—but he could beat him with skill.

  Hector looped the big guy’s elbow and jerked him off balance, stutter-stepping the other way to smash the heel of his boot into the kid’s knee. The poor bastard had just regained his balance, gotten over the horror of his redesigned pointer finger, and then Hector bent his knee in a direction nature hadn’t intended. He screamed and toppled, and the wiry guy looked his way for a split second. It wasn’t much time, but it was enough.

  As the big guy stumbled to the side, windmilling his pistol, trying to turn without falling, Hector triggered his Strength Boost, pouring just three aura into it. To Hector’s new skin, three aura was a lot—just barely under the threshold for an overload. He felt the rush like a shot of mercury-wire. Tunnel walls closed in on his vision as he hyper-focused; his heart hammered like an angry bear trying to get out; his muscles got hot, steaming sweat off his skin and hoodie, and a red aura erupted over his shoulders and scalp—a cloak and crown of fire.

  The wiry guy’s eyes flew wide, but he’d already committed. His fist was coming in hot, but Hector had clocked it—seen it in his hips and shoulders before his arm even moved. His red-limned arm came up in a sweeping outside block. With his Strength Boost, it was a vicious blow that threw the other fighter off balance, opening up his ribs for Hector’s boosted right jab.

  Bones crackled under his knuckles. The wiry guy croaked in agony, falling to the concrete, gasping, desperate to find his wind. Hector didn’t stand still, soaking in his success; he was already down, sweeping a leg toward the big guy, who’d just begun to line up his pistol barrel with Hector’s head.

  This time, Hector’s timing was perfect; he’d learned how long his new body could hold a boost, and he’d moved fast enough. His boot caught the big guy’s knee, and Hector created another employment opportunity for a prosthetics salesman that night. Big Boy screamed, reflexively yanking on the trigger of his stubby little pistol. It coughed lead and fire into the night, but Hector was up, sidestepping, moving outside the arc of fire, counting the shots—bang, bang, bang, bang, click, click, click.

  He stepped forward, snatched the big man’s wrist, twisted, and drove his palm against his elbow, hyper-extending it. Another fresh set of screams erupted into the night. Hector took the pistol out of the man’s hand and smashed it against his temple. He fell with a thud. The yellow was still trying to get his wind; his aura was long gone. Hector ignored him for a moment and stalked toward the kid, who was crawling backward like a crab, dragging his ruined leg.

  “D-don’t kill me. I didn’t know…”

  “Hold still.” Probably won’t kill you, but you might wish for death for a while.

  “W-what? What are you doing?”

  Hector pressed his palm against the kid’s chest, pushing him down against the concrete. “Taking my due.”