“Bonk City,” Moss told him, and the kid guffawed and clapped his hands together.
“Shit, really? You gotta take it easy on those Relief Aide’s!” he shouted through his laughter. Moss felt his face burn with embarrassment. Patchwork noticed.
“Oh, shit, sorry,” Patchwork said, and he meant it. He clapped Moss on the shoulder. “Can’t seem to help but put my foot right in it.”
“You’re all right,” Moss said.
“Let’s ride,” Burn said and the three left the bar, Burn taking one more shot for the road. They walked in silence through the sprawl as the darkness of the sky gave way to the early morning light. An orange haze lay over the city, making the world monochrome rust.
The narrow streets opened to a large plaza. Families milled about before a large semicircular sign reading “Carnevale of Wonders” in neon lights. They approached a woman by the entrance who seemed annoyed to interrupt her lenscreen feed to speak with them.
“We don’t open for a half hour,” she said while chewing something, making her seem all the more disinterested in what he had to say.
“We are here to see the Ferrier,” Burn told her, looming ominously over her. She did not seem to notice, and Moss guessed that a life of dealing with the public had made her immune to shows of intimidation.
“We don’t open for a half hour,” she repeated and turned her face from them to imply that the conversation was at an end.
“Look at me,” Burn said, so much threat dropping from his words that Moss saw her lens go blank. “We are here to see the Ferrier. He is expecting us and does not like to be kept waiting. Call your boss and say that Burn is here.”
She was nervous and clearly wanted nothing more to do with this situation. “You know where you are going?”
“Yes,” Burn put plainly.
“Just head on through.” She waved her hand before her lens turned back on and she was gone from the real world. They walked down a path with crude maps of the small hillside carnival. They passed row after row of small, walled off enclosures with animals. Moss stopped to stare at a koala sleeping in a tree. Other than the tiger in the burb, he had never seen animals up close before.
“All true clones,” Patchwork told him as he sidled up beside.
“Not robotic replicas?” Moss asked, not turning from the animal.
“Nah, those you can buy. Shit, you want a koala for your house, you just need the cash,” Patchwork said. “People come here for the real thing.”
“Incredible.” Moss appreciated the fact that Burn wasn’t hurrying them off. He turned and they continued.
Moss had to stop every few feet to stare in childlike wonder at the animals, while the other two smoked and chatted. Employees were beginning to set up booths and tents but paid no mind to them as they approached a brick building with an open door.
Burn ushered them in and they were met by an unnaturally tall man whose mechanical legs reached nearly to Moss’s torso. They looked like that of a drudge with large gears at the knee and ankle. His arms too were robotic but made of finer material, the human form perfectly mimicked like that of a Relief Aide but with clear skyn, revealing the masterful inner workings.
He had no hair on his body, his shirtless chest glistening with sweat and the lack of eyebrows giving him an expression which was difficult to read. Behind him was an old horse stable converted to a workshop, each stall fitted with a table long enough for a person with monitors overhead and large robotic arms, lights, and cameras.
“Burn, my boy, back giving you troubles?” he asked in what Moss took to be a British accent.
“Always, but not why I’m here,” Burn answered.
“Ever the cunt. What can I do for you then?” he asked with a smartass grin.
“Start by leaving that language outside,” Burn said. Moss smirked. Burn’s language was hardly clean, and he would have a hard time trying to censor himself in front of Patchwork.
“My place, my rules, you old prick,” he said, enjoying himself immensely.
“We’re here to get my friend a new foot.” Burn pointed to Moss’s blood-soaked wrap.
“That’s an easy one, and who are these friends of yours?”
“Little one’s Moss and the even littler one is Patchwork,” Burn said, pointing to them in turn as he spoke.
“Pleasure to meet you gents,” he said, shaking both their hands. Moss watched the machinery work within the man’s arm as he moved and was amazed by how lifelike the translucent skin felt. Warm to the touch but calloused like that of someone who did manual labor.
“Sadly, this isn’t my work,” the Ferrier told Moss, catching his admiration. “But don’t think of it like that old joke about barbers.”
“I don’t know it,” Moss admitted.
“Kids and your screens… no one just sits around and tells jokes anymore,” he admonished, and Moss caught Burn smile out of the corner of his eye. “More of a riddle than a joke, truth be told. You walk into a barbershop and see two barbers, one with a wonderful haircut and one with a shite one. Who do you have cut your hair?”
“The one with the good-ass hair, obviously,” Patchwork answered quickly, shaking his deadlocks with a flourish. Moss smirked.
“The one with the bad haircut since he must have been the one who performed the good one,” Moss said.
“Right you are, lad.” The Ferrier beamed. “Point being, just because I have these wonderful arms, doesn’t mean I give a bad haircut. If you take my point?”
“I do,” Moss answered.
“Right, well, what are you thinking?”
“About my foot?” Moss clarified.
“No, about your mother’s tits. Yes, about the foot,” the Ferrier said with a hearty laugh.
“I don’t really know,” he admitted. He had never given much thought to augments and had been so consumed with the message from his father that he hadn’t even considered what he might want to do about his foot.
“This kid a bub?” the Ferrier asked Burn, who simply nodded. “Right, well, let’s show you some options,” he said, pointing to a screen on the wall. “We are going to replace from the knee down, give you a little oomph.” The screen displayed an MR-98.4 leg: simple and sleek. Two long black spring-loaded retracting shafts with mounted battery and front-facing solar recharge joined to three toes, two front-facing and one back for increased support. “Mid-range model. What do you think?”
Moss looked to the legs of The Ferrier and shook his head. He did not mind the fact that he was going to be replaced in part but did not want to resemble MOSS II.
“Anything more—” he began.
“Real?” the Ferrier interrupted.
“Yes,” Moss said.
“I have it,” he said, bringing up an image of what looked to Moss like a natural human leg. “Maintains integrates distance detection and impact force with a look so real someone will have to scan you to tell.”
“I like that,” Moss said excitedly.
“Just the one?” The Ferrier inquired.
“I think I would like both,” Moss answered, surprising himself. The idea of moving on two powerful legs excited him.
“In for a penny,” the Ferrier winked. “Speaking of pennies,” he began, looking at Burn.
“Kid wants both. Do it. This one here is going to treat,” Burn hooked a thumb at Patchwork.
“Oh, I see how it is,” Patchwork said with a theatrical eye roll before he went to work, his eye firing input from some far-off bank account. “How much?”
“Sort that out later,” the Ferrier said, laying a hand on Moss and leading him to a stall. The ground shook with the impact of every one of the Ferrier’s massive steps, rattling the tools which lined the walls. He gestured to Moss to lay on the table and he did. One of the arms placed a mask over his nose and mouth. “You’ll be down a while, but it’ll feel like a warm dream and you’ll come out the other end a new man. No one does biotech like me.” The Ferrier smiled, revealing perfectly straigh
t, white teeth which Moss stared at as the gas entered his lungs. He thought about how fast everything was happening as he drifted to sleep.
Chapter 15
Moss opened his eyes slowly, confused as to where he was and what he was doing. He was aware that there were no ocean sounds and of the oppressive light flooding his vision. An old man with one eye and a beard entered his field of view.
“I know you?” Moss asked, his voice hoarse and mouth dry, tasting of chemicals.
“Some would say,” Burn answered, looking down kindly on Moss. “How you feeling?”
Moss blinked, beginning to recall. “Blinded,” he answered and Burn nodded, sliding away the large, round, three bulbed light.
“Better?” he asked in an uncharacteristically sympathetic tone.
“Yeah,” Moss said, looking around and trying to get his bearings. He was having a hard time moving, his limbs feeling slow to react as if he was underwater.
“Feet hurt?” Burn asked and Moss began to remember. He tried to raise his head to look down, but he couldn’t muster the strength.
“They shouldn’t,” a voice said from somewhere else in the room.
“Weren’t asking you,” Burn hissed over his shoulder.
“Nothing hurts,” Moss said. “I feel wonderful.”
“And drug addicts rejoiced,” Moss heard Patchwork joke. He rolled his eyes around as his focus returned.
“The kid also got into your implant some when you were under. A couple of upgrades. Hope you don’t mind,” Burn informed him.
“Fine by me,” Moss said. “Is Issy okay?”
Burn grimaced. “Don’t rightly know,” he said. “Patch will get you through to her when we get back.”
“Good. I miss her,” Moss said. Burn smiled, but Moss saw the sadness in his eyes. His smile wasn’t a very good liar.
“Sure, you do. We’ll help her out,” he promised. Moss smiled and felt the table shift beneath him as the Ferrier approached, looming over him.
“You’re big,” Moss said.
“It’s what the fellas tell me,” he said with a wink, but Moss was too groggy to understand innuendo.
“Neat,” he said, and the Ferrier smiled, those teeth reminding Moss of a time which felt long removed.
“Think you can wiggle those toes?” he asked. Moss attempted to lift his head again to look down but to no avail.
“Am I doing it?” he asked. His mind was telling his body to move the digits, but he could not feel if it was actually happening.
“Yes, sir,” the Ferrier said. “They look good. Very real.”
“Scars?” Moss asked as The Ferrier poked at his foot with a stylus. “Oh, I feel that.”
“Good,” he said, looking at Moss’s legs with pride.
“Did good work,” Burn added. “No scars, kid.”
Moss felt a weak smile cross his lips. “Can I get some water?” he asked and the Ferrier moved quickly to get him a hydrogel tube which he slurped down quickly. Burn lit a cigarette and the Ferrier turned on him quickly.
“This is a medical office, take that shit outside,” he snarled and Burn shot Moss what he took to be a wink as he stood and left, appearing on a security monitor mounted on the far wall opposite the stall. “Up to standing?”
“Not quite,” he said truthfully, and the Ferrier tapped at a screen, sending one of the arms down with a needle which stuck Moss in the arm. Like a video of morning fog played in fast forward, the weakness and haze lifted from Moss’s mind and body. He knew he could stand. Felt like he could run if asked to.
“That’s something,” he remarked, amazed at how good he felt.
Moss sat up and looked down his body to the legs which looked nearly identical to his natural ones. The pigment of the skin was slightly off but as he watched it seemed to be slowly shifting to that of his thigh.
“Remarkable,” he uttered, wiggling his toes and bending one leg at the knee. As he did, he realized for the first time that he wore only a towel from the waist down.
“Oh,” he said, and the Ferrier took his meaning.
“Think of me as a doctor,” he said.
“Sure,” Moss said uneasily. “All of my doctors have been drudges.”
“Of course, they were,” he mocked. “Takes a machine to diagnose a man, eh? Sure do things different in the burbs.”
“The programs are able to determine illness at a much higher accuracy rate than a human. Far fewer errors,” Moss argued. He had always liked that it was machines rather than people who had checked him. He had felt a trust for them which he had not with people.
“Even deep learning algorithmic AI’s require human oversight but, whatever you say... Now, don’t go trying to kick any doors in,” the Ferrier said, smirking at his own comment. “Though you will be able to once you get a handle for them.”
“Thank you,” Moss said with full sincerity. He thought it truly remarkable that he had been healed so expertly so quickly. He was very grateful to the massive man and to Burn.
“My pleasure,” the Ferrier said. “And I mean that. Your little friend paid me handsomely for this.”
“I’ll bet,” Moss said. “I guess getting shot wasn’t the worst thing.”
“Don’t you worry. Keep running with Burn and you’ll be back here in no time,” he joked and made a gun shape with his forefinger and thumb, leveling it at Moss.
“Can I try them out?” he asked as he slid to the side, dropping his legs over the lip of the table and sending his body crashing to the ground.
“The weight is slightly different,” the Ferrier told him as he pulled Moss to his feet. “They’re designed to be similar but it’s a little more than just bones, muscle and veins in there.”
“Right,” Moss said, uneasily taking a step. Though the legs moved as his mind commanded, the movement did not feel fluid.
“The programs are adaptive and will learn how you shift your weight, but it will take time,” the Ferrier said.
“Time is something we don’t really have,” Moss said, thinking about his father’s riddle. He wanted more than anything to crack the code and prove his value. He took more steps, clutching the towel tight around his waist.
Moss and the Ferrier both turned at once as they heard raised voices coming from outside the door. Moss turned to the monitor to see Burn with his hand on his gun and Patchwork gripping his sword, speaking with people unseen.
Drugged, tired, recovering from surgery, and overwhelmed by everything that had happened, Moss shuddered at the prospect of any more action. His heart began to race. Had Carcer tracked them down? He reached with a new instinct for the Kingfisher but found only flesh.
He hurried to get dressed, watching the monitor as the Ferrier boomed from the room to the front door. Moss hurried outside on unsteady legs to see the three men flanked on all sides by Legion bikers, their families out for a nice evening huddled behind them. Moss had expected it to be daytime but realized he didn’t know how long he had been under.
“Listen, mates, this building has defenses you don’t want to test,” the Ferrier intoned, and the bikers shifted uneasily, trying to maintain their threatening air. A burly woman with a shaved head and “President” stitched to her vest strode forward, not in the least intimidated by the threat.
“Listen, friend, you don’t want any part of this. These fuckers killed one of ours. Blood for blood,” she seethed, a grenade clutched in a cheap robotic arm. Turrets dropped from the awning above the Ferrier and buzzed to life, intimidating red dots appearing on the shifting foreheads of the bikers.
“You’ll be dropped before you loose that.” The Ferrier pointed to the grenade. “No need to let your families watch you die.”
The leader was no more frightened but could read a loss when she saw one.
“Perhaps we can parley?” Burn offered. “Common enemies can make new friends.”
“But you’re my enemy,” the leader said, her head cocking to the side and eyes calculating.
�
�Don’t need to be,” Burn said.
“We could give you money,” Patchwork offered, and Moss watched as Burn’s head dropped.
“You think you can buy us, you sewer rat? We’re not for fucking sale. The only payment I want is the top of his fucking head,” she said, but as she did, the fist which clutched the grenade fired upward and broke her nose, sending her reeling back into the other bikers.
“Run!” Burn screamed as the turrets began to whir. Many bikers pulled weapons while the others rushed to their leader. Moss’s new legs sprang him forward and away, as the bikers screamed obscenities after them. They darted between the caging, birds squawking and flapping all around. They stayed low and moved away as quickly as they could, knowing they were severely outnumbered without the protection of the turrets.
“Never get a deal now,” Burn hissed.
“Called me sewer rat,” Patchwork protested. Burn shook his head with disgust. “I have a ride we can borrow,” Patchwork informed them as the weaved through the carnival.
A man sent a breath of fire into the air to oohs and aahs from a gathered crowd. They moved to the entrance, hearing the threats of the bikers closing in behind them. They rushed through the people standing by the gate, deciding which way to go first, Moss constantly tripping and falling over himself.
The legs carried him at a remarkable speed, and he was easily able to keep pace with Patchwork who guided them back into the plaza, now full of ground cars. A sleek silver Audon coupe turned on, lights flooding the lot and doors swinging open. The engine revved at Patchwork’s command and drove right over to meet them, the three jumping in as the doors began to close.
“Borrow,” Moss huffed as he jammed into the back of the car.
“Semantics,” Patchwork said as the vehicle fishtailed nauseatingly, naving toward the nearest road. The first shot rang out as they fled, terrified screams following closely behind. The rear windshield crunched and spiderwebbed.
“Debris has collided with the vehicle. Please return to the nearest Audon authorized dealership for repairs. Great deals can be found at Otomo Auto Repair. Please select YES to make that your destination,” a computerized voice offered through the speakers. The nav screen went blank as Patchwork took over the remainder of the systems. They accelerated fast along a narrow alley of fresh tar. Moss gripped both sides of the car, his head swimming.
Into Neon Page 15
