by Tania Hutley
BOT: 0 | CHALLENGER: 0
Director Morelle looks at me, and I know what she’s about to say.
“Max needs an opponent. Rayne, would you...?”
Looking at Max’s hate-filled eyes, I want to refuse. If he beats me in front of everyone, they’ll see me as weak. If I beat him, he’ll find a way to get revenge.
But those thoughts belong to the old me, the human me. The leopard is strong. Fearless. The leopard wants to fight. I flex my claws in anticipation of the battle, and my hair lifts along my spine. I have an overwhelming urge to growl.
Stepping over the low rubber barrier, I face the metal robot in the ring.
“Unfortunately, the battle bot doesn’t have the unique characteristics provided by your Skins’ augmented DNA,” says the director. “The bot has enhanced strength, but in manual mode it’s limited to the speed of the operator. Fortunately, Max’s extensive training in multiple fighting disciplines should even up the fight.”
Beside the ring, Max moves to a new stance. Inside the ring, the robot’s motions are fluid as it moves with him. Its hands are raised and flat like blades.
Hemmed in by the small fighting ring, I shift my weight from paw to paw, waiting for the bot to attack. I flatten my ears back against my head, and bare my teeth. My vision narrows as I block out everything but the silver bot in front of me.
Just like Max, it wears heavy stomper’s boots that lace up the front. Boots for kicking and bullying. It wears a stomper’s jacket. Its silver face could belong to one of the stompers who beat me. It could be any stomper who’s ever cursed me, cuffed me, or drawn his gun on me. They’ve only ever caused me pain.
But now the tables have turned.
I’ve never been as strong as a stomper before. I’ve never stared one in the eyes and felt no fear. If he had a gun, I’d attack him before he could draw it. This time, no stomper’s going to bully me.
I crouch back on my haunches as the stomper’s weight goes on his toes. I’m snarling, nostrils flared and lips drawn back.
Can you see my fangs, stomper? My blood’s on fire, my heartbeat deafening. You’d better be afraid, because I’m going to tear your evil throat out.
The stomper comes at me. I spring to meet him, launching myself at his neck. Got him! My jaws close on soft stomper flesh, ripping… but it melts away to nothing. My fangs snap together.
What the hell...? What happened? How’d he get away?
“Excellent, Rayne.” The director’s voice snaps me back to reality. I’m panting, my sides heaving, bile churning in my guts. Where’d that rage come from? Now it’s fading, I feel shaky. The stomper… I mean, the bot’s standing in front of me. It dissolved from between my jaws, then formed again once I let go.
BOT: 0 | CHALLENGER: 1
Max’s enraged, hateful stink wafts over from where he stands next to the fighting ring. He reeks of fury.
From the others I sense shock. I don’t blame them, my ferocity shocked me too. I’m not sure where it came from… well, I do know, but I didn’t realize it ran that deep, that I could lose myself in it.
I still can’t catch Director Morelle’s scent, but her expression is like a proud pet owner whose dog has just learned a new trick.
“A new shape, Max?” the director asks. She reaches into the locker and does something to a control panel.
Though Max doesn’t move, the silver battle bot falls forward, flat onto its face. Its arms press into the mat and its body lifts like it’s doing a press up. Its silver bulk is morphing. Changing. It forms an animal. Not just any animal. A big cat, tail flicking from side to side even as it solidifies.
It’s me, the clouded leopard.
The silver substance has copied my clouded leopard exactly, each hair carved in silver. The bot’s blue eyes shine out of my leopard’s face. Instead of being beautiful, it’s hideous. It’s taken my gorgeous leopard and twisted it into something monstrous and wrong.
Max is still wearing the helmet, so he must still be operating the bot. He’s standing, but his hands have formed claws. When he crouches, the bot-leopard matches my stance, low to the ground.
Heart pounding, I stare into a silver mirror, into the bot’s chilling eyes. A snarl rips from my throat.
The bot lunges, silver teeth snapping for me. I leap back, scrambling, off balance. Another leap and it’s on me, claws cutting into my side, teeth closing on my shoulder. There’s a sharp flash of pain as its teeth pierce my flesh, then nothing. The creature’s mouth melts away with the force of the bite and I get a glimpse of the metal skull underneath.
My leopard can bleed. A few drops of blood mar my gorgeous fur. It smells surprisingly strong considering how little there is. Just a scratch I must have gotten from the metal skull. The rest of the bot’s head dissolved before it could do any real damage, and I bet that’s programmed in, not a choice Max would have made.
BOT: 1 | CHALLENGER: 1
“Well done, Max!” exclaims Director Morelle. “The next point will be the match decider. That’s clearly a good shape for you, but let me change it a little.”
She presses something on the control panel, sending a ripple across the bot’s silver metal. Its form stays cat-like, but its mouth changes, growing long fangs from either side. Its body becomes longer and thinner, its legs stockier, its silver hair shorter and less thick.
Cale’s saber-toothed tiger.
At least it’s not a horrible copy of my leopard anymore. Beside the ring, Cale’s scent changes. I shoot him a glance. His ears are flat, his tail low and swishing back and forth. He hates this false silver version of his Skin as much as I hated mine.
The bot’s crouching. This time that morphing monster’s not going to catch me out.
I feint left, but as the creature’s paws leave the floor I spring right. It leaps at the place I was a moment before, its saber-teeth just missing me. My body twists and my outstretched claws stab into its chest.
Its chest melts away with the force of my thrust, then solidifies. But not into the cat’s form. Instead the bot turns back into a featureless human-shaped statue. Max has ripped his helmet off. He glowers at me from beside the ring, his stench strong enough to turn my stomach.
BOT: 1 | CHALLENGER: 2
“A decisive victory, Rayne.” Director Morelle gives me a smile that’s plump with satisfaction. “You’re living up to my hopes.”
I stare at her, wishing she was easier to read. Am I being paranoid, or was that an odd thing to say if she doesn’t know about my deception? Have I passed some sort of test?
“Me next,” growls Brugan. As I step out of the ring, his mouth drops open and his nose extends toward me. He sniffs the drops of blood that have matted the fur on my shoulder.
His scent changes, and I flinch back. There’s a strong tang of musk mixed in with his devil bear smell. Arousal. The smell of my blood excites him.
I back away, stomach churning, and suddenly Cale is beside me. With his hackles up he looks huge. His ears flatten and he snarls at Brugan.
The devil bear’s stance changes. He crouches forward, evil teeth bared. His low, vicious growl makes my own fur stand up. A rush of adrenaline surges through me. It’s the same feeling I got in the ring. I’m not just ready to fight, but eager for it.
Behind us, the director clears her throat. “Good,” she says in a pleased voice. “But let’s keep it contained for now, shall we?”
I don’t move, don’t take my eyes off Brugan. Neither does Cale. The three of us stare each other down for the space of several thudding heartbeats.
Brugan breaks first. His gaze goes to the director and the change in his scent makes my muscles relax. Cale’s hackles flatten so he looks less threatening.
“I’m afraid I must leave you,” says the director. “But Max will stay to assist with your training. With the never-wall, the treadmill, and the battle bot, you should have all the tools you need to ensure you’re ready for the contest.”
“I have a question,” says Aza.
“Are we allowed to train by ourselves? Ten hours a day isn’t enough. I’d like to train later, or start earlier.”
“Very well. I’ll allow the training room to open at six o’clock each morning and close at seven each night. But there’ll be no training outside those hours.” She pauses. “And tomorrow you’ll have no training at all. You’ll spend the day doing media interviews.”
What? No! If my face gets broadcast, they’re definitely going to find out I’m not Rayne.
Director Morelle turns to me. “Except you, Rayne. You won’t be joining the others for tomorrow’s interviews.”
My heart flips. Does she know I’m an imposter after all?
“Doctor Gregory informs me you’re having trouble in the vReal because of your eye. I must admit to being surprised when I saw it. It was one of the first my company ever made. A pioneering eye in its time, but it’s been obsolete for many years.”
I flick my ears backward and forward, confused by the change of subject.
“You shall have a new eye. Tomorrow you’ll go to the hospital so they can get the growth process started. It’ll be a few days before they can implant the eye, but it should be as good as new before the contest. You’ll be able to compete to your full potential.”
She stops, waiting for me to say something. My thoughts are fuzzy, like my head is full of vReal gel. I swallow hard.
“Really?” It comes out as a whisper.
She nods, but it’s not enough. I have to know it wasn’t some cruel joke. I need to hear her confirm it.
“You’re really going to grow me a new eye? Honestly?”
“Yes, Rayne.”
“Thank you.” I can only just manage to croak the words out, but if I could I’d scream them at the top of my lungs. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.
16
I float through the rest of the day in a bubble of pure joy. I’m going to get my eye back! That night, sleep is impossible, but that’s okay. I’m happy staring at the ceiling.
I don’t even mind when my cybernetic eye starts aching in the early hours of the morning, like it always does when I’m tired. Ache all you want, eye. You’ll soon be gone. I won’t miss you, not a bit.
On my shoulder, in the same spot where my leopard was injured in the ring, I have a red mark on my skin that’s a little tender. Maybe the pod did something to me. I’ll have to remember to ask Doctor Gregory about it.
But in the morning, I’m too excited to think about anything but getting a new eye. The smell of breakfast turns my stomach and I pace the halls until a cab arrives for me. I’m terrified when I get into it, in case it’s going to demand payment and I’m going to be found out. But the director must have organized everything, because when I swipe my band against the control panel, it pulls away and drives me to the busy entrance of a hospital.
Inside the hospital, there are more scanners. As I touch my band to one of them, I’m convinced my luck’s going to run out and it’ll detect I’m wearing a stolen band. Then writing appears. Rayne Walker. Ophthalmology Room 3877. 11:35am.
A mechanical voice says, “Follow the green light” and a green marker lights in the floor at my feet. I follow it to a lift. It guides me to the right floor and leads me through a maze of corridors to a desk where a bored-looking woman hands me a tablet, and I have to swipe through pages of confusing small print and sign Rayne’s name at least a dozen times. Apparently I’m having an Optic Sample Extraction, whatever that is.
A technician in a white coat takes me to a room filled with machines, and scans my face, looking through the damaged tissue to see the nerves and sinews behind my cybernetic eye. Then I sit fidgeting in a waiting area until a nurse comes in and gives me a capsule that dissolves into a sweet-tasting liquid on my tongue.
“To calm you,” she says.
I sit in the waiting room for another couple of hours, but I don’t mind. It feels like something that was tight in my brain has unwound and is floating away from my head.
Everyone else waits only a short time before getting called for whatever procedure they’re having done, but still I sit, watching them come and go. One man must be here for a limb regrowth, because he has a bandaged stump where his finger used to be. Most don’t have anything obviously wrong with them, so I imagine they’re here for tweaking. It’s so common in New Triton that every person I see looks perfect.
Finally, a nurse calls my name, leads me to a small room, and tells me to lie on a padded bench. Next to it is a tall contraption, but I’m feeling too relaxed to worry what it might be, or try to work out what it does. When I’m flat on my back, a metal clamp comes out of the bench and fits itself over my head, tightening until I can’t move.
“Okay?” the nurse asks. “It has to be tight to keep your head perfectly still.”
“Fine.” It’s so tight it hurts, but I’m not about to complain. Not when I’m going to get a new eye. And not while I’m still feeling so relaxed from that capsule.
She brings up a transparent holo display above her band, and taps a virtual button. A robotic arm extends from the contraption by the bench. It hovers over my face. There’s a needle on the end of it.
A metal arm comes over the top of my head and fixes itself around my good eye, pulling my eyelid up and my lower lid down and clamping them tight. It doesn’t really hurt, but even the drug they gave me isn’t enough to stop my heart racing.
“Hold your breath, Rayne. Stare past the needle, at a spot on the ceiling. That’s it. You must be completely still now.”
Shit. Without that capsule, I’d be freaking out. I’m frozen in place, staring so hard at the dot on the ceiling my good eye is watering and my bad eye is glitching.
The needle stabs my good eye. It pierces my eyeball and there’s a moment I want to scream. But then the needle retracts and the clamps release me. The mechanical arm pulls to one side where a vial’s waiting for the sample. Both of my eyes hurt. The whole thing can’t have taken longer than a minute or two, but I feel drained and the blissed-out feeling’s gone.
The nurse holds up the vial. “That’s it,” she says. “Chemical soup. It’s full of blank cells with all the nutrients and triggers needed to make a new eye.” She fits the vial into a holder. “This’ll go to the lab, and it’ll take a few days for the cells to form your new eye. We’ll call you when it’s ready.”
She points me to the door and a yellow light leads me back to the street. The cab is waiting. Getting in, I feel sick and shaky. The after-effects of the capsule? Or the shock of having a needle poked into my eye? I lean my head back and close my eyes. Then I hear Tori’s voice. Her raspy laugh, making fun of me. What the hell am I feeling sick for? I’m going to get a new eye!
After a double shift, when I was so tired I’d retch up dinner, Tori would come out with something like, “You think you have it tough? Once I worked fifty-six hours straight. Middle of summer, and the factory was so hot the paint ran off the walls.”
Or if the line for the bathroom was so long I had cramps from trying to hold on, Tori would say, “This is nothing. One shelter I lived in, the food machines spat out nothing but protein paste for three weeks straight. Toilets stunk so badly, people were dropping dead from the stench. They had to close them, and too bad if you needed to go.”
It annoyed me at first. Then it made me laugh. After a while, it got so the only thing that would get me through some days was wondering what Tori was going to come up with that was so much worse than what I was going through.
I really hope she’s okay.
If only I could let Tori know I made it out of the shelter, she’d be so happy for me. Now I have a chance to write my own future, and I’m not going to waste it.
When I arrive at the Morelle scraper, I head straight to the training room only to be turned away by the guard who’s on duty. There’s no training today and Doctor Gregory isn’t available.
That’s right. The others are having interviews today.
Disappointed, I head to the
rec room. At least there’s food there, and thinking about Tori makes me extra grateful for the meal. Damn, but she’d love this place.
Taking my plate to the couch, I sit in front of the holo, adjusting a cushion behind my back and making myself comfortable. In the shelter I’d be allocated a single squirt of stew from the machine, and if I wanted to watch the holo, I’d have to stand or sit on the dirty floor, so this feels impossibly luxurious.
Without a band I need to turn the holo on manually, but then I just tell it, “Skin Hunter Contest,” and it finds the right segment.
There they are, sitting in chairs lined up on a stage. It’s a talk show. Brugan has a wide, cheesy grin plastered on for the cameras. Cale’s smiling too, but only with one side of his mouth, like he’s forcing it. When he looks down, his hair drops over his eyes and casts them into shadow. He’s always so carefree, that look makes me wonder what could be troubling him.
Aza’s wearing a deep red lipstick which accentuates the blue of her eyes and makes her even more striking. I’ve seen others as beautiful as her on the holo, but I’d always assumed it wasn’t real, that nobody looked that polished in real life. I mean, not everyone in Old Triton is ugly, but what beauty there is needs to fight to be seen through a mask of exhaustion, work-stained layers of baggy clothes, and rough haircuts.
Aza’s willowy legs are crossed at the ankle, but one delicate fingernail taps the arm of her chair as though she’s fighting off boredom. Yeah, she’s not fooling me. I’m figuring out that bored expression hides an iron determination that reminds me of Tori’s, though I’d never have guessed it if I hadn’t seen her battling her way up the never-wall. She looked as bloody-minded as Tori did when she’d fight through the dinner line to fill a plate for us before the machines ran out of food.
Aza seems delicate, but now I’m starting to know her, I can’t see her that way. It’s like she expands to fill all the space around her.
Sentin looks his normal serious self, glasses and all. If only I could figure out whether he’s an enemy. In the shelter, I was good at spotting sharks. Here, not so much.
