by Meg LaTorre
THE CYBORG TINKERER
Copyright © iWriterly LLC 2020
www.iWriterly.com
First edition: November 2020
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and from the publisher, nor otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book other than for review purposes, please contact the publisher (see mailing address below).
The right of MEG LaTORRE to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1988.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020909475
ISBN 978-1-7346018-1-7 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-7346018-0-0 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-7346018-2-4 (ebook)
This is a work of fiction. The events and persons in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real people, alive or dead, or events is purely coincidental.
Please direct mailed inquiries to: iWriterly LLC, PO Box 8080, Parsippany, NJ 07054
Cover designed by Damonza.
Edited by Kaitlyn Johnson (developmental editing), Jenny Sims (copyediting), and Judy Zweifel (proofreading).
To Kevin, the man who convinced me dreams don’t have to wait.
Contents
Praise for The Cyborg Tinkerer
Trigger Warnings
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Stay in Touch
Glossary
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Praise for The Cyborg Tinkerer
“The Cyborg Tinkerer puts the ‘steam’ in steampunk and subverts romantic tropes in the most refreshing and unexpected way possible.”
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– Jenna Moreci, Bestselling Author of The Savior’s Champion
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“The Cyborg Tinkerer is an epic sci-fi, steampunk mash-up of intergalactic proportions. Full of love, lust, battles, and seduction. It will keep you turning the pages all night long.”
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– Sacha Black, Bestselling Fantasy and Nonfiction Author and Podcaster
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"A twisty thrill-ride crackling with sexual tension and macabre secrets. Combining a high-stakes competition, steampunk spacefaring, and an undercurrent of dark fairy tales, this is an adventure you don't want to miss!"
* * *
– Claire Winn, Author of City of Shattered Light
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“In The Cyborg Tinkerer, Cinder [The Lunar Chronicles] is all grown up and finds herself in the middle of a Hunger Games-esque, steampunk, action-packed adventure."
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– Elliot Brooks, Author of Peace and Turmoil and BookTuber
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"Meg LaTorre is a writer to watch."
* * *
– Michael Mammay, Author of Planetside
Trigger Warnings
This novel contains graphic violence, sexual content, profanity, and references to eating disorders. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter 1
Sometimes, death required a change of scenery.
Gwendolyn Grimm marched up the warped, wooden steps of the Crusty Tulip. As she shouldered her pack, a single thought formed in her mind.
Good fucking riddance.
She wouldn’t miss being the ship tinkerer on this creaking bucket of soured engines and deflated tits for sails.
Men scurried about the partially open deck of the ship, dashing up rope ladders to tend to the rigging. The sails bloomed with the force of the solar winds ushering them to their next destination, Anchorage. The small, manufacturing moon belched a welcoming plume of smog out toward space, which bounced off the moon’s artificial gravity field—and back toward its residents.
A woman appeared beside Gwen on the main deck, carrying her own pack.
“Why didn’t you come to my cot last night?” Alberta cooed, her red lips parted and cracked from too many days on low water rations.
It was tradition to find a partner below deck before coming to port, but Gwen hadn’t exactly been in the mood. “I’m kind of busy dying.”
According to the asinine doctor on the last planet they’d ported on, she had a few months left to live.
Alberta crossed her arms. “Isn’t that more reason to enjoy your final days?”
Although Alberta’s tone was playful, Gwen could feel the heat behind it.
Quit being a pussy, her erstwhile bedmate seemed to say. It’s only a brain tumor.
This was precisely why Gwen wasn’t big on making friends in the workplace—and why she hadn’t bothered to get to know anyone on the ship. It was also why she would soon be dying… alone.
“You sure this is where you want to hop off?” Alberta asked with uncharacteristic concern. “Why not head home to your family?”
Gwen shook her head. “I’d be dead before I made it back to Orthodocks.”
She didn’t have enough time to journey to her home planet on the opposite side of the Crescent Star System. The Crusty Tulip wouldn’t be setting a course that way for another six months. Let her family think she was off adventuring in the galaxy somewhere.
All that was left to do was find a place where she could afford a room for a few months. Anchorage was as good a place as any.
A pang of loneliness bolted through her, but she shook it off.
It wasn’t time for regrets just yet. First, she had some living to do. Maybe she would find someone to fuck the time away with. Perhaps she just needed a palate cleanser to get her in the mood again. It’d been months since she’d bedded a man. At the very least, there had to be decent underground gambling on this skanky-as-fuck moon.
The captain’s first mate appeared, giving Gwen her final pay. “Nice working with you, Ms. Grimm.”
Was that pity in his eyes? It couldn’t be. Gwen hadn’t told anyone except Alberta why she was leaving, and Alberta wasn’t a gossip.
Frowning, Gwen nodded her head in return.
Around them, the Crusty Tulip’s gravitational and oxygen fields shimmered before falling when they entered Anchorage’s artificial gravity. The wooden docks stuck straight out from the moon, and the sailors threw out lines, which the crew on the docks caught, s
ecuring the ship.
And a good fucking life to you, Gwen thought as she pulled goggles over her eyes and a scarf over her mouth and nose. She disembarked with a nod of farewell to Alberta and the life she’d known before. The crew wouldn’t stay more than a night before moving on to their next destination.
Wondering what the hell one does on a manufacturing moon with mere months left to live, Gwen headed for her customary cheap inn near the docks. As she paid off the greasy innkeeper, he hissed under his breath. “Did you hear? Cirque du Borge is in town.”
Gwen raised an eyebrow, unbelieving. “I thought the cyborg circus had been run out of the Crescent Star System.”
Ten years ago, Cirque du Borge had been the most famous of all circuses. They had traveled from planet to planet, unannounced. Every show sold out, every person eager to see the performances beyond the capability of man alone—to see what was possible with both man and machine.
That had been before the thirteen planets of the Crescent Star System formed the Union and the emperor created the Cyborg Prohibition Law. This law made the creation of new cyborgs, the use of surgical implants, and the use of robots for surgery very illegal.
It didn’t make existing cyborgs illegal, just the social equivalent of having machine fleas. No one was eager to hire cyborgs for work—or entertainment, for that matter—and all manufacturing of cyborg implants had been shut down.
This law was the very same reason Gwen had no way of addressing the oversized resident in her skull. Without the funds to travel outside of the Crescent Star System and pay for a pricey surgery, she now knew what she intended to do with her final pay.
The innkeeper shrugged, pocketing Gwen’s payment. “They’re set up deep in the storage yard.”
“Good to know.” Gwen passed another mark to the man.
“Best be keeping quiet.” The man grabbed a soiled rag, wiping the counter. “Wouldn’t want the feds hearing about it. Anyone caught at that circus will spend time behind bars. Mark my words.”
Indeed, the feds never messed around when it came to the “cyborg threat.”
Nodding, Gwen left to deposit her belongings in her room.
Although Anchorage wasn’t nearly as cold as deep space, Gwen didn’t bother to change out of her usual trousers, leather jacket, and magnetic boots. She washed her face, then combed her long brown hair and put it in a respectable bun.
As always, her fingers felt for the tumor beneath her skull, though she knew she’d find nothing. A sudden pang of envy clapped against Gwen’s consciousness—envy that no one else had an internal clock turning ever closer to eternal midnight.
Within months, she would pass out of existence.
Would anyone remember her?
It had been years since Gwen had communicated with her family, and she had no close friends to speak of—courtesy of taking tinkering jobs on new ships nearly every year.
A nameless anger surged inside her like a raging solar storm. She removed her homemade and questionably legal skimmer from her bag, assembling it in moments. Then she kicked the engine on in her second-story room at the inn, smoke billowing all around her, before leaping out the window and riding into the night.
For the thousandth time that day, she reminded herself there would be time for regrets later.
Now it was time to see if the cyborg circus was as spectacular as rumors claimed.
She soared low over the town, careful to keep out of sight of the main thoroughfare—and the feds. Only Union-grade hover boards were permitted within this galaxy, and only government employees were to ride them, naturally. But racers, like Gwen, were known to create their own boards that could be broken down and hidden in a bag to transport without detection.
The storage yard where the circus was located was a short ride on the skimmer from the inn.
As she weaved between stacks of rusted storage crates, the sound of bells and lyres rose above the smoggy air. Turning a corner, a massive tent of silver and white appeared before her.
Gwen gaped.
Even with the tears in the fabric, it was easy to see it had once been made for extravagance. The sections of the tent not covered in streaks of atmospheric grime or stark slashes bore an unmistakable shimmer as though the fabric contained traces of silver and crushed pearl.
Several smaller tents branched off the massive one. Strange-looking guards in top hats and masks were stationed outside every entrance.
Gwen dismounted and stashed her skimmer behind one of the storage crates before joining the line waiting to enter the center tent.
Dozens of lowlife sailors, dockworkers, barmaids, wenches, and other friendly types talked excitedly amongst themselves. With the exception of the cyborgs, of course, who stood quietly at the back of the line.
Poor bastards aren’t even welcome at a cyborg circus.
In front of her, a man spoke excitedly to his comrade. “I’ve heard rumors of the ringleader who can bend cyborg beasts to his will, magicians who can pluck your soul straight from your chest, firebreathers who need no torch, and acrobats who tumble skillfully beneath the sheets.”
Gwen rolled her eyes as the men elbowed each other. Had she not received her unfortunate diagnosis, she would have done just about anything to see if the latter was true.
She might still. She had a few months to kill, so perhaps the mood would strike her.
Eventually, she stood before the tent flap and passed money to a masked guard. The mute soldier gestured for her to enter.
As she strode inside, her breath whooshed out.
Dozens of miniature stages were set up across the tent. All shimmered as brightly as polished brass or were covered in glitter.
On the center stage, what must be the entire cast moved in a group number, their cyborg limbs and other implants flashing brightly in the spotlights. They moved with an otherworldly grace, flipping and spinning through the air. They didn’t shy away from what made them different. They were both man and machine.
And fucking proud of it.
Realizing her mouth hung open, Gwen snapped it shut.
She watched in mute wonder as the performers completed the number before separating and striding to the individual stages throughout the room. Following the audience weaving in the spaces between the stages, she lingered in front of one performance and then the next, eager to see everything. Above it all, musicians trilled a quick melody.
Every stage bore more extravagance, more daring performances than the last.
On one stage, a cyborg juggled wooden batons larger than himself. On another stage, a contortionist with a cyborg foot encased herself in a small box. Far above the stages, two acrobats moved through a trapeze performance. As she watched, the woman released the rope and flew freely through the air for an impossibly long time before the man caught her and the two swung toward the opposite platform.
In here, it was almost possible to forget she was dying. Almost.
As she neared another stage, she blinked before nodding in appreciation.
An arctic bear, a tiger, and an albino wolf prowled in circles around a man garbed in a black suit with white pinstripes and a matching top hat. The ringleader seemed rather disinclined to reflect upon his mortal state as the wolf snorted and shook its head, revealing massive metal canines.
Each performance she saw was a beautiful ode to death—or perhaps in defiance of it.
How poetic.
Eventually, she ended up before a small stage with a slackline set up between two poles secured onto either side of the stage.
When she looked up, her eyes fell upon the most beautiful creature she’d seen yet in Cirque du Borge’s tent of wonders.
A woman perched atop one of the posts at one end of the slackline. Slowly, she raised her arms to either side of her. As she did, the lights caught the curve of her full hips, the warmth of her light brown skin, and the glint of mischief in her dark eyes.
Without warning, the acrobat launched forward, catching the slackline in o
ne human and one cyborg hand before flipping neatly onto the opposite post.
Nicely fucking done.
As though sensing her, the woman’s gaze turned and fell directly on Gwen.
Hot damn. Those cheekbones could cut out a woman’s heart.
As Gwen’s mouth dried, a woman appeared beside her, lingering in front of the slackline stage. By the look of her grease-stained trousers, she probably worked in the manufacturing district.
“What brings you here, beautiful?”
“Death,” Gwen muttered softly. In a louder voice, she said, “Just looking to pass the time.”
The woman nodded, closing the distance between them. Slowly, she wrapped one arm around Gwen’s waist. “I know one way we could pass the time.”
Gwen’s stomach turned even as the flesh between her legs awoke. Desire swam through her. She didn’t fight as the nameless woman’s lips pressed to hers.
I’m more than a corpse. I’m not dead yet.
The woman’s lips tasted of cheap ale and smoke. Bringing her arm up, Gwen wrapped it casually around her neck as she parted eager lips with her tongue.
