The Cyborg Tinkerer

by Meg LaTorre

  The closer she looked… she could have sworn the horses had metal teeth and gleaming steel horseshoes.

  She looked at the ringleader. “How… charming.”

  “Only the best for our new cyborg tinkerer.”

  Skidding to a halt, she resisted Bastian’s arm as he tried to usher her inside. “What do you mean cyborg tinkerer? I’m a ship tinkerer. Those are two very different things. Cyborg tinkerers supposedly studied as doctors, and I’m no doctor. And I don’t know a damn thing about biology.”

  “You’ll learn on the job.”

  A hand unceremoniously shoved her into the carriage before Bastian took a seat beside her.

  They rode in silence. Gwen’s mind reeled, her thoughts processing slowly through the fog of pain.

  Suddenly, her unbound hair floated toward the ceiling. Glancing out her window, she realized they were at the docks at the edge of Anchorage’s gravitational field.

  The carriage slowed to a stop, and the door opened.

  “We’re leaving?”

  Bastian nodded. “You didn’t think we’d perform surgery in Union territory, did you? That would be illegal.”

  Her mouth hung ajar.

  Those sly bastards.

  The Cyborg Prohibition Law prohibited advanced surgeries or the creation of new cyborgs within the Union’s territory—on one of the thirteen planets. The law said nothing about the space between those planets. Not that the argument would hold much weight during a trial.

  With Bastian’s help, she stepped out of the carriage. Sweat beaded on her temples, and her stomach churned, nauseous from the bumpy ride. Before her, the docks seemed to stretch endlessly toward space.

  Not long ago, she’d exited the Crusty Tulip, ready to spend her final days on Anchorage. Now, she was leaving the manufacturing moon and about to start a new life—as a cyborg.

  At the end of the ridiculously long dock was a massive warship with white sails.

  She swallowed reflexively.

  What the hell was she thinking? Did she really want to become one of the Union’s most hated people? Cyborgs who couldn’t find work were forced to live in the slums of cities—alley sweepers, garbage collectors, or just straight-up beggars. This Bastian might whisper pretty words in her ear now, but who would want a tinkerer when her thirteen years were through? Could she wait that long to have her freedom again?

  Stopping, she watched as a cyborg carried the last thing she had to her name—a skimming board—onto the ship.

  By the time she reached the gangway, her heart pounded and sweat poured off her. She knew she was dying, yet the thought of becoming a cyborg somehow seemed worse.

  Bastian extended a hand toward the ship. The gesture was theatrical, sweeping to encompass a ship three times the size of the Crusty Tulip and dotted with dozens of small, round windows. “Welcome to Obedient, one of Cirque du Borge’s finest vessels.”

  “While this is sweet and all,” Gwen managed, panting and vision blurring. “If we don’t find me a place to sit, I might vomit on your pretty shoes.”

  Bastian’s eyes skirted from the ship to his black boots, which were polished to a shine.

  Suddenly, everything seemed darker. She started, blinking. Was the moon at its darkest tonight? From her left, everything had gone black. Realization hit her, and sheer terror seized her veins. “I can’t see. My left eye—everything’s black.”

  Bastian’s voice filled with fear. “We have less time than I thought. Hurry.”

  Ushering her across the gangway, Bastian held on to both of her shoulders. He marched straight across the deck, not acknowledging the saluting crew as they prepared the ship for immediate takeoff. When they reached the stairs, he scooped her off her feet and hurried down.

  Voices shouted above the hum of the starting engine.

  Gwen closed her eyes and must have passed out. The next thing she knew, she lay on her stomach atop a metal table in a large, open room. Several light bulbs illuminated the cabin. Coarse fabric scratched her skin, and she looked down, realizing she wore a white gown and her skin was scrubbed clean. Around her, four people in surgeon’s garb and masks cleaned instruments, which they placed on another table beside her. But she didn’t have eyes for any of it. All she saw were the gears, plates, chips, and a massive battery.

  Cyborg implants.

  Now that they were no longer manufactured, cyborg implants were easily worth millions of marks. Where had they gotten such rare technology?

  Panic tightened her chest as she realized her vision in her left eye was completely gone. Not even shadows. Tears pricked her eyes.

  Bastian hovered in the corner of the room like an angry storm cloud with his arms crossed. In the artificial light, his dark, almost animalistic grace hadn’t faded, but instead seemed more prominent. Intelligence marked thoughtful brown eyes, but his olive skin seemed to stretch over the landscape of his body, hollowing at his cheeks.

  He looked like a man who hadn’t eaten in days.

  The door to the room opened, and a woman with bright red hair strode through, wearing authority like a birthright.

  “Mistress.” Bastian bowed his head as several of the surgeons assisted her in pulling on clean surgeon’s clothes.

  “This had better be worth it.” Her voice was clipped. “I was in the middle of a surgery with one of our lions.”

  “I assure you, Ms. Beckett, it will be.” Turning to Gwen, Bastian said, “It’s time. The surgeons will first remove the tumor and address any remnants of your illness before installing your cyborg mainframe—a chip at the base of your skull. Next, they will install the implant. It usually takes a few weeks until you are fully recovered, but it can take longer for new cyborgs to fully acclimate to their implants. Do you have any questions?”

  As he spoke, two surgeons stood at either end of the table, pulling up long strands of fabric, which they fastened around her ankles, wrists, and over her back, pressing her tightly against the table.

  Gwen immediately began sweating. “Why am I being tied down?” Her good eye flickered from the surgeons to Bastian. “More importantly, why am I still awake?”

  His lips drew into a thin line. “Anesthesia interferes with the implantation of the chip. Your mind needs to be fully alert and unaltered to receive the mainframe—even if you pass out. If you’re still awake after, we will sedate you.”

  “And you’ve waited until now to tell me?” She pulled at her restraints. “I think I prefer to die.”

  “Stop being dramatic. All cyborgs must go through the procedure, and most make it through.”

  “Most?”

  A timely wave of nausea overtook her, and she was forced to swallow both further complaints and bile.

  “Although the technology to turn men into cyborgs is advanced, it can be barbaric—at first.” Bastian nodded to Ms. Beckett and then to the other surgeons. “Begin when you’re ready.”

  I can do this. If I survived this long, I’m sure as hell not going to die now.

  But as one surgeon shaved the left side of her head and cleaned the area with a disinfectant, she found herself pulling at the bonds. After a moment, a strap was placed over her head and pulled tight. Her cheek pressed into the cool, metal table.

  One surgeon appeared before her, extending a leather strap. “You’ll want to bite on this.”

  Reluctantly, she opened her mouth as her entire body trembled. The man placed the leather between her teeth.

  “We will begin on three,” Ms. Beckett said somewhere beyond Gwen’s line of sight.

  From where she was strapped down, Gwen could see the door to the cabin, which bore the intricate words: Cirque du Borge.

  The circus of cyborgs.

  “One, two, three—”

  Chapter 3

  Balancing atop the railing on the main deck of Obedient, Rora strode past the performers waiting in line to depart down the gangway.

  “Get in line, bitch,” a man called.

  Rora spared a glance over her
shoulder. Her least favorite archer scowled in her direction. “Good morning, Abrecan. I see you didn’t die in your sleep.” She flipped forward atop the railing and landed neatly on the gangway. “I’ll just have to pray harder.”

  “Fucking acrobats. Walking around like they own the place.”

  His further obscenities were lost in the noise of the crowd.

  Performers with rolling leather bags and packed satchels crowded the deck of the ship and the connecting series of docks, eager to return to a home they hadn’t seen in months.

  A home no one had expected to see for many more months.

  Why were they back?

  Unlike that miserable moon, Anchorage, Grandstand had its own natural gravity and fresh air that didn’t smell like deep-fried roadkill.

  Here, ships docked on open waters like the Ancients—when travel was limited to sailing over the seas. The notion seemed terribly romantic.

  “Rora! Slow down!” a woman called from farther back on the docks. The sound was accompanied by the loud, rhythmic thump of a rolling wardrobe.

  Smiling, Rora rolled her eyes.

  She knew the sound of those ungreased wheels anywhere.

  Turning around, Rora spotted Marzanna and Akio trundling down the docks. As they moved, one of the wooden boards bowed from the weight, nearly dumping them into the icy waters of the bay as one of the wardrobe’s wheels caught on it. With Marzanna pushing from behind and Akio pulling from the front, they yanked it free, earning disgruntled shouts from the dockworkers and sailors who’d had to jump out of their way as the wardrobe—and its two protectors—lumbered down the docks.

  Rora stepped to the side, allowing other performers to pass her. As her friends approached, she said, “You do realize there are employees whose job it is to carry our larger luggage, right?”

  Sweat streaked down the sides of Marzanna’s face as she raised an eyebrow. “And trust our latest batch of ragamuffins with my things? I think not.”

  With a grunt, Marzanna and Akio heaved the rolling wardrobe forward, following the milling crowds headed toward the shore.

  Eyeing the cyborg animals as their cages were unloaded from the ship, Marzanna shook her head. “Why are we back?”

  Akio shrugged. “Hell if I know. Weren’t we supposed to perform on Botany next?”

  Marzanna sniffed. “Bastian promised us pay after that performance. They owe me for at least two months of work.”

  Akio chuckled. “Yeah, two months of gambling marks.”

  Leaning toward him as though to slap him, Marzanna narrowed her eyes but kept her hands on the rolling wardrobe.

  Marzanna had once been a man named Jared. But her gender and sexuality were as fluid as the waters beneath them. Over time, she’d taken on a new name.

  Akio, Marzanna’s partner in their trapeze performances only, was a short man with broad shoulders, near-black hair, and narrow eyes.

  Despite their separate acts in the circus, the three of them had bonded over cheap ale in a lousy pub in the city of Apparatus and had been inseparable since.

  At the end of the docks, a line of watchmen awaited the performers.

  As ever, the paid mercenaries wore their usual dark pants and buttoned shirts along with two pistols strapped to their backs, a sword sheathed at one hip and a wooden baton at the other, and a top hat with a mask.

  Not for the first time, Rora wondered why they never showed their faces. Perhaps they didn’t want to be seen associating with cyborgs.

  “All performers are to report to the main theater at once.” Even though the words were muffled behind the watchman’s mask, there was a noticeable lack of emotion as the man shouted to be heard above the noise.

  What in the galaxy? They’d never been called to the theater like this before.

  “Why?” someone behind Rora called.

  “The Mistress has requested an audience with the entire cast immediately upon arrival.” Again, the mercenary’s words lacked any emotion at all.

  Eyes narrowed, Rora followed the line of performers leaving the docks, shoving down a rising feeling of dread she couldn’t quite explain.

  They walked past storefronts to the massive castle at the center of the city. Apparatus lacked the organization of traditional Union cities, as this one centered around the needs of Cirque du Borge. Tailors, wigmakers, launderers, and makeup artists set up shops closest to the palace, with the usual bakers, butchers, blacksmiths, and the like having storefronts nearby.

  Wisps of smoke lingered above sections of the city.

  Had there been another dragon attack recently?

  Similar to cyborgs, dragons were among the Union’s undesirables. Cyborgs, dragons, and the other outcasts of society found their way to the planet of Grandstand—or were deposited onto it, in the case of the dragons.

  Most dragons had been hunted down and killed over the past few centuries. But the humanitarians and wildlife specialists had fought against the extinction of dragons after the emperor’s rise to power. Thus, the cyborgs had the pleasure of their company and frequent raids into the cities for food.

  Looking at yet more sections of the city ravished by dragon flame, Rora wondered what they’d been thinking.

  Men and women shuffled through the main gate of the palace and into the theater’s open doors, which had been rolled up with a crank lever to let the performers enter more swiftly. Yet another oddity. Why not have the performers enter through the theater’s main doors inside the palace?

  Ropes, ladders, hoops, silks, swings, and other contraptions hung from the ceiling. Some were neatly draped over hooks on the walls while others swung freely in the open air. Boxes, trampolines, tightropes, wheels, and hollow metal balls were stacked to the side of the circular stage.

  Rora and her friends took their place among the performers gathering around the main stage. Dozens more performers filed in behind them. They looked strange dressed in brightly colored civilian clothing rather than their usual performance garb.

  Amongst the performers, a flash of dark leather caught Rora’s eye, and she turned. Entering the theater was a tall, lean form silhouetted by the sunlight. Even shadowed as it was, the woman’s gaze seemed to mask a deeper darkness.

  As the newcomer entered the theater, Rora could see she wore the clothes of a tinkerer—a leather jacket with sewn elbow patches, matching leather pants, tall boots, and a toolbelt with an assortment of tools, including welding goggles.

  A new recruit.

  Rora had never seen this woman before. Stars, she would have remembered that tall, sinewy figure anywhere.

  Still silhouetted by the sun behind her, the woman glanced briefly at the crowd of performers—all of whom were eyeing her with barely masked interest. But she took little note of them or the ringleader trailing her as she walked into the theater with her head held high. Despite what appeared to be a dark purple circle around her right eye, the woman had flawless skin. Midnight black hair hung loose over her right shoulder.

  As if sensing Rora’s gaze, the tinkerer turned, revealing what type of cyborg implant she’d received.

  The tinkerer’s left eye was a first-grade implant that twisted and flashed as her gaze settled on Rora. Half of her head had been shaved to the scalp, and there were faint outlines where stitches must have recently dissolved.

  A very new recruit. That scar couldn’t be more than a few weeks old.

  A shiver crept up Rora’s spine as she remembered just what her implantation surgery had been like. More than once, she’d wished for death, despite having sought out Cirque du Borge. But she’d been determined to secure patronage as a performer—even if it meant giving up a few things.

  Rora held the stranger’s gaze, allowing a faint smile to touch her lips as she nodded her head in greeting.

  The woman’s human eye narrowed, her face devoid of expression.

  And my, was it a lovely face—with or without her cyborg eye.

  Again, Rora sensed a deeper darkness in the tinkerer’s ha
rdened gaze, and she couldn’t help but wonder just what hardships those eyes had seen.

  Bastian leaned in, whispering into her ear. Blinking, the tinkerer turned toward him. Just like that, their connection was broken. He guided the woman away, leading her to some other part of the theater, and they were both lost in the crowd.

  An idea stirred in the back of Rora’s mind, just beyond her conscious grasp. More than that, something else stirred. Desire tingled between her legs, so strongly she breathed in sharply. It had been years since she’d felt so carnally attracted to another person, and it had never been this immediate.

  How very interesting.

  Rora mulled on the encounter for the remaining time it took for all three hundred performers to enter the theater. Though her eyes roamed the crowd, her body was restless. Beside her, her friends chatted companionably.

  As the last performer entered the theater, the doors rolled shut behind them, snuffing out the sunlight. Gasps echoed around the room. Heads turned toward the watchmen, who locked the doors. Before Rora could think upon the implications, a single spotlight clicked on, and she turned her gaze back toward the stage.

  Celeste Beckett, Mistress of Cirque du Borge and Keeper of Beasts, stood proudly in the artificial light. Garbed in a floor-length red gown as bright as her hair, she stood at the center of the stage, shadows forming beneath sharp cheekbones. Hands clasped before her, she nodded in greeting to the room.

  “Welcome home.” Celeste’s voice was as rich as the velvet gown she wore. “As you may be aware, we had a change of plans in our performances, but we appreciate your flexibility.”

  Shadows spotted the edges of the room as dozens of watchmen stationed themselves at every exit.

  What the hell was going on? Was the Mistress trying to prevent people from leaving? Rora glanced around, but the other performers only had eyes for Celeste.

  With no other choice, she turned her attention back to the stage. Bastian and the entire show management team stood at attention behind the Mistress.

  “We have received word from our most treasured emperor,” the Mistress continued. “He will be hosting a gala and has invited Cirque du Borge to attend.”