by Meg LaTorre
The Mistress merely nodded. “For now.”
Without another word, Bastian turned and closed the door behind him, leaving Gwen with Celeste Beckett. Mistress and murderer of this fine circus.
Trying to slow her breathing, Gwen slipped into a cool wooden chair. As always, her cyborg eye hummed as it darted back and forth, assessing the contents of the room alongside her human eye.
The most notable aspect of Celeste’s office was the rows of shelves lining every open wall space with trinkets like books, globes, and a typewriter, along with a series of small devices with screens and keyboards.
“I’d like to formally welcome you to Cirque du Borge.” Leaning back in her leather-padded chair, Celeste brushed her mane of red hair over a shoulder. “I can imagine this isn’t the easiest time to acclimate to our show, but I hope you know we are very happy to have you join us. Your skills are a valued asset to the circus.”
Gwen had to bite her tongue to avoid spewing a remark about the difficulty of being forced to butcher cyborgs to pieces and how, not long ago, Celeste had made it very fucking evident how Gwen’s skills were a mere convenience for the surgeon.
“Every year, you will have periodic check-ins with myself or another available staff member,” Celeste continued. “Today, we will make certain your body is tolerating your new implant and ensure your system is running properly.”
Unlike the cyborgs you forced to dunk under icy water. Their systems certainly aren’t running properly. I would fucking know.
Standing, Celeste gestured to a door to an adjoining room to her office. Gwen followed her, noting a patient table, not unlike Gwen’s, at the center of the room. Rather than tools, screws, plating, and wiring lining the shelves, as there were in Gwen’s office, Celeste’s office only held a cart on wheels. Atop that cart was a small machine Gwen had never seen before. The machine was small, no more than the width of her chest, with a small screen and what looked like a keyboard beneath it.
Gwen’s eyes widened.
“You like it?” Celeste asked. “It’s one of the circus’s many treasures.”
Snapping her mouth shut, Gwen said, “I hear digital technology is expensive. Priceless, perhaps.”
As is human life.
Only the wealthiest in the Union could afford to own devices with access to digital technology. Fewer still had devices that actually worked. Most were faulty at best. Often, it wasn’t worth the hefty price tag to send a digital message when it wasn’t guaranteed to arrive. Paying a carrier to deliver a physical letter was cheaper and far more reliable.
What could the purpose of this little machine be? Not to send letters to family members across the Crescent Star System, certainly.
“It is,” Celeste replied.
Slowly, Gwen took a seat on the table. “What is it for?”
“To check that your implant is functioning.”
Studying her, Gwen tried to swallow back the fear in her gut as she wondered just what this woman might do to her if she did step out of line. Did she intend to make another show of force?
Moreover, did Gwen dare to ask about the Forgetting? Was there a way to slow the memory loss?
But Celeste willingly helping her—the very same woman running the competition—was about as likely as the emperor removing the Cyborg Prohibition Law. No matter what pretty words he wrote in his invitation.
“Today, I’ll need to open the port at the back of your neck and insert your chip into the machine,” Celeste continued. “The machine will show all recent communications between your brain and your implant, which are stored on the chip—as well as if there’s any disconnect. If there is, we can work to address them at that time.”
Exhaling, Gwen nodded.
Nothing like having an evil overlord poking around in your brain.
Slowly, Gwen lay down on her side. Celeste moved behind Gwen to the cart. There was a strange pressure on Gwen’s neck before she felt a click as her port opened.
Opening and closing her fists, she did her best to relax.
With the click and release of the chip in her port, the world stilled.
Blinking, she looked around. What had she been so worried about?
In fact, she had a hard time remembering anything at all. She looked around at the empty stone walls and immaculate floor and then to the cold, metal table she lay atop. Where was she?
The itch to know faded and was replaced by a single, overwhelming desire.
To return to the circus.
She didn’t know what it meant or where the circus was, only the tugging within her mind, urging her to her feet. The desire overwhelmed her senses until she couldn’t think of anything else, only the need to move. Before she could raise herself from the table, a hand pressed her back down, followed by a strap to secure her shoulders and legs.
Several minutes passed like this, and she could only wait.
There was another pressure at the back of her brain and a click.
Gasping, Gwen pulled roughly at the bonds strapping her down to the patient table.
“What the hell was that?” she demanded, reaching a hand down to the knife in the hidden sheath on her pants.
Celeste removed the straps, and Gwen lurched to a seated position, spinning around to face the Mistress of the circus and the Keeper of Beasts.
“I should have warned you,” Celeste said, smiling sympathetically. “It can be disorienting the first time your chip is removed.”
“That’s a nice way to put it,” Gwen bit back. “I didn’t know my own fucking name. Just…”
She thought of the drive that had consumed her only moments before. A drive to return to the circus. But wasn’t she already at the circus? What had that all been, anyway?
“As I said,” Celeste continued, “it can be disorienting to have your chip removed. Are you feeling more yourself now?”
Slowly, Gwen mentally checked her extremities and functions. Everything seemed so… normal. Her eye whirred happily, scanning the room. Celeste’s skeleton flashed before her eye, the bone a darker hue. Brighter was the table beneath her as well as the rolling cart and the digital machine with the hefty price tag—all of which were made of metal. It seemed her eye had a knack for locating the material.
To her surprise, Celeste’s red nails gleamed brightly as well. Did she have retractable claws?
“I’m fine.” Standing, Gwen gestured to the digital machine. “How was my implant? Any issues?”
Celeste shook her head. “It’s functioning at full capacity. You are free to go at your leisure.”
She didn’t need to be told twice.
All but running out of the room, she already dreaded her next checkup, which Celeste said would be when the entire cast and crew had their regular annual appointments.
As she hurried toward the theater, a thought occurred to her.
Why was the Mistress performing engineering checkups on cyborg implants?
The masked watchmen’s steps clicked closely behind her as she wondered just how she could get more answers—and protect herself and the cyborgs before she lost her memories entirely.
Chapter 13
The door to the King of the Damned creaked open as Rora entered.
The moderately clean pub was smack in the middle of the city of Apparatus—and a favorite hangout spot for many of Cirque du Borge’s performers.
Rora walked past a bar half as long as her parents’ dining room table, which the Lockwood family boasted was the longest piece of oakwood on Starlar. It was also nowhere near as immaculate. Grease stains spotted the bar and tables around the common room. Still, the ale was cheap, the hearth warm, and the musicians a pleasant sort of rowdy.
Glancing around, she spotted Akio and Marzanna, who’d stationed themselves at a corner table along with the firebreather, Gaius, and the head of the equestrian act, Rosalee.
Marzanna had an arm slung over Gaius’s shoulders. The two huddled close together, whispering into each other’s ears. In the seat
next to them, Rosalee straddled Akio—the two unabashedly sucking each other’s faces like a couple of hormonal teenagers.
Not for the first time, Rora wondered why Marzanna and Akio hadn’t ever banged each other or done something more permanent like dating. It was clear both of them had quite the sexual appetite. But perhaps they considered each other more as family than anything else.
Grabbing a glass of wine from the bartender, Rora joined them at the table.
“It’s about time you got here!” Marzanna said with a mischievous grin.
“I got held up,” Rora replied. “Good to see you, Gaius. Rosalee.”
Tongue otherwise occupied, Rosalee didn’t bother to turn around from her engagements with Akio, but Gaius smiled.
“How’s the performance coming—” Gaius began but was cut off by screams and a whoosh of air from the street outside.
A hush fell over the pub, the silence broken only by the thumping of pints on tabletops. Several wenches and wards placed down trays of drinks for patrons and moved to the windows, grabbing fireproof sheets and preparing to cover the windows. Everyone waited at the edge of their seats for the telltale signs of a dragon raid—claws scraping against shingled rooftops, the slamming of shutters, the smell of smoke as fire and chaos descended over the city. If a dragon was close, sometimes it meant fleeing through the streets as the building you were just in was set aflame.
There was a creaking of gears, and everyone seemed to sigh in relief at the telltale sound of a ship lowering its sails as it flew above the city. Slowly, the musicians resumed their tune and the chatter once again filled the King of the Damned. It was probably nothing more than a quick robbery or mugging. Without the presence of the feds, such things were commonplace. And the cyborgs weren’t paid enough nor had the ability to set up a policing force of their own.
Only the Mistress had a private guard.
“So,” Marzanna began as Akio and Rosalee picked up where they left off. “Where’s the tinkerer? I figured you’d invite her along. Especially after I saw her disappear into your rooms last night…”
Rora put down her drink. “You little gossip. Were you spying on me?”
“Hard to miss the watchmen lingering in the hallway.”
“True enough.”
“So…” Marzanna unslung her arm from over Gaius’s shoulders. “Is she a good lay? By the look of those marvelous hips, I feel like she would be.”
Blood rushed to Rora’s cheeks.
“Fuck, Marzanna.” Gaius leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. “Look at her. You’re embarrassing the girl.”
Clearing her throat, Rora opened her mouth to speak, but Marzanna cut in.
“Don’t be fooled by those innocent eyes and sweet disposition.” Marzanna’s pointed finger seemed to encompass everything—from Rora’s tight pants to her tighter shirt that scooped low between her breasts. “I’ve seen this girl screw her partners ten ways to Sunday when we go to our group fucking parties.”
Rolling her eyes, Rora said, “I think you mean ‘six ways to Sunday.’”
Akio managed to free his tongue momentarily as he added, “No, I think she meant orgies.”
Chuckles rippled down the table.
“All right, all right, all right.” Marzanna waved them off. “My point is, Rora is no virgin maid. So, where’s the tinkerer? Was she that bad?”
“We didn’t sleep together.” Rora took a sip of her sweet white wine. “She tinkered my implant and kissed my hand before leaving. It was all perfectly respectable.”
“Perfectly boring,” Akio muttered between kisses.
Gaius crossed his arms. “Does she enjoy the company of men as well? I’ll happily sleep with her if she’d look at my implant after hours.”
Anger churned in her gut, and it took every ounce of self-control she had to remain seated and not dump her glass of wine in his lap. She couldn’t let him know how threatened his intentions toward Gwen made her feel. He—and everyone else in this circus—needed to think Gwen and Rora were together, inseparable, off-limits.
If Rora had any hope of seducing Gwen and making her create a new hand against the circus rules, she had to keep the tinkerer wrapped around her finger—and her own pussy. Without a new hand, there was no knowing if Rora would survive the competition and perform for the emperor. And she would not let some firebreather get in the way of that.
“I’m not sure if she enjoys the company of both men and women. My instinct says yes.” Rora had to force herself to unclench her jaw, quirking her lips into a semblance of a smile as she spoke the next words. “But don’t get your hopes up. We’re kind of a thing.”
“Unless she takes multiple partners,” Gaius replied, eyes full of challenge. “Half the people in the Union do these days.”
“Hold up.” Marzanna turned on Gaius. “What am I? Chopped liver?”
Leaning forward, Gaius wrapped an arm around Marzanna. “Who said I didn’t take multiple partners too, babe? You know you’re my number one.”
Rora exhaled, thankful Marzanna was the jealous type.
Swallowing the last of her wine, she went to the bar to get a second glass.
Perhaps Marzanna was right, and it was time for Rora to put out. If her body’s reaction to Gwen was any indication, it would be no difficulty to muster the desire to sleep with the tinkerer. Hell, she’d had half a mind to ask Gwen to stay last night after she’d tinkered her hand.
Why did I hesitate?
Instead of waking up to Gwen’s warm body this morning, she’d instead had to work off some of the tension on her own.
Part of her thought that holding out might give Gwen more motivation to try to win her favor—more reason to create a new hand for Rora. But if other performers were more than willing to sleep with Gwen for nothing more than the hope of some extra tinkering, maybe Rora really did need to rethink her strategy.
As the bartender brought Rora’s new glass of wine over, the door to the pub swung open and slammed against the wall. All too familiar loud voices filtered in.
Great.
Grabbing her wine, she moved to return to her table before—
“Evening, dyke.” Abrecan sauntered over to the bar, leaning against the countertop. As he did, her gaze fell on curly black chest hair at eye level.
“Go away, Abrecan.” She turned toward her table. “I’m not in the mood.”
“What is it, little bird? Feeling sad I beat you in the first competition?”
Turning on a heel, she narrowed her gaze on Abrecan. “We tied. If you couldn’t read our scores, feel free to ask the Mistress. Because they were the same.”
Tapping a jeweled finger on his chin, he said, “If I recall correctly, I was on the platform before you. Either way, don’t expect me to play nice going forward.”
“Are you going to kill me, like you did to Asa and the others?” Rora snapped. “I’m sure the watchmen would love to hear that story.”
Barstools scraped against the ground moments before Marzanna and Akio appeared beside her, sensing the growing tension. But Gaius and Rosalee hung in the background. Getting on Abrecan’s bad side was dangerous, especially since he had a large following of performers who worshipped at his feet.
More than once, Rora had thought about telling the Mistress or watchmen what Abrecan had done during the first competition. But after Celeste had terminated contracts and reclaimed the implants, Rora doubted the woman cared about a cyborg bending the rules of a violent competition for his own gain. Not when she could reclaim the implant without any protest from the performer. No, the Mistress wouldn’t do anything, which infuriated Rora even more. How was she supposed to win a competition with a fickle judge, murderous competitors, and unscrupulous rules?
Rage fueled Rora as she thought of everything going wrong—her fickle cyborg hand, her lost dream to perform for the emperor, what she’d had to give up to join the circus, the fact that the Union hated cyborgs, and the sexual frustration over not having screwed a tink
erer she so badly needed help from. Not to mention, the life-or-death competition looming over the performers.
To remain employed at Cirque du Borge, she’d have to fight every step of the way. Or lose her hand and any hope she had of performing for the emperor and convincing his Union Council that cyborgs weren’t a threat.
Losing all sense of self-preservation, she pointed toward Thaniel. “While we’re at it, perhaps we should talk about the first competition and how I saved your thug’s life while you were off killing people.”
She didn’t mean to yell—really, she didn’t—but she couldn’t help it. Abrecan had this way of getting under her skin. He’d pushed her aside like she was nothing more than a child in the first competition. A challenger unworthy of his notice.
The music petered off as dozens of performers from nearby tables or leaning against the bar turned to look at them, their ears perking at Rora’s accusation.
Behind Abrecan, Thaniel opened and closed his mouth. But the archer’s other thugs—performers of equal stature—said nothing, seemingly unfazed by Rora’s declaration.
“Didn’t tell you, did he? I figured not.” Rora’s anger was a faucet she couldn’t shut off as words poured from her. “I had to save Thaniel’s sorry ass, literally. Because he managed to get stuck in the tubes. And what thanks do I get?” She leveled her gaze on Thaniel. “Threats for future competitions. So nice of you both to extend your hospitality for my trouble. I’m glad to hear you value Thaniel’s life so highly.”
As she finished the last sentence, her eyes slid to Abrecan.
The room fell utterly silent, everyone waiting on the archer’s response.
A smile spread across his lips like a disease spreading over a city.
“Where are my manners?” He kneeled, placing hands on his knees as though he spoke to a very small, very foolish child. “To thank you for saving Thaniel’s life, I won’t break your neck tonight, little bird, for showing me disrespect. But make no mistake.” Leaning forward, he whispered the next words into her ear. “By taking Gwendolyn from me, you’ve earned yourself more than an enemy.”
Swallowing thickly, Rora couldn’t manage to find any words to say in return.
