The Cyborg Tinkerer

by Meg LaTorre

  The hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

  Someone was watching her.

  Looking around, she didn’t see anyone except the people passing by the end of the alley.

  Heaving her skimmer under an arm, she marched out of the alley and into the open, as if such things were commonplace for her. Nothing out of the ordinary. No cyborg tinkerer violating the contract of the most powerful person in this city.

  As she walked toward the docks, several tavern wenches and wards stopped pouring buckets of stars knew what into the street to stare at…

  Gwen’s eye whirred.

  Ducking into the shadows, she pulled up the hood of her long-sleeved tunic and then the collar of her leather jacket.

  Damn it.

  She hadn’t thought of wearing a hooded cloak. She hadn’t needed to hide her cyborg eye before. Her hood wasn’t deep enough to hide her face, but it would have to do. For a moment, she thought about ditching her skimmer, if only to have both hands open to reach for weapons. But if she needed to escape in a pinch, she’d have need of it.

  After ducking from the shadows of one tavern to the next, she slowly made her way toward the docks. When the shadows ran out, she sighed and stepped into the darkened light of early evening.

  Time to find a ship.

  Four ships were docked. The sailors on the first two refused to speak to her as soon as they caught a glimpse of her cyborg eye, despite her insistence that she speak with the captain.

  I’ll just have to hitch a ride with one of the other two ships.

  By the looks of the empty crates and pallets, the ship at the end of the docks appeared to transfer lumber and coal. The other ship appeared to carry—

  No. It couldn’t be.

  Gwen strode closer to the third ship, which was docked nearer to land. Her traitorous heartbeat drowned out all sounds as she drew nearer. There were chains with empty manacles along the deck’s railing, and below deck she thought she heard the crack of a whip.

  A flesh trader? On Grandstand?

  Slavery was illegal in the Union. Just like creating cyborgs was illegal… and performed on this planet anyway. She supposed there were bound to be other laws the Mistress broke.

  It’s time I’m off.

  She didn’t dare linger too long by the flesh trader vessel.

  As she headed for the ship at the end of the dock, a whistle sounded behind her. Turning, she noticed several crewmembers emerge from the shadows of the lower decks of the flesh trader ship.

  “Oy!” one called to her. “What’re you doing?”

  She bit the inside of her cheek, careful to keep her chin low to hide her cyborg eye. Did she dare turn away now? This ship was one of two ported at Apparatus that she could board tonight. It was her only way out of the city and off Grandstand. Worse yet, what if the captain on the fourth ship refused her like the first two? Then it would be the flesh trader or return to her rooms—and a dying Rora.

  Heavy booted steps rocked the docks as several of the sailors approached her from the flesh trader vessel, striding across the gangway. She’d already taken several steps toward the fourth vessel farther down the docks, and now the flesh trader vessel was between her and land.

  “You here to drop off more of Ms. Beckett’s cargo?”

  Gwen stiffened.

  What did the Mistress have to do with a flesh trader?

  “No.”

  “Fine enough. She’s been giving us a bunch of cripples lately anyway.” The man stopped at the edge of the gangplank, eyes skirting the length of her. “Looking to explore a new trade, then? We usually prefer our girls to be feminine and not quite so roughed up, but I’m sure you’ll be to someone’s liking. Everyone has a type.”

  She paused. Did that mean what she thought it did? Had the Mistress sold the performers to flesh traders? No. There was no way…

  “I’m here to speak with your captain.” She took a step forward, but whether it was toward the sailor or toward the taverns and civilization beyond him, she couldn’t be sure. “I’d like to discuss rates for travel.”

  “We aren’t taking passengers.” The man smiled, revealing a single gold tooth in a mouth of crooked, yellow teeth. His hands rested a little too casually at the sword sheathed at one hip and the pistol on the other.

  More sailors strode down the gangway and onto the docks, blocking her route of escape.

  “I’d like to speak with your captain all the same.” Her fingers twitched. Did she dare try to start her skimmer? The men were paces away now. She couldn’t get on it with them so close.

  There was a moment of tense stillness when neither she nor the sailors moved.

  Then she sighed, expecting what came next.

  So much for civility.

  One man lunged for her arm. Moving on instinct, she unsheathed the knife at her hip and sliced upward, cutting deeply. Blood sprayed, hot and sticky. Another sailor made for the skimmer under her other arm. Spinning her weight into him, she used her board like a battering ram. He stumbled backward into nearby sailors. But, somehow, he kept his grip on her skimmer, pulling it down with him as he fell.

  More men appeared on the main deck of the flesh trader ship, drawn to the commotion. They dashed down the gangway as Gwen leaped over the fallen sailors. Before she’d taken several steps, someone caught her wrist, twisting it and forcing her to drop her knife. As the man pulled her backward, she kicked up, flipping herself into the air and landing behind him.

  Too late, she realized she’d flipped into the center of the ring of men hurrying off the flesh trader vessel and onto the docks. She slammed the first man in the back, sending him careening off the side of the docks.

  Crouching low, she freed two more daggers from hidden sheaths up her sleeves. If the men surrounding her managed to disarm her again, she had only the knife in her boot and pistol at her hip. The gun was only good for a single shot. She’d have to make it count.

  Without feds in this city, she wondered if a shot would draw attention—or help. Likely not.

  She was on her own.

  Crouching low, knives ready to strike, she said, “I’d like to speak with your captain about passage. But if he’d like me to kill more of his crew to necessitate my assistance in his departure, then by all means.”

  The men laughed.

  “We aren’t short on bodies,” one said. “Plenty of hands to pick up extra work.”

  She hadn’t thought about that. If they held slaves below deck, they likely did have plenty of extra hands.

  “Are you so eager to die, then?” Slowly, she rotated in a circle, trying to see all of the men at once.

  It was only a matter of time.

  “We’ve dealt with plenty of runaways before,” the man with the gold tooth said. Only now, he had a bloody lip to go with it. “Bringing unwilling women isn’t new for us.”

  “I’m sure that looks good on a resumé.”

  As the sailors closed in, their steps perfectly timed, she realized the man was right. She could get away if the men made a mistake or tried to work on their own. But working in unison? She didn’t stand a chance against this many experienced flesh traders.

  If they were going to take her, then she wasn’t going down without a fight. She’d kill as many of them as she could.

  Hands locked on to her, and she slashed, not knowing what her knives connected with.

  Two bodies dropped before her knives were wrenched from her hands. Arms wrapped around her, pinning her hands to her sides. Someone yanked her hood backward, revealing her cyborg eye.

  “A circus runaway?” The voice came from the gangway behind her. It was a woman’s voice. “We have a special place for cyborgs in our trade. As the least liked people in the Union, they get the undesirable jobs.”

  The sailors parted to reveal a woman descending the gangway toward them.

  “Captain,” several of the men murmured.

  Gwen spat. “A woman forcing other women to fulfill the desires of men? You sh
ould be ashamed.”

  A sailor’s fist connected with Gwen’s gut, and the air whooshed out of her.

  “It’s the way of the world, my dove,” the captain said. Like Gwen, she wore trousers, a loose tunic, and a leather jacket—which likely hid a number of sheathed weapons. “But don’t worry. Plenty of women enjoy the pleasures I provide them as well—if you’re lucky enough to land a position at a pleasure house.” She nodded toward her crew. “Lock her in with the others.”

  Before the men could haul Gwen onto the ship, a roar sounded from down the docks. A gun was shot off into the air, and the docks rumbled.

  The sailors stopped, turning toward the newcomer.

  Between the men, Gwen spotted someone she never thought she’d see again.

  “Good evening, gents, Captain.” Bastian’s heeled shoes clicked on the wooden boards as he reloaded his gun.

  You idiot. What are you doing?

  “It appears one of my performers has strayed from the herd.” He cocked the gun. “If you would be so kind, I’d like to have her returned to me. At once.”

  A performer? Did Bastian think she’d be seen as less valuable if they thought she was a performer, rather than a tinkerer? Either way, the flesh traders had only to look at her tinkerer’s belt and clothes to discover her true trade.

  “A performer, you say?” The captain crossed her arms. “She killed several of my men. What kind of performances do you put on in that circus of yours?”

  “The kind that captures hearts.” Bastian positioned himself out of reach of the sailors’ swords, though he was easily within the firing range of a gun. Or the ship’s cannons.

  “With a sword or theater, I wonder?”

  “She’s a… singer,” Bastian said. “She’s got the pipes of a nightingale.”

  Gwen rolled her eyes. He had to say singing.

  “Is she now?” the captain intoned, eyes locking with the tools hanging off Gwen’s belt. “I’d like a demonstration. Let’s hear our little dove sing a pretty tune.”

  If she could move, she would have slapped Bastian upside the head.

  “If you prefer song over marks, far be it from me to point out your idiocy,” Gwen said. “I’ll gladly compensate you as soon as the ship has left the dock.”

  She appreciated what Bastian was doing, really. But she had to get off this planet. And if that meant she went with the flesh trader… Well, it certainly wouldn’t have been her first choice.

  The captain gestured to Gwen, though her eyes hadn’t left Bastian’s. “You see? This little dove is inquiring about passage. It would seem she’s not eager to remain at the circus. I’d say that makes her fair game. She was the one who approached me, after all.”

  “If you’d like to be welcomed to our city in the future, you’d do well to remember that we don’t take kindly to traders who defile our performers,” Bastian bit out. “I’ll not ask again. Hand her over.”

  The captain eyed him for a long moment. “You look familiar. Have we done business before?” She took several steps forward, eyes sweeping the length of him. “Aye. I recognize you.”

  Bastian appeared unimpressed by this knowledge. “I’m the ringleader of Cirque du Borge. Many know my face.”

  The captain tapped a thumb to her chin, as though debating between stew and soup for dinner. “Have it your way. We’ll be taking the nightingale aboard. I don’t appreciate being given cripples after being asked to come all this way for good property. Bring her in, boys.”

  In a single movement, Bastian removed a second pistol from his jacket. With a gun in each hand, he shot down the two nearest sailors.

  Gwen would have gaped at that pinpoint accuracy if she wasn’t being manhandled by the other sailors, who did their dandiest to drag her up the gangway. Swinging, she tried to elbow the man holding her left arm. He blocked her easily. Instead, she slammed her booted heel into his foot. Yelping, he let go, and she slammed her elbow into his teeth. He cried out, stumbling backward and splashing into the water.

  Before she could move, another sailor grabbed her around the waist, hoisting her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Suddenly, there was a flash of movement. Knives slammed into chests, including the sailor carrying her.

  She toppled back onto the docks with the dead sailor, rolling forward and out of reach of the hands grasping for her.

  One of her knives lay a few feet away. She grabbed it and turned, slashing upward and killing two men in moments. Their blood oozed from the deep cuts to their throats. For the first time in weeks, the sight of blood didn’t make her want to vomit or freeze with fear. Instead, a thrill charged through her at the fight, at the ability to finally do something. She felt no regret at killing these men. They were vile creatures who made their money off others’ suffering. They deserved far worse than a swift death.

  Three sailors surrounded Bastian. The dingbat had a rapier with him, of all weapons. This isn’t a fucking sporting match. The blade bent back as he blocked several blows from the sailors’ far thicker blades and arms. Compared to the meaty sailors, Bastian seemed small enough to fit in a matchbox, regardless of his height and broad stature.

  One of the sailors managed to get around him and sliced his side. Grunting, Bastian caught himself, bringing up his scrawny sword in time to block what would have been a fatal blow.

  Running forward, Gwen slid on her knees and sliced into the heels of the nearest sailor. The man screeched as she kicked him off the dock.

  Bastian ran the final two sailors through with a knife he got from stars knew where.

  When she looked at Bastian, breathing a sigh of relief, her heart froze. His eyes widened, and he ran toward her, shoving her back. Stumbling, she fell over several bodies on the dock as a shot rang out.

  Bastian clutched the side of his neck as blood spurted everywhere. Through the once immaculate black fabric of his jacket, blood wept from a gunshot wound at the base of his neck. She prayed it was his shoulder and nothing more important.

  Instinct seized her, and she rolled, another shot flying wide and thumping into one of the corpses on the dock beside her.

  Grabbing her loaded pistol from its holster at her hip, she dodged yet another bullet before rolling into a crouched position and firing.

  The captain stood on the gangway and flinched as Gwen’s bullet found its target. Blood seeped from a wound to her gut. She toppled sideways, splashing into the bay.

  Voices called out somewhere below deck on the flesh trader vessel.

  “Gwen.” The voice was weak and came from behind her.

  Bastian.

  Spinning, she dashed for him. Leaping over bodies, she caught him before he fell off the docks.

  “Before you ask,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “I’m fine.”

  “And I’m a fucking nightingale.”

  She felt the wound at his neck, and her fingers drew blood.

  “I have good news and bad news,” she said as she examined him, still holding him upright. “The bad news is you’ve been shot.”

  “Thank you, Madam Obvious.”

  A faint smile quirked Gwen’s lips. “Don’t recycle my jokes. Get your own.”

  This produced a fainter smile in return. His eyes fluttered, near to closing.

  Panic seized her, and she shook him, pulling his good arm over her shoulder. “The good news is the shot missed your head and didn’t hit your heart, though I don’t know where the bullet went. For now, we need to put pressure on the wound to staunch the bleeding—”

  “Save them.” His voice was soft.

  She hesitated, hearing the cries of the slaves below deck. If they didn’t move, and soon, more flesh traders could come and surround them.

  “The slaves. On the ship.” His voice grew weaker with each word. “I’d bet anything they’re our former performers.”

  Her heart stilled.

  She hadn’t wanted to believe it. But if the Mistress could order Gwen to hack people apart for outdated cyborg implants, tha
t meant Celeste would also be capable of selling the former performers to flesh traders. Was she so desperate for money? What did she hope to gain?

  Still, Bastian—the man she’d grown to care about—was dying. He needed help, and soon.

  “In case you haven’t noticed, you need immediate medical attention.”

  Gwen glanced over her shoulder at the empty deck of the flesh trader vessel. She could go below deck and free the former cyborgs. Hell, she could even try to fly the ship herself. She knew enough about how ships worked to get it into open space. But she knew little about navigating or bringing a ship into port.

  But there were probably also more flesh traders below deck, not just the people who needed more help. They might object to her stealing their vessel and freeing the prospective slaves. But… if she freed the former cyborgs, that meant she not only had helped these people, but she might have a very willing crew. If the flesh traders didn’t capture or kill her first.

  She glanced back toward Bastian, who blinked slowly.

  Then, she shook her head.

  Stars, she wanted to help these people. But it was a longshot. Daring a rescue below decks would assure Bastian bled out on these docks. She couldn’t guarantee she’d save the former cyborgs. But if she tried to help them, it’d mean she’d lose Bastian.

  She realized then she did have something to fight for, after all.

  “There’ll be no naps just yet.”

  Looking around, she spotted her skimmer under several corpses. Laying Bastian down, she extricated it, ignoring the smears of blood across her perfectly rusted skimmer. Placing the board beside Bastian, she looped her arms under his and heaved his body onto the board. He was much lighter than she’d expected.

  “As soon as I have you settled,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’ll come back for them.”

  It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it was the only one she could live with.

  As quickly as she could, she kicked the sailors’ bodies off the docks. They splashed into the bay. She prayed the bodies wouldn’t be discovered at least until morning—or, better yet, were carried out to sea. It might be enough cover to not arouse suspicion for long enough that she could see to Bastian and get back to the slaves.