by Meg LaTorre
I’m sorry, she thought to the former cyborgs below deck.
Somehow, she knew she’d be too late.
Then, she turned on her skimmer’s engine, grabbed hold of the edges, and guided Bastian toward the inns, praying there would be a healer nearby.
“Stay with me,” she said. “I’m going to get you help.”
As she hurried toward civilization, Bastian’s fingers wrapped around hers before going limp.
Chapter 26
Gwen paced in the tiny inn room as the healer tended to Bastian’s wounds by the light of a single, flickering light bulb.
The woman, who apparently had experience as a midwife and Union army nurse, was the best healer they could find on short notice. But it seemed her experience had given her an eye for combat wounds.
A metal bullet clinked into the tray on Bastian’s bedside table. As the woman cleaned where his shoulder met his neck, she made tsking sounds in the back of her throat before stitching the wound.
Once finished, she stood. “That’s all I can do for him.”
Rising to her feet, Gwen removed several marks from her pack. Only hours ago, she’d hoped to use the money toward her passage off Grandstand. Instead, she passed the inflated fee to the healer who’d helped save Bastian Kabir.
“For your work and your silence.”
The healer sniffed. “This isn’t the first alleyway mugging that has gone awry. I’ve been summoned for others. I know how to hold my tongue. Your Mistress won’t hear of the incident from me.”
Gwen winced.
Your Mistress.
It was an unfortunate reminder of her current circumstances. She was still part of Cirque du Borge.
And Bastian was alive. So, there was that.
She’d told the healer Bastian had been mugged in an alley and shot. Thankfully, the woman had been smart enough not to press for more details.
When the woman left in a flurry of skirts, Gwen slumped into the chair beside the bed. Leaning forward, she assessed the healer’s work. The stitches were neat and tidy. Still, Bastian would have to be careful about how much he moved his neck and shoulder in the coming days, or the wound might open again.
After watching the rise and fall of Bastian’s chest in a deep sleep for nearly an hour, trying to reassure herself he was fine, she left the inn with her pistol and bloodied knives.
When she returned to Bastian’s room hours later with food, he was awake.
“Morning,” she said, placing the tray on the side table. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got shot.”
Slowly, she helped him sit up in bed. She then placed the tray of potatoes, eggs, and fresh-brewed lunar tea in front of him.
“I’m not hungry.”
“I thought you might say that.” She grabbed a second tray with a biscuit, milk, and tea and placed it onto his lap. “You really should eat something. You need your strength to recover.”
Eyes narrowing, he studied her before picking up the biscuit and nibbling on pieces. She ate the eggs and potatoes beside him in silence.
“Did you go back for the others?” he asked. “Did you save them?”
She had to clear her throat before she could speak. “Once you were settled, I went back to the docks, but the ship had left port sometime in the night.”
Guilt weighed heavily on her chest. But she tried to reassure herself with a single thought.
Bastian was alive.
Despite everything that had happened between them—the butchered cyborgs, traveling into the wilderness, fighting a dragon, and now facing a pack of wolfish flesh traders—she’d come to rely on Bastian’s reassuring presence and iron will. Despite the gray waters they treaded through, he somehow clung to a moral compass, knowing exactly what he needed to do and when. And what he was fighting for.
Yet for her, it took Bastian getting shot and nearly dying for her to realize she had someone else to fight for. There was still time to try to save Rora and Marzanna. Regardless of what Rora had done to betray them, she still deserved a chance to live. It was Gwen’s fault Marzanna and Rora weren’t waking up, and she would find a way to fix it. It didn’t matter how hurt she was by Rora’s actions. Even if neither of them pulled through, Gwen couldn’t run away. She had to protect Bastian, Akio, and all of the other cyborgs who were fighting to stay alive in this competition.
Bastian studied her with dark, narrowed eyes. “Why did you leave?”
Exhaling heavily, she opened her pack beside the bed and removed her tool kit. “If we’re going to talk feelings, I might as well do something productive in the meantime.”
“Is talking about your feelings unproductive?”
“Maybe. Sometimes. I don’t know… It’s sure as hell uncomfortable.” She gestured to the remains of his normally pristine dress shirt. “I’ll need to remove your shirt to check your plating. It’ll be hard to see what kind of damage was done last night without cutting you open. But I’d like to do a preliminary check anyway.”
Nodding, he handed her his tray of food, which she placed on his side table. After unbuttoning the front of his shirt, he attempted to remove the sleeves. Pain flickered in his eyes as his jaw set in that usual stubborn way of his.
“Will you stop trying to do everything yourself?”
“I can’t,” he snapped. “If I don’t do something, no one else does.” He pointed a finger at her, his unbuttoned shirt hanging loosely on him. “You abandoned us. You left without any explanation.”
“Did I need to explain myself? I’m the reason Marzanna and Rora are dying.” She was surprised to find herself nearly shouting.
Clenching her jaw, she tried to calm herself.
Why was she so glad about Bastian being alive again?
“I couldn’t be the reason any more people die,” she continued. “I thought I could help them. I thought, as a cyborg tinkerer, I could make a difference. But the only difference I’ve made was securing early graves for two performers.”
Bastian’s chest heaved as he breathed. For the first time, she noticed the dark, coarse hair at the center of his chest, and she swallowed instinctively.
She scratched her head. “I’m not a mass murderer, and I’m certainly not a cyborg tinkerer. Butchering cyborgs wasn’t in the job description when you shoved that stupid contract in my face.” She sighed. “If you had known about the competition and what I would be expected to do, would you still have recruited me?”
He started as if surprised by her question. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I need you!” This time, it was he who shouted.
On instinct, she stepped away from the bed. “What are you talking about?”
He had the good grace to look away, blushing. “It’s the Forgetting.”
She frowned, not understanding.
“What do you remember of your past?” he asked.
Slowly, she thought of her family and how they’d done something to protect her and her siblings. But the story behind it was completely gone.
“My earliest memories are my first tinkering jobs when I worked as an apprentice,” she said. “Why?”
His eyes widened. “Your memories are fading faster than what’s typical, but it’s not unheard of. I’ve been a part of this circus for ten years. At this point, I shouldn’t remember anything about my past. But I do. I remember working for my family and what happened toward the end when Carlisle found me. And more than anything in the world, I want to forget it.”
“What?” She shook her head, at a loss for words. “You want to forget your past? Why?”
“I wasn’t a good man, Ms. Grimm,” he said simply. “I don’t wish to remember the man I was.”
She frowned. “How do you expect me to help you?”
His shoulders rose and dropped in a shrug. “Our old tinkerer couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me. Toward the end, I thought he might have found something, but then he disappeared without a word. I hoped a new tinkerer with a f
resh perspective would be able to help with my situation.”
Crossing her arms, she said, “I don’t see how a lack of memory loss is a bad thing. Hell, I want to stop the Forgetting, not try to help you lose your memories.” Anger surged through her veins, and she clenched her fists to keep them from shaking. “Was all that you said the other night about saving the performers some bogus lie to keep me here? All so I can be your cyborg tinkerer?”
“Of course not!” He swung his feet off the side of the bed.
“What are you doing, you oaf? Are you trying to kill yourself after I worked so hard to save your life? Sit down.”
Slowly, he rose to his feet. Despite the anger coursing through her, the sight of him, injured and limping toward her, cooled some of her anger.
With his shirt unbuttoned, she could see the outline of his implant when he exhaled—where she normally would have seen abdomen and ribs. Dark bruises and welts peppered his skin. The flesh traders had hit him.
He’d risked his life for hers.
With a sigh, she came forward and looped his arm around her shoulders. She tried to guide him back to the bed, but he resisted.
“Is it so wrong to want to help myself and the others at the same time?” His eyes locked on hers. They were so close she could feel the heat radiating off his body.
“In the process, I also saved you.” His voice a low rumble. “Without the surgery, you would have died.”
Damn it, she couldn’t think with his body pressed so close to hers. The heat of him muddied her thoughts.
“You’re killing yourself, you know.” She forced the words out. She didn’t want to say them. Hell, he probably wouldn’t be able to hear them, but they needed to be said. “I’ve known you for several months now, and I’ve rarely seen you eat a full meal. When I picked you up last night, you weighed little more than a child half your age—assuming you’re thirty after ten years at this circus. There’s no point in helping you if you can’t learn to love yourself first.”
Paling, Bastian looked away. Was that shame she saw in his eyes?
“What is it you see when you look in the mirror?” she pressed.
“A man far larger than Thaniel.” His voice was small. Not the loud, commanding voice of the ringleader, but the one of a forgotten son.
In her mind’s eye, she could see the overweight juggler.
“I see the man I once was—the man I’m scared to be again.”
“That was why you had heart problems,” she realized, recalling the first cyborg implant Bastian had been given—a device for his heart.
He nodded. “I was a large man once. But it wasn’t simply my size that led me to need my first implant. My family had a history of heart problems. Many died before their time, clutching their chests. But the weight, how I was… Well, it didn’t help.”
“So long as you’re healthy, who the fuck cares what size you are?” Again, she tried to bring him toward the bed, but he stood rigidly in place. “I don’t care if you are tall or short, bony or curvy, or what color your skin is. If you were an asshole, I would have left you to die on those docks. But you’re not. You risked your life to save mine. You came after me and fought flesh traders. The Mistress could have both our implants for this.”
As she spoke, she noted the closeness of his lips to hers. She could feel his stale breath heating her cheeks, and she didn’t care. Her heart raced as she felt the weight behind the arm slung across her shoulders. Now, his arm around her felt far too similar to an embrace.
“You’re a good person,” she continued, her voice soft. “You are strong and handsome and capable.”
He started. “You think I’m handsome?”
“I just said so, didn’t I?” Her cheeks heated. “I wish you could see what I do—the man behind the ringleader. Why do you want everyone to think you’re such a beast?”
Finally, he let her guide him back toward the bed. She lowered him onto the mattress. Rather than lying back down, he sat at the edge of the bed. Slowly, she sat beside him.
Then, he did something she didn’t expect.
Reaching out, he traced his fingers over her shoulder to the soft skin of her neck. His hand lingered before he ran his fingers through her hair. She froze, her breath hitching.
“I don’t have to push people away if they’re too afraid to get close.”
His hand moved back down her neck before his fingers traced her shaved scalp. Her breaths were ragged, and she surprised herself by leaning into his touch.
Slowly, he ran a finger down the side of her cheek before removing his hand.
To her surprise, she found herself longing for his touch again.
“You’ve made me want things that I… I told myself couldn’t happen,” he continued. “And you were right. I was selfish in my recruitment of you. I needed you not just for the circus, but for myself. I thought you’d prefer a life as a cyborg to no life at all. Was I wrong?”
Her eyes lingered on Bastian’s hands, which rested in his lap. With more effort than she cared to think about, she tore her gaze away.
“No,” she said at last. “Even if I had known the reason for your recruiting me, I probably would have still taken the second chance.”
She thought about what it must be like for Bastian. How he spent years watching every other cyborg lose their memories when he longed to forget and didn’t. But what about his past was so bad that he was desperate to wipe it from his mind?
Perhaps it was from watching Rora fade slowly from this life, but Gwen found she didn’t have the heart to be mad at him.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “For bringing you into this mess and for not being completely honest with you sooner.”
“I’m sorry for almost getting you killed.” She opened and closed her hands. “Thank you for coming after me, for showing me I have something left to fight for.” She cleared her throat, careful to keep her eyes off his bare chest. “Now, let’s see what type of damage that bullet did to your implant.”
Together, they removed his shirt. As she pulled each sleeve off, his fingers grazed hers, and she had to consciously remind herself it was no big deal. It didn’t mean anything.
With his shirt off, she noticed a shallow cut in his side, and she remembered how a flesh trader had sliced him with his sword. “It appears our healer missed a spot.” She got to work cleaning the wound before examining his implant. Moving her fingers across his chest and back, the plating beneath felt intact. There were a few sections with indents—possibly from their exchange with the dragon or from the night before—but the implant seemed well-constructed. When she examined where it attached to his backbone, she was amazed by the complexity of how the machine wove into each vertebra.
“I want to see your chip.”
From where Bastian lay down on the bed, he tried to peer up at her. “Why?”
“Humor me.” She shoved him unceremoniously back onto his stomach.
As he muttered something ungentlemanly into the pillow, she felt for the faint outline of where the chip would be inserted into his brain. She knew from some of the books that the slot used to be a bright metal material, but after pirates had stolen a number of chips from cyborgs, it had been changed to match the skin tone of the cyborg to make it more difficult to locate.
Finding it, she popped the panel open and removed the chip.
Most chips were small rectangular devices made of metal and sometimes polymer as well. Bastian’s chip consisted of the metal she’d anticipated, but it also had a far darker material marbled into it. As she studied it, she could have sworn the chip pulsed. What was that darker material, anyway? It didn’t look like any polymer she’d seen.
When she replaced the chip and closed the panel, Bastian pushed himself up and turned to face her.
Panic filled his eyes, and his cheeks were flushed. “Warn me next time. It felt like you were going inside and tampering with my brain. I couldn’t think… I couldn’t do anything until you put the chip back.”
> She froze. “Say that again.”
“It’s like my thoughts froze the moment you removed the chip.” His eyes grew distant. “I couldn’t recall anything—not your name or mine or anything about my past. All I could think about was this strange… need to return to the circus.”
Just like what I felt after Celeste removed my chip.
Then everything clicked into place.
“It’s the chips!” she exclaimed. “The Forgetting and Rora’s and Marzanna’s body rejecting their implants—I think it’s all because of the chips. There must be some issue with the coding. I’ll need to find a portable mainframe or data processor to confirm this. This isn’t Union-grade technology, after all. But fuck me, I think it’s the chips.”
A properly functioning cyborg chip shouldn’t impact the function of the host’s mind or body—only the functions of the implant it had been created to control without the need for internal wiring across the cyborg’s entire body.
Something—or someone—had tampered with the chips.
Her mind raced. “Is there anyone we can borrow or purchase a portable mainframe from?”
Slowly, Bastian nodded. “I know someone from this side of town who might have what we need. But it’s going to be expensive.”
“Of course, it is. Once we have it and get back to the castle, we’ll have a look at your chip.”
And Marzanna’s and Rora’s, she added silently.
“As soon as you’re feeling well enough to walk, we’ll head back.”
There were only three days until the final competition, which meant they were running out of time.
This discovery could mean everything, and not just that she wasn’t the world’s worst cyborg tinkerer. But if Bastian couldn’t form coherent thoughts without the chip—a technology that was supposedly only there to allow him to remotely control his cyborg implant—then maybe, just maybe, this could be the key to discovering the true origin of the Forgetting.
