The Cyborg Tinkerer

by Meg LaTorre

  She could do this.

  “Don’t slump your shoulders, Ms. Lockwood.”

  Gwen tried not to flinch at the sound of Bastian’s voice, infused with his usual ringleader authority. They hadn’t spoken during the remaining trip on the ship or since arriving on Jinx.

  But as Bastian lectured Rora and the other performers, she couldn’t help the way her heart lurched. Her thoughts slid easily to their shared kiss on the deck. And stars, she wanted to kiss him again. Fuck, she wanted to do so much more than just kiss him.

  But could she trust him?

  If anything, Rora had proven Gwen wasn’t the best judge of character. And damn it, she couldn’t be hurt again. Not this soon.

  She averted her eyes as Bastian walked past her. For a moment, it seemed as though he lingered, and his steps were hesitant. Then the moment faded, and he walked past her.

  “It’s showtime!” one watchman called. “Performers, line up.”

  The cyborgs rose to their feet at once and stood in organized lines. Akio and Marzanna spared Gwen a worried look before they ran up the ramp and onto the center-most portable stage at the base of the amphitheater.

  Good luck.

  As the remaining circus staff busied themselves cleaning up or moving props, Gwen ducked around the curtain and strode partway up the ramp. She turned down a nearby hallway that was beneath the audience’s benches.

  Countless props were all neatly organized according to the order of performances.

  Glancing around, she didn’t see a staff member in sight.

  As quietly as she could, she strode through the maze and found Abrecan’s target for his archery and knife-throwing act. Again, she looked around and saw no one.

  Taking a deep breath, she removed the hammer from her belt and raised her hand to strike the supporting beams.

  “Ms. Grimm. I had hoped I wouldn’t see you here.”

  Fuck.

  Lowering her hammer, she spun on a heel.

  “Mistress.” It was an effort to keep her voice neutral as Celeste emerged from a dark hallway she hadn’t seen before along with a dozen watchmen. “I was just coming to check on some of the props. One of the performers had asked me to—”

  “I’m not in the mood for games.” Celeste gestured to her hammer. “Drop the weapon, if you please.”

  Gwen looked at the watchmen, who were slowly circling her. At that moment, it felt startlingly similar to the night she’d been surrounded by flesh traders. “I don’t think so.”

  Like then, she wasn’t going down without a fight.

  “I feel I have been very fair with you,” the Mistress said with a sigh. “I’ve given you several warnings, yet… I must admit, I wasn’t surprised when Mr. Karlight told me of your intentions for the third competition. I had hoped it wasn’t true, but…” She shrugged. “I did tell you what would happen if you didn’t comply with our policies at Cirque du Borge.”

  “You mean, when I don’t willingly murder innocent people?” Gwen thought about reaching down to the knife sheathed in her boot but didn’t dare. Not with the watchmen closing in. “Excuse me for having a fucking conscience.”

  Celeste merely dipped her chin as though acknowledging an old acquaintance blathering at a dinner party.

  “Take her.”

  The watchmen moved in.

  Gwen had a split second to decide whether she would run or fight. But she knew at once she didn’t stand a chance against twelve guards. Turning, she dashed toward a nearby bike ramp, narrowly missing the arms of reaching watchmen. Leaping, she bounced on several trampolines before her feet slammed into the ground. Ignoring the pain in her knees, she ran.

  But before she could reach the ramp leading to the amphitheater—and freedom beyond in the crowds of pirates—a hand grabbed her jacket and a watchman hauled her backward. Her screams were drowned out by the sounds of cheering above.

  Arms wrapped around her, and she was dragged back into the shadows. Kicking and clawing, she fought with everything she had. But there were too many of them.

  Watchmen pinned her hands and feet to the floor while more pulled free their wooden batons. In the process, someone had torn the hammer from her grasp.

  “Break her legs,” Celeste said from somewhere behind her.

  Panic tore through her chest. She screamed, struggling to get free.

  She had a single thought as she watched the wooden baton swing toward her right shin in an impossibly slow arc.

  Bastian was right.

  Pain rattled through her as bone cracked. Tears streamed down her cheek as she shrieked in pain. But she didn’t beg, didn’t ask the Mistress for mercy. After what she’d seen in the competitions, she knew she’d have none.

  The Mistress came into view.

  Celeste Beckett was a goddess of death, red as the dawn, as she approached Gwen. As was her custom, the Mistress was garbed in scarlet, from her hair to her gown, to her cape, to her nails. As she came to kneel before Gwen, she raised her hands.

  Fear paralyzed Gwen, and she forgot to move—to fight.

  Celeste’s perfectly manicured scarlet nails were no longer nails but ten massive talons. The metal was sharpened to an impossibly fine point.

  “I warned you what would happen if you crossed me,” the Mistress hissed. “And don’t think I didn’t notice a certain acrobat’s new implant. Despite your growing talent, I’m far too close to let your delicate disposition get in the way.”

  She raised a hand toward Gwen’s eye, directing a talon at where the base of her implant connected to flesh.

  She’s going to cut me open right here.

  Screaming, Gwen flailed her arms and legs, trying to break free. But it was no use. The watchmen held on fast.

  “I don’t need your eye,” Celeste continued, hand raised. “But I won’t let you keep it either. You will walk the streets of Jinx as a worthless human. That is, if you live long enough after I—”

  “Celeste!” a voice roared. “What’s going on here?”

  Glancing past the talon above her eye, Gwen realized for the first time that the opening act had ended. Bastian and the performers descended the ramp and moved toward their private quarters below ground.

  Many of the performers lingered in the doorway, but they hurried toward safety at the sound of more gunshots. Only Bastian stood his ground. After a moment, he strode toward them until he was mere steps away from where Gwen was held down.

  The Mistress turned her gaze back to Gwen’s cyborg eye. She tapped it gently with a metallic fingernail. “I caught Ms. Grimm about to destroy some of our performers’ props, so I am carrying out her punishment.” She turned to Bastian. “You know as well as I do the price for disobedience. The contract states I can terminate any contract at any time for any reason. Now, run along, little ringleader. Unless you have something you’d like to say?”

  “Take me instead.” Bastian’s voice was raw as though he’d been the one screaming. “You want me as your apprentice again? Fine. I will do whatever you say. Just… spare her. Allow her to remain with Cirque du Borge.”

  His eyes were round with fear as he glanced at Gwen’s broken leg, twisted at an unnatural angle.

  “I’m quite certain she has learned her lesson.” His pleading eyes fell on Gwen. “She won’t step out of line ever again.”

  Once, Gwen had wondered if Bastian would stand up to the Mistress for her. After the second competition, she’d seen him hesitate as the watchmen beat her in the middle of the theater. But he didn’t hesitate now.

  At that moment, she wished for nothing more than a few minutes alone with him. To apologize for being a complete and utter fool. His past didn’t define who he was—not when he was trying so hard to be a better man. To protect her and the others. How could she not see that? Stars, she wished for the nights on the ship back just so she could kiss him again and tell him how sorry she was.

  Instead, only a grunt of pain escaped her lips as Celeste spoke.

  “An interesting
proposal.”

  As the Mistress rose to her feet, relief swelled in Gwen’s chest.

  “I accept.” Celeste extended her clawed red hand toward Bastian. Slowly, he took it, his hands visibly shaking. “You will come to my quarters immediately upon departure. For the remainder of this competition, you will continue your role as the ringleader. Understood?”

  Bastian nodded.

  “Good.” The Mistress moved toward their rooms below ground and crooked a finger over her shoulder. “See to it that this mess is cleaned up.”

  Just like that, Celeste and the watchmen disappeared.

  Bastian ran over to Gwen, falling to his knees beside her. Reaching toward her, he stopped, eyeing her broken leg. “Oh, stars. Gwendolyn…”

  “I’m fine,” she lied. “Just… help me to my feet.”

  Slowly, he slipped an arm under her, pulling her upright.

  “Oh, fuck.” She hissed as more obscenities flew from her mouth. “I can’t put any weight on my leg.”

  He nodded, still holding on to her. “Let’s get you to the healer. He will put your shin in a cast—”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Not yet. First… I need to apologize. I should have listened to you. You were right. And what you shared with me the other night…”

  “Now isn’t the time.” Slowly, he moved toward the main room, Gwen hobbling with him. “First, I need to get you help. And then I have to return to the competition.”

  “Right.”

  As the healer realigned her broken leg and wrapped it in a cast, she watched the competition from a private balcony above the circus’s quarters. Interestingly, the Mistress had insisted that she “bear witness to the feats of Cirque du Borge.”

  One act after another came across the various stages.

  She tried to still her heart as Bastian spun in a circle on center stage, his cane raised in the air as the cyborg beasts strode in circles around him. Marzanna and Akio flipped back and forth far above the crowd in their trapeze act. Abrecan never missed the target, and Thaniel juggled more absurdly large objects to the applause of the audience.

  Other acts weren’t as fortunate.

  Gunshots rang loudly as audience members directed guns at the performers. Blood spurted dark across the stages as the crowd jeered. In some cases, the performer was able to finish their performance injured. In other cases, performers collapsed onto the stage, never to rise again. Watchmen dragged their bodies away to the booing of the crowd.

  It was after the audience had shot the firebreather that Rora appeared.

  Jogging up the ramp, Rora smiled brightly. When the yellowed artificial light hit her, it was as though the entire world slowed. Gwen didn’t hear the skeptical murmurs from the crowd or notice how the spotlights creaked as they turned, following her. All she could see was the beautiful acrobat.

  The slackline had been secured to a portable stage, which was rolled to the center.

  When Rora was a few feet away from the center of the rope, she turned to the audience, arched her back, and shimmied into a deep belly roll.

  Gwen tried to ignore the fact that her body found that particular move very erotic.

  Soft drums pattered in the background as Rora slowly dipped backward until her hands touched the ground behind her. Flipping her feet into the air, she walked on her hands until she was beneath the rope. She pushed herself off the ground, catching the rope with her legs and swinging up into a seated position.

  As she rose to her feet, the rope swayed beneath her. To Gwen, it seemed as though it was trying to buck her off. But Rora walked forward, leaning into each step as the slackline swayed back and forth. When she reached the end, she turned, waiting for the rope to still. When it did, she launched herself forward.

  Flipping, she caught the rope in both hands before spinning once more and landing nimbly at the other end of the slackline. The rope swayed gently, and the audience gasped, clapping louder.

  Again, Rora moved her hips as the wave passed up her stomach to her chest and neck.

  Gwen was thankful for the distraction of pain in her leg.

  Far slower this time, Rora flipped forward. Her legs arced through the air before sliding apart into a deep split. She wrapped her feet along the rope at either end. Then, she flipped herself down toward the ground, spinning in endless circles with only her feet securing her to the rope. As she spun, she moved her outstretched hands to the center of the rope, stopping herself from spinning before slowly lowering her feet to the ground.

  Several gunshots fired off into the air as she air-walked her toes along the ground.

  Gwen’s heart nearly stopped as she waited for Rora’s body to drop, as lifeless as the last performer.

  Instead, Rora flipped over the rope and onto the ground.

  More gunshots fired off into the air, and Rora bowed deeply. The audience clapped, yelling unflattering, sexist praises. Turning, she descended the ramp back to the performers’ quarters below ground.

  Even after Rora broke her heart, Gwen found herself exhaling in relief.

  Rora wasn’t safe from extraction yet, but she was safe from the audience—for now.

  “That is all I can do for you, Ms. Grimm.”

  Looking up to the healer, Gwen nodded her thanks. Barbosa disappeared far too quickly for a man of his age—probably eager to be away from the woman who kept pissing off the Mistress.

  Then it was time for the finale.

  Her mind was blurry from pain, so the final act seemed to move far quicker than the others. Once they were done, Bastian strode forward, flipping his cane into the air.

  “Did you have a good show?” he called, earning a roar from the audience. “It’s time to pick your favorite acts.”

  How could I do this to him? The thought swept across her mind even as guilt tightened her chest. He loves being the ringleader, and he’s good at it, too. And now it’s my fault he will be forced to work for a woman he hates more than himself.

  The performers split from the final pose of the finale and moved to stand beside their respective acts at different spots around the stage. One by one, those acts came to stand beside Bastian, and the audience cheered or booed each performance.

  Holding her breath, she prayed no one would be shot.

  The audience cheered for Abrecan while Thaniel was met with heartier praise.

  When it was Rora’s turn to come forward, she flipped forward and fell into a split at Bastian’s side. He held an outstretched arm toward her as she rose to stand. The audience clapped wildly, far louder than any response Gwen had heard yet.

  Smiling broadly, Rora waved at them before returning to her spot farther back on the stage.

  When Bastian called Marzanna and Akio forward, the audience stilled before a deafening roar consumed the amphitheater. The sound was a rolling wave, booming across the rows of benches. The two trapeze artists bowed together.

  Before they could move back, a gunshot split the air.

  Flinching, Gwen froze for several moments. Looking around, she scanned the performers to see if any of them were hurt. They clutched unbloodied stomachs, breathing sighs of relief when they realized their innards were securely behind fleshy walls.

  Then Akio staggered forward.

  Jerking forward in her seat, Gwen clasped the railing of the balcony before her.

  “No!” Rora cried, dashing to center stage.

  Marzanna and Rora caught Akio before he could topple over, somehow keeping him upright. He held a hand to his shoulder. Pulling it back, it was covered in dark scarlet. More blood seeped from the wound, pooling on the stage below him.

  Several boos erupted from the audience.

  “Someone help him!” Gwen shouted from her private balcony, but the sound was lost to the crowd.

  Marzanna and Rora did what they could to stop the bleeding. Although the injury shouldn’t be serious, the implication behind it was.

  Some of the audience didn’t like the performance.

  “It
seems the audience is undecided on this act,” Bastian said, eyeing the watchmen at the base of the ramp.

  “I’ll ask again,” Bastian boomed. “What did you think of this act?”

  Gwen held her breath.

  Please let them be safe.

  As the audience cheered loudly for a second time, no more shots were fired. Bastian nodded toward Akio and Marzanna, indicating they should move back. There were more acts who’d yet to face their fate.

  Act after act was brought before the audience. The next ones to be booed were shot without hesitation. Blood splattered the stage as performers dropped. Some were lucky enough to only get hit in the shoulder or leg. Others weren’t—bleeding out or dying instantly.

  Once the final acts had been given a chance before the audience, they were left with fifteen acts who weren’t shot… and a pile of bodies.

  Gwen didn’t hear when Bastian announced the ten winning acts. All she could see was the endless carnage. Blood spilled over the sides of the center stage.

  Watchmen ushered the winning acts off the stage and to the rooms below ground—away from the trigger-happy audience.

  They had done it.

  Her friends had survived the final competition.

  She should feel relieved. Instead, all she felt was dread.

  Soon, they would be performing for the emperor, a man who had helped create and instate the Cyborg Prohibition Law. Although there was a chance to reverse the law by convincing the Union Council cyborgs weren’t a threat to society, the fact remained—the Union wasn’t currently safe for Gwen or her friends. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Bastian would be at the beck and call of a woman he feared. And for what? Nothing Gwen had tried to do had made a difference.

  Again.

  But they wouldn’t see the emperor just yet. First, she had to harvest the parts of the losing acts. She prayed she could save most of the cyborgs from death. But she knew she would be too weak from her own injuries and dizzy with pain to do more than what Celeste demanded of her.

  With the aid of a crutch, she limped back down to the room where the performers were, a question playing through her mind.