by Ren Warom
“No.”
“You do so, then, and let me know if you’d have appreciated being dragged out of bed for that. It gave me fucking nightmares, just wanted to spare you the same.”
“Spare me? Oh please, do spare me, Bone. Spare me your bullshit!”
He wants to make it right. Make amends. Wants to tell Nia the truth, all of it, but she’s not ready to hear it, and he’s not ready to say it, and the need to start hunting the scratch burns a hole in him, the edges smouldering urgency. Bone attempts a smile, trying to make it warm when there’s little warmth left in him to work with, to keep from showing how desperate he is to get away.
“I’m sorry, Ni. Really. It was a long fucking day, full of way too much weird to process, and I just wanted to get that body shifted and out of my sight. I should have brought you in. I fucked up.”
“Yes, you should. So, why should I let you off those bodies? Give me one good reason.”
All his reasons are good, and all of them way too personal to share. All he can do is stand there, staring. But Nia does what she always does and sees it all in him, anyway. He watches as her anger becomes aggravation, then worry, then a weary resignation he wishes he didn’t have to put there because she has too much of that shit to deal with, what with who she is and where she came from and what that obligates her to.
“Fine. Go. Technically, you’re still off shift, anyway. I’ll cover you. I can manage.”
“Are you sure?”
She snorts, crossing her arms, then uncrossing them, her face filled with horror at the mess she’s smeared on them from her scrubs. “I’m clearly deranged,” she tells him, grabbing the sluice again and turning it on herself. “Now fuck off before I come to my senses.”
He grins, can’t help it, and blows her a kiss that earns him a snort of amused derision. Grabbing his jacket, he races out of the lab, and bypassing the lift, takes the stairs two at a time. His fingers travel to his pocket, dancing over the fold of skin. It’s been a long time, if ever, that he felt so full of purpose, so awake. Ironic, considering his mind’s more unbalanced now than it’s ever been. The dichotomy is laughable, but perhaps this is how he operates best. Who knows? He’s never been given the chance to find out.
Chapter 22
Passing through the iron-bound southeast gate, Bone heads east to where the Zone’s edge falls below the River Head, the industrial centre of the Spires. To the Avenue, a wide thoroughfare cobbled in gobbets of battered metals, worn and blackened by countless feet and wheels. On one side, tall buildings stippled with an array of unusual spires rest against each other like old men, exhausted after a hard day’s work, grimed by ash drifting down from the River Head. On the other side rises a dizzying breadth of cliffs, made terrifying by the heavy weight of factories perched at the top, their walkways and hubs reaching into the clouded sky, black and distorted.
This avenue of pubs, clubs, and biker bars is where the Zone’s most connected and fearsome personages wile the hours away between business deals and appointments. Most Morts don’t know this place, and of those who do, few would dare to come. They wouldn’t be welcomed. Bone walks to one of the more eccentric edifices, placed centrally along the boulevard and designed to resemble an Elizabethan tavern, whose beams of beaten steel crawl across lurid orange stonework. Snatch is a pounding Speed Punk pit owned by Spaz, leader of the Establishment. Inside, a mindless din from three jukes pumping out meaty down-tuned trash at an exaggerated volume fights with loud conversation, laughter, the chime of glass. Bone strides to the bar, nodding to a few acquaintances on his way. Snags a stool, his head already pounding.
He lights up a cigarette and orders his usual from the bar, from a girl called Caraway, too young for bar work. The daughter of a gang boss, in training for bigger things. His Mort’s gaze catches the sprinkling of needle-fine dots in the corners of her eyes. New gen-mods. Bone wonders what she’s had done. She takes his order with a nod and a cheeky grin.
“Hey, Bone-Man. How’s shit?”
He smiles, “Shit’s okay. Where’s Spaz?”
“In back. You want he serves you next?”
“I do.”
“No sweat.” She places his drink down, winks, and scoots away to the side door, off to hunt down Spaz.
Gas-malts vary in quality. Here, the petrol on top is sluggish, slightly foggy, and stinks as though unrefined. It probably isn’t as refined as it should be, but somehow eases him better than something the Wail might offer, sparking heat in his belly and easing the fingers of tension gripping his shoulders. He’s just started to enjoy his smoke when the side door opens and a large, disreputable-looking rake saunters out, dressed in tatty punker gear. His skin’s a riot of exquisite, tangling liquid-metal art, esoteric and obscure. It’s expensive work and perilous, but if done correctly, astonishingly beautiful. Spaz. Snatch landlord, Establishment boss, stone cold killer, the gnarliest motherfucker in the whole of the Spires, he reaches Bone and leans on the bar, treating him to a lazy grin of welcome. “Well, well, what brings my good friend the Bone-Man to my humble tavern?”
“I need to know an artist,” Bone says without preamble. Spaz likes dealing out small talk, but isn’t so fond of it being returned; he’s rarely ever encountered a moment he felt inclined to waste.
“Faceless wonder?”
Bone gulps his drink for false courage and shakes his head. “Not this time.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the rectangle of Lever’s skin before he can think better of it, straightening it out on the bar with loving fingers. It adheres to the wood just a little, still sticky in places, and Spaz’s gaze hits it like frag missiles. He whistles low through his teeth, the sound grating, short and sharp, not a sound of surprise or admiration.
“Thas a piece of work, mate,” he says, his face suddenly sharp as his accent, composed of planes and edges. “Where’d you get it?”
“Woman by the name of Lever left it in my care.”
“Lever? She Mech?”
“Not even a little,” Bone says, unable to hold back the smile.
“Fair enough.” Spaz scrutinises Bone’s face. “What is it you need?”
“I need to know the scratch.”
Bone struggles to hide his elation. Spaz’s initial reaction could’ve been anything, but Bone’s sure it’s the snake tattoo because he’s never seen that demeanour crack before, not even a little. The snake is significant to Spaz, too. A question about transmog hovers on his lips, but he swallows it. Perhaps the tattoo is connected and perhaps it’s not, but sharing his knowledge of transmog with Spaz might be hazardous to his health. He’s not ready for hazard. Not yet.
Spaz pours Bone another drink, letting the reeking petrol pool, sinuous and thick through the whisky, and agitating the glass as it settles to mix the two just a touch. “Mind if I …?” he asks, gesturing at the skin.
Bone reluctantly pushes it towards him and loses himself in what happens to be a perfect gas-malt. Spaz lifts the skin in his steel-tipped nails, holding it up to the meagre, reddish light. His teeth chew on a selection of custom lip metal, not available in the Zone for anything less than a small fortune. After a moment, he slides the skin back under Bone’s fingers.
“That’s Nathaniel’s work,” he says.
Bone looks up, curious. His fingers begin to stroke the skin, tracing the coils of the snake. “Nathaniel? I’ve not heard of him.”
“You wouldn’t have.” Spaz leans close, his tattoos shimmering with the movement. Brings with him a smell of musky sweat, the warm citrus of alcohol, and a metallic twang that tickles the nose. “Colour me intrigued, but just how do you end up with this section of skin?”
Spaz can smell a lie from a mile away, but Bone can’t possibly share. He’d have to admit to that knowledge of transmog. He licks his lips. “Very unusual circumstances,” he offers and begins to feel a little dizzy, sickly heat pooling in his skull.
“Is this Lever still with us, or on your table?” Spaz’s stare is un
usually intense and Bone sweats under the scrutiny, the insides of his skull molten and liquid.
“She’s quite alive,” he says, though he can’t imagine how life must feel to whatever it is Lever became. “At least, she was when I last saw her.”
“So, why do you need to see the scratch?” Spaz asks, watching Bone’s fingers ceaselessly tracing the coils of the snake.
Bone blinks sweat from his eyes and tries to force his fingers to leave the skin, to stop tracing those coils round and round. Only he can’t. In the end, he has to roughly fold it over so he can’t see the design. His head’s swimming. Thoughts slipping through his grasp like eels. He racks his brain for an answer to Spaz’s question because he hadn’t thought of this. Stupidly, he hadn’t thought much at all.
“She, uh … she’s walking around missing a fair amount of skin. I need to locate her, make sure she’s all right.”
“Missing skin ain’t no big problem round here, mate, and you know it,” Spaz says, the ice blue of his eyes too bright in the dim light of the bar. He taps the folded skin with one razor-sharp nail. “Nice design, that.”
Bone feels that nail as if it’s on his own skin, and shivers. “It’s interesting.”
On Spaz’s metal-laden mouth, a smile grows in slow motion, sinister as a shark’s. “You looking to take some ink, my friend?” he asks, his voice so soft Bone’s forced to lean in further, bringing them nose to nose. “Looking to mark that skin of yours, now Daddy’s gone?”
Bone wants to look away from Spaz’s too-direct gaze. It’s hurting. Driving holes into the hot, soft tissue of his brain. His head ripples and dislocates. Needles of heat surround his pupils. He wants to blink them away, but he can no more move than he can stop staring. His heart palpates, and prickling sweat breaks out on the back on his neck. Crawls down his spine, snake-like. He shivers as the sensations refuse to dissipate, becoming part of his skin.
“I just want to ID her,” he murmurs, but the words don’t feel like they belong to him anymore, his intentions become blurry, uncertain.
Spaz leans back, abruptly freeing Bone from his gaze, leaving him rocked and shaken. “Well, if the urge strikes, Nate’s your man. You’ll need to cure that skin soon, no longer than a day or so.”
Caught off guard, Bone says thoughtlessly, “You don’t need to tell me.”
“No, I don’t.” Spaz raises a brow one meaningful increment.
“Oh.” Bone blinks. His head won’t clear. Feels heavy, swollen with hot liquids. “Any suggestions?”
“Take it to Buster. He’ll do a decent job.” Spaz swipes his cloth across a patch of beer spilt by one of the bikers shoving past and growls at the man responsible, who flushes red, then white, and stammers an apology.
“Will do. And Nathaniel? Where’s he?”
“On the edge of Pier Five, in the market beneath Adorn.”
“That’s not open to outsiders,” Bone points out, tucking the skin carefully back into his pocket.
Spaz chuckles, the merry sound at odds with his uncompromising face. “They won’t say no to the Bone-Man. Especially not Nate. He’s one of ours.”
“Ah.” Bone nods. “Much obliged.”
“No sweat.” Spaz offers him a humourless, toothy grin. “You look after that skin.”
Bone has no idea which skin Spaz means, but that’s his cue to leave and he takes it in a rush, feeling Spaz’s eyes on him even as he heads to the Zone Lake. He can’t stop thinking about the snake tattoo. Spaz is right; Leif’s dead and he no longer has to do as he’s told. That thought in the lab about colluding with his suffering reoccurs. He wonders what the snake would look like on his back, what the needle would feel like, the prickles still tingling on his spine, almost a presentiment of the sensation. Curiosity about mods is something he’s experienced before and dismissed as pointless. Now he’s finding himself drawn to the idea, a heady sense of rebellion swirling in the pit of his belly. It would be so simple to ask Nathaniel to put the snake on his back. Bone laughs aloud, drawing more stares than usual.
“This shit’s getting to me,” he mutters to himself, willing the stares away. Wishes he could will himself invisible. “I’m not myself.”
The thought stops him in his tracks because it’s ridiculous. He’s never known himself outside of Leif’s expectations and Leif’s not here anymore. He’s reduced to a shadow, a ghost haunting Bone’s head. Why should he listen to a ghost? What can a ghost do? There’s no point being afraid. Fear is a box, and he’s tired of living in boxes. Look where it’s got him. Inexpressible rage fills him, pushing at the inside of his skin. He’s fed up of every choice being made for him without his permission. He wants some fucking autonomy. Wants what Lever had, the power to leave who he is behind completely. But whilst he’s still himself, whilst this skin is still attached, why not alter it? If he’s going to get rid of it, surely he can do whatever he likes?
Chapter 23
Pier Five’s a ramshackle jumble of concrete and steel, laced into a whole by time and invention. Bone threads his way through stifling streets, lit even at midday by guttering holo-torches, breathing in the sharp scent of burning metals and the rank odour of scorched flesh. The first sight of Adorn, above the cramped patchwork of shops, is always outlandish. A vast genetics lab still gleaming with new-build sheen, it sprawls with unconscious superiority across the final third of the pier.
Wandering into the open-plan yawn of the spartan reception area, Bone feels like a ghost himself. It’s the aura of stillness, the anaemic palate of whites, creams, and beiges. He makes his way to the desk, accompanied by the rude clack of his shoes on polished plas-crete. There’s just one girl manning reception, lost behind a mile of featureless cream plas-wood. She’s new, but Adorn has a high staff turnover, so it’s no surprise. Her face is more metal than flesh and reflects pale colours, rendering her a human puzzle of disparate pieces.
“I’m looking for Nathaniel,” he says.
“At the end of the Arcade, through the tunnel.” She points to a square portal, disguised by the bland colours of the wall. “Follow the signs to Mare’s place, if you can.” Dazzling violet-tinted eyes flash laughter. “She’ll show you to Nathaniel’s.”
He peers at her name tag and stifles a grin. “Thanks, Violet.”
She smiles, flirtatious. “You’re welcome, Bone-Man.”
Bone sets off down the cool, glass tunnel, wincing at the raucous advertisements scrolling its surfaces. Beyond the tunnel, the Arcade is unmistakably gang. A schizophrenic maze of workshops built from oddments of other buildings, totally out of place between the smooth underbelly of Adorn and the wood of the pier. There’s a circus atmosphere of friendly chaos, and he finds Mare’s place in the madness not by following signs, which are frankly confusing, but by asking. Mare’s place is a hovel of a shop, colourful and brash, somewhere near the heart of the market. She’s a blowsy, friendly sort, quite happy to drop everything to take him to Nate’s place, despite the market being full of eager punters. Being a legend has its perks.
Nathaniel holds court in a clear glass box, jutting out over the water; a precarious, almost invisible studio. The thickness of the glass mutes the buzz of a scratch at work, but it invades Bone right to the marrow, vibrating there like an impact, and he has to drag his feet the remaining metres to the door. He’s heard this sound a million times, but he’s never felt the pull of it before. He didn’t realise how much gravity there was in it. He stops for a moment to give the feeling his full attention. It’s incredible. Through the floor, the water of the Zone Lake undulates, lazy as petrol on a gas-malt, throwing reflections of black light onto Nathaniel’s face. Small, dark, and dressed like a pimp, his sleeves rolled up to expose sinewy forearms, he sits deep in concentration over the shoulder of a Skat three times his size. The Skat, a crew boss by the looks of the spike-pattern across his back, has his face all screwed up like he’s shitting backwards, and Nathaniel looks up to Bone from his work, scornful amusement written over neat features.
Bone longs to do as requested but his feet are welded to the floor. He continues watching, feeling almost supplicant, supple with longing, as Nathaniel finishes a deep well of black with two decisive passes, throwing a glare of disgust at the relief on the Skat’s flattened red face.
“You sicken me,” he snarls. “Get fucking lost.”
The Skat nods politely, gathering up his jacket from the floor. “Same time next week?”
“Eleven sharp, leave your cowardice at the bar this time.” Nathaniel dismisses him with a sneer and turns to Bone. “Well, what brings the Bone-Man to the Scratch?”
Bone loiters, teasing the threshold. “Business of an unusual kind. Spaz gave your name in connection to a piece of scratchwork.”
“Really now? You got a corpse wearing my work?”
Bone finally manages to enter the parlour. “No.” He hesitates for a second, but there’s no point being coy so he just says it outright, “I met someone wearing it. A woman called Lever.”
Several expressions fleet across Nathaniel’s face, too fast to be interpreted, and the level of tension in the parlour cranks towards the oppressive. “Lever,” he says quietly. “I’ve tattooed her only the once. She had the snake.”
“That’s right.” Bone draws the skin out of his pocket and passes it to the spry scratch.
Nathaniel spends a long time looking at it. “Hell of a waste, this,” he says, without looking up. “What would you like to know?”
“Everything. I want all her ID info.”
Nathaniel sighs and raises his eyes to Bone’s. “Sorry to disappoint, but there’s nothing. She’s a top tier Establishment freelancer and comes with the security allocation to prove it. SA means no fucking information.”
