by Tracy Lauren
“It was in there too!” I defend. “Just mashed in with a lot of other stuff!”
“V, this is serious. Not only because I need you to succeed at this assassination, but because the TASE is a very dangerous technology. You must become the master of it, and time is not a luxury you have.”
“Look, Osc, if you want someone calm you’re talking to the wrong girl. If I had the ability to just relax and calm down I probably wouldn’t be in the mess to begin with.”
He takes in my words and eyes me reflectively. “I have seen you confident before.”
“Even if you think you did, believe me, I was faking it.”
He laughs at my words in a companionable sort of way. “I reject that, V. When I saw you dance in my gaming house and even when you defeated Zair by climbing the ropes in the hanger, both those times you were at peace. You were confident then. Tell me, and think hard on this, when do you feel the most confident?”
I don’t need to think about it, unfortunately. I know when I feel my most confident. When I’m able to lose myself…
“Tell me,” he demands.
“When I dance or when I’m on the silks. I’m confident then. I feel strong, powerful. It’s easy to get lost in the motions and to not overthink things.”
“What are silks?”
I describe the mechanics of it all to The Oscillion and he seems deeply interested.
“I will have one constructed,” he says suddenly.
“No, please. Don’t go to the trouble,” I say, feeling embarrassed.
“It is not for you, V, but for me that I go to the trouble.”
“You want to learn how to use the silks?” I ask, shocked.
He shakes his head at me, his eyes filled with condescending pity. I suppose I misunderstood him.
“It will help toward your body’s inner alignment. Moving fluidly, with concentrated attention, will aid you in learning to use your TASE. And, as a matter of fact, I think it has given me a wonderful idea for your upcoming assassination.”
“Lovely,” I grumble. “So, this will at least postpone things a bit, while you have the silks installed?”
“Absolutely not. They will be ready for you by morning. Until then, let me gather Narron and you can be on your way.” He stands and stalks over to the door. Swinging it open, he doesn’t even need to speak. All of the waiting guards and servants jump to anticipate their master’s needs. Narron included. My trainer comes into the room, looking even more gruff than usual.
“It is time for her disguise,” The Oscillion informs Narron. The behemoth's expression darkens, but he nods his compliance and comes to collect me. I expect him to grab me by the braid and haul me from the room, or to give a stiff shove to my back. But he does none of those things. Instead he shadows me, his thuggish demeanor enough to steer me without getting physical. Still, I eye him suspiciously. Why isn’t he giving me the strong arm? Is it my imagination or does Narron appear wary of me?
“You are sure you want her made Aritine?” Narron asks.
“Unless you have a better idea.”
“You could cut your losses now.” The Oscillion’s eyes shoot to Narron. His gaze is hard and penetrating. “It will be expensive to convert her, and you’ve already given her the skeletal enhancement—” Narron attempts to continue.
“She will not begin to be worth the credits I’ve spent on her until after she kills Vigere, and she cannot kill Vigere as she is now. Take her now, Narron, and see to my will. I want her Aritine before the day is out. Send the medic along to administer her shots, I don’t have time for her to heal naturally.”
“Um, shots?” I question. “Would anyone give the least bit of a damn if I said I was scared of needles?”
The Oscillion stops to stare at me and then breaks the silence in the room with his grating laughter. It’s as if I just made a spectacular joke. Conversely, Narron looks even more pained by my words and he blatantly avoids my eyes.
“Aritine, Narron, full Aritine,” The Oscillion repeats, closing his eyes and settling back into his own meditation.
“We can give her a mask, instead of the facial augmentations. Many Aritines opt for the mask.”
The Oscillion’s eyes open only to bore into Narron, but our master’s expression is calm and perhaps even a bit curious.
“I’ll trust you with the final details,” he says finally, a razor-thin smile cutting across his features. Narron spins to leave, and I hesitate, unsure of what is going to happen. Shots, facial augmentations, what the heck is an Aritine anyway, and how are they going to make me one?
“Scared of needles…” The Oscillion repeats, laughing to himself. I hurry to catch up with Narron.
In the halls he keeps a quick pace and I struggle to keep up. Though I’m steadily becoming more accustomed to the new sensations in my body, the TASE makes my movements feel more fluid and powerful. I try to rein my body in, but then it feels like I’m walking on eggshells. It’s like The Oscillion replaced everything inside me with something…alien.
“Nice to see you too,” I tell Narron sarcastically.
He cuts around another corner and we pass more of The Oscillion’s army of guards. There are hallways packed with these confederate Narron’s—big, scarred up, and mean-looking aliens. Every single one of them looking more like an assassin than me. I guess that’s the point.
“I thought you were dead,” he says suddenly.
“That’s literally the worst greeting ever,” I tell him, trying to jump right back into our routine of hate-filled ball-busting, but something feels off. The way Narron talks to me leaves me feeling anxious. He’s treating me differently and I don’t know why.
Narron leads us out through the main entrance of the fortress and into the bright Quar sunlight. He pauses there, finally looking down at me. “I saw you after you fell from the tapestry. You had been twelve floors up, if you recall. You were lying there in a heap, broken. I was sure you were dead.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“I am sorry for what will come to pass. I have repeatedly told The Oscillion you are not fit for this life, but he refuses to listen.”
I stare at Narron, not sure how to respond, and he looks down at me, waiting.
“I can’t tell if you’re insulting me or—” I begin, but he cuts me off.
“We must trust that The Oscillion has a plan. He has a gift for seeing people’s greatest strengths. His greater gift, though, is pulling that strength to the outside,” Narron tells me. His voice is grave and ominous.
“If you think it’s strength he sees in me then you need your vision checked.”
“It seems incongruent to say that after Drykn.”
“Don’t be a fool. It didn’t take strength to do any of that, Narron. That was straight-up, uncut, and unbridled cowardice.”
“How can you say such a thing—”
“Because it’s the truth! It isn’t strength The Oscillion deals in! It’s cowardice, it’s the evils inside us! The Oscillion is the devil, Narron, sitting on our shoulders whispering lies and trying to get us to believe them. Maybe he wants me to think it’s strength that drives me, but it isn’t—”
“Stop, someone will hear you. He has been easy on you, but he has his limits and you should not test them.” He climbs onto his waiting motorcycle, looking back at me. It’s less of an invitation and more of a demand.
“Thanks for looking out for me,” I say sarcastically as I try to mount the bike, but he stops me.
“I regret that I was not there to help you with Drykn—”
“I didn’t mean that.”
“It was my hope that you would fail, in one way or another, so that The Oscillion would see you are not capable of this life and lose interest in you. He does that sometimes, forgets about a new toy. Unfortunately, it seems unlikely that will occur with you.”
“Forget it. None of it matters anyway.” I shrug away hope.
But Narron persists. “When I say you are not fit for th
is life, what I mean is that you deserve more. You and your kind are too precious to be tarnished in such a way.”
I laugh ruefully at Narron’s admission. “So, you’re caught up in this goddess bullshit too? You look at me and all you can see is some stupid myth.” I scoff and shake my head at him. All these people think they know who I am. “You see a make-believe goddess. The Oscillion recognizes nothing but darkness in me and you know what, the only person who ever saw any damned good in me is rotting away somewhere inside that fortress. He deserves more.”
“You seem to be claiming you are none of these things. If not, then what are you?
“I’m just me, Narron. I’m only human.”
“Not for long.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“It will only get worse for you,” Narron tells me, looking out at the horizon.
“I can’t imagine how.” I laugh despite myself, running a hand over my forehead wearily. I used to be so scared of Narron, but the silence we share is almost companionable. Maybe I’m just too tired to care anymore.
“Before the day is done The Oscillion won’t be the only man you think of as a devil. You’ll think of me as one too. Now get on,” Narron tells me solemnly, tossing me a heavy wad of fabric from a satchel on the back of his bike. I shake it out, unsure of what it might be. Upon closer inspection I see it’s a cloak, just like the one Dax had me wear on Lock VI.
Chapter 42
V
We make our way to the market and turn down back alley after back alley before Narron stops his bike. I peek out from under the hood of my cloak, but the alley is dark, wedged between multi-level shops.
“What are we—” I begin, but Narron cuts me short by stomping on a metal plate on the ground. I’m surprised when the plate swings upward. By the looks of it, it appears to be a door leading down to a bunker of some kind.
“Come on,” Narron says in a quiet yet brusque tone.
Silently, I follow him down the steps. It is dark and I’m not sure what to expect. Between the lighting and my newly discordant muscles and joints, the descent seems precarious and I have to reach for the walls to steady myself. At the foot of the stairs the room opens up, and indeed it looks as if it was originally a bunker, but in this life it’s an underground tattoo parlor. My heart sinks and I recall the vague and distant memory of The Oscillion and Narron discussing tattoos.
I look past the tattoo artist and focus instead on the displays of artwork lining the walls of the muggy and stagnant subterranean cellar. The air in here is so repressive, I want to rip this stupid heavy cloak off.
The images on the walls don’t show any cute little kanji tattoos. There are no dream catchers or sacred hearts. Nope, there are only full-body tribals. I cringe.
“She needs work done,” Narron tells the man.
“Let me see what I have to work with,” the artist replies.
I let out a long-suffering sigh and pull the cloak off. I try to toss it to Narron, but overshoot by quite a bit…must have overestimated the distance…stupid TASE.
“I know you,” the guy says, catching my attention. I look up at him with a frown.
“I think you must be mistaken,” I reply. The guy is completely unfamiliar. He is bald, with head-to-toe tribals. Some of his skin—the softer undersides of his arms, his neck, and stomach, are a pale, milky color, but the rest of him looks as if he was airbrushed an orangey gold. He wears something clipped over his nose, a smaller version of some of the breathing apparatuses I’ve seen aliens wear sometimes. The oddest feature he possesses, however, is a series of bony protrusions, covering his body. Some are the size of peas and others as large as walnuts. I trace them with my eyes and see that they run along his legs and forearms, down his sternum, and even over his cheekbones.
I notice other things about him too. His lazy posture, his disinterested expression. There’s something about him I don’t like. It’s as if he’s sizing me up and doesn’t like what he sees.
“You’re the female everyone was talking about. I heard some off-worlders killed you, threw you off a building or something like that.”
Narron tosses a cred reader at the guy’s chest. He appraises it with surprise. “For the work and for your silence.”
“I am always discreet,” the guy says with a frown, but still slips the cred reader into his pocket. “What were you looking for?” he asks, leaning back in his seat next to a small work table, covered with tools of his trade. I notice, tucked up under the table is a weapon of some kind. It doesn’t look like he intends to use it, but it catches my eye nonetheless.
“She needs to be Aritine,” Narron informs him. The guy outright laughs at the request. Narron stares at him until his laughter dies in his throat.
“I cannot make that an Aritine!” he exclaims finally. “It would be a dishonor to my race.”
“Wow, rude much?” I respond.
“No, no. Our markings and adornments have purpose. They must be earned. I cannot just give them away,” the Aritine guy explains in an icy tone.
“You are not giving anything away. I have paid you for them,” Narron grits out.
The guy frowns and pats the cred reader in his pocket absently, before getting up to get a closer look at me. He circles me, frowning. This is what a used car must feel like.
“They’re putting a lot of creds into you, aren’t they?” he asks in a low voice. “I heard there was nothing left of you besides a pile of guts after you got tossed from that building.” He plucks at my hair disapprovingly.
Finally, he turns to Narron. “I can take care of some of this stuff, but not all of it. She’ll need a breather. We’ll need to get rid of all this hair too, but I don’t have anything for that.”
“I have brought some supplies,” Narron says and turns to head back out to his bike.
“Narron! Wait!” I call after him. He stops by the foot of the staircase and I run to catch up, clutching at him. The new weight in my body shifts and I feel it heavy in my palms. “I don’t really have to do this, right? Isn’t there something else? Like a costume or something less permanent?” I plead, searching his eyes, but he gives me nothing. Instead, he takes my shaky hands off of him and urges me gently back into the room without saying a word.
The tattoo artist is already preparing his instruments of torture for me. I try to shake out my trembling hands, but that only makes them feel more weighted. “Doesn’t seem like I have a way out of this,” I say with an uneasy laugh. “I guess I better pick a design I like.”
“You do not choose,” the guy says with a sneer.
“Huh? Why not?” I ask, running my eyes over the variety of swirling and bold styles.
“A choice is reserved for Aritine warriors. You are neither Aritine, nor are you a warrior. You will get that one,” he says, waving his hand haphazardly toward a blocky and truncated series of uneven lines.
“What? No, not that one!” I whine. “What’s the difference? I shouldn’t be getting these tattoos anyway, you might as well let me pick,” I try to reason with him.
“Listen to me, female, I will choose. Not you.”
“You said a warrior gets to pick, right? So, what’s it take to be a warrior?”
“Strength that you clearly do not have,” the guy says, returning to his work and ignoring me again.
“Strength, huh?” At that moment, my eyes lock onto a beautiful feathery design, that spirals out at the tips. “Could a warrior pick that one?” I ask.
“A warrior could pick any one.”
“Fine, I’ll take that one then,” I tell him.
He turns to face me, ready to shut me down. I can see deep-set frown lines etched into his face and something like malice in his eyes. Then I knock him into next week.
I’m already reaching for his gun tucked beneath the table as my boot connects with his face for a second hit. He’s thrown back and lands sprawled across the floor. With his gun in my hand I place my boot to his chest. My hands and
feet tingle, but my motions feel much more natural than they have been feeling since I woke earlier today.
I can feel this TASE thing inside me. It almost makes me feel like my natural strength is amplified. But I have more pressing matters to focus on right now. I point the gun at the Aritine artist and consider killing him, just so I don’t have to get some stupid full-body tattoo. But with my luck The Oscillion will just come down here and tattoo me his damn self.
“Release him, V,” I hear from over my shoulder.
Narron’s back. For a split second, I think about shooting them both. Instead I release the artist. Narron actually has to help him get to his feet. The artist’s mouth is bleeding from where I kicked him and he rubs at his jaw and spits. The blood he leaves splattered across the floor shines like the sun-kissed orange of his flesh. I hold the gun out to Narron and give him a concerned look when he doesn’t take it from me.
