Quint nodded, his gaze on the press of people in the room. Working for Frood had taught him to read a pub, and this group of people were trashed and remarkably well-behaved. If the air at Frood's had smelled of spike and pearl like that, Frood would have turned the generator off and thrown everyone out, just to avoid the structural damage from the imminent brawl.
The music was something recorded and inane, pounding through the walls while people jiggled randomly, the punters were clean, Quint's feet didn't stick to the floor, and no one had even glanced at him.
Bailey came back, holding beers in actual glass bottles, proving that the bar manager was not expecting a moment's trouble. “Cheers,” Bailey said, clinking his bottle against Quint's.
"This is it?” Quint said. “This is Jack's, where the corporates party?"
"Kind of,” Bailey said. “This is the front bar. We're heading out the back, to the club."
He kissed Quint, tasting of beer, and someone nearby muttered, but Quint didn't see who because his eyes were closed. If people chose to hang out in the front bar of a club notorious for its sex shows, they could get over the sight of two men kissing.
"This way,” Bailey said, when he'd lifted his mouth off Quint's and Quint had opened his eyes again.
At the back of the room, a curtain hung across a doorway. Quint stepped behind the curtain, and the noise from the front bar dropped away, making him suspect there was something fancy about the doorway, and the curtain was more than it seemed.
The room was larger and darker than the front bar, with plinths and small stages in the middle. People were draped, propped and displayed on the stages. A solidly built man, dressed in strips of shiny plastic, lifted a flogger and draped it across the arse of a naked woman on a rack, leaving a trail of red across her skin.
The audience, because there was no mistaking that they were watching a show, wandered around the plinths, pausing to watch and eyeing each other warily. Bailey cupped Quint's arse cheek in his hand, distracting him from the woman with the pale breasts.
"Flynn will be in the next room,” Bailey said.
"Who's Flynn?” Quint asked, letting Bailey lead him further back, past the frame that held a sling.
"He builds mods,” Bailey said. “He builds my mods. I'd like you to meet him."
Quint's body, already warm and tingly from the sight of the man in the sling getting done thoroughly, stirred at the memory of Bailey's mod.
"I think I'd like that, too,” Quint said.
They moved into another room, small and quiet, in darkness apart from the pool of golden light falling on the body on a table in the middle of the room. Bailey pulled Quint down on a chair, and Quint's mouth fell open.
The person on the table had skin like a dinosaur, green and ridged, and their scalp was covered in ridges, row after row. Quint whispered, “Wow."
Bailey's hand found Quint's in the darkness, as a person wrapped in a white robe stepped into the light, gloved hands held up.
The dinosaur said, “I'm ready,” and the gloved person slid a tray of instruments into the light.
The dinosaur gasped, and Quint leaned forward in his chair, peering over the shoulder of the person in front of him, watching as a scalpel slid through the flesh on the dinosaur's arm. Someone in the room murmured, and Bailey's hand tightened around Quint's.
Blood welled up, and the gloved person worked quickly, burning at the flesh with a probe, and then carefully picking up an implant with clamps. The implant was a long, delicate piece of steel, arcing sweeps of shining filigree above a flattened base.
The gloved person eased the flattened base into the open wound on the dinosaur's arm, and then quickly began to tie stitches through the base, holding it in place.
Bailey tugged on Quint's hand, and Quint at first thought Bailey was warning him to sit back, until he felt what Bailey pressed his hand against.
Bailey's cock was as hard as rock, through his trousers.
Quint could understand that; he was hard, too, just from watching the scene in front of them. He had no doubt that it was as much a scene as anything that had happened in the other room involving whips and slings. To do something like that in front of an audience was to invite them to enjoy it.
Quint sat back in his chair and lifted the bottom of his tunic aside, then leaned across and whispered against Bailey's ear. “Sit on my lap?"
They were in the back row, thankfully, so when Bailey clambered across Quint's legs, no one complained.
Quint opened his trousers, freeing his cock, and it was a tangle of clothes and legs for a moment. Then Quint's cock found Bailey's arse, slipping through the leaking fluid, and Bailey settled smoothly down its length.
Other people in the room were gasping, and Quint could hear the rustle of clothing as people jerked off in the dark. He couldn't see the dinosaur, not with Bailey on his lap, so he closed his eyes and focused on the sounds and smells. Sharp blood, burned flesh and antiseptic mixed with the sounds of people moaning and the dinosaur whimpering.
Bailey came, Quint deep inside him, the smell of his come mixing with the other odors in the room, and Quint felt more alive than he'd thought possible, like his insides were singing and he was trashed on pearl, only his head was completely clear and he was coming harder than he ever had before, pumping come into Bailey until he almost passed out.
Bailey slid off Quint, back to his own seat, and Quint managed to pull his trousers up and tunic down with numb fingers. Bailey took Quint's hand again, and Quint smiled sideways at him in the darkness, wishing for either some more light or some flare, just so he could see Bailey.
Dinosaur's other arm was opened up, ready for the second implant, and Quint felt like he was watching from a long way away, or down a tunnel, as the gloved person slid the second implant in and methodically sewed it in.
It was the most amazing mod Quint had ever seen, beautiful and disturbing, but all he could focus on was the feel of Bailey's hand in his.
Later, when the dinosaur stood up, turning around to show the audience the implants, the lights in the room brightened and Quint found himself blinking. Dinosaur looked incredible, with arms streaked with blood and the stitches holding the implants in dark against pale green flesh.
Bailey slung his arm around Quint's shoulders, pulling him closer when they had stood up. “Come and meet Flynn,” he said, and Quint followed Bailey through the people standing around the dinosaur, to the person who'd been wearing the gloves, but who was stripping his mask and gown off.
"Quint, this is Flynn, Flynn, meet Quint."
Quint shook the hand that was held out to him, then Bailey said, “Hot show, mate. Love the mods, but aren't they going to mess with the brachioradialis during pronation?"
"It's not a long term option,” Flynn agreed, and then he studied Quint's face. “Has Bailey told you about the horns?"
"Yeah, I've heard all about the horns,” Quint said. “That was a lovely piece of work just then. Did you design the mods?"
"Yeah,” Flynn said. “I don't usually insert mods, but a bit of practice occasionally is a good thing. I'm not a cutter like Bailey is."
"It was crap cutting,” Bailey said to Flynn. “Shockingly bad suturing. I'm never letting you work on me again if that's how you sew someone up."
Flynn grinned and slapped Bailey's shoulder. “Wanker,” he said. “I need a beer after that. And a girl."
"The beer is easy to arrange, but you'll have to catch your own girl,” Bailey said. “Back in a moment."
Flynn looked at Quint speculatively. “How'd you meet Bailey?"
"I work in a bar, he bought a drink,” Quint said. “It wasn't complicated. Those mods were amazing; I've never seen anything like them before. What else do you do?"
"Mostly I design cosmetic application micro mods for SirenCare. Lots of staring down a scope and trying to persuade cells to change structure. It's all rather tedious, so it's good to get out and perform sometimes. Bailey's fond of you, isn't he?"
Bailey asked, “Know what?” as he pushed bottles into their hands.
"What your plans are for the rest of the night,” Flynn said. “I was going to get changed, then find the music and some talent."
Quint could smell Bailey clearly, over the blood and antiseptic, and he was beginning to work out what that smell meant. “Think we're going to head off,” Quint said.
Bailey nodded, his eyes smiling.
When they walked back out the laneway, past the security guard, their faces covered, nothing had changed on the street, except that the temperature had dropped.
"What do you want to do?” Bailey asked, when they paused to look in a shop window, at a display of rippling tattoos set into fabric.
"There's something I want,” Quint said.
"Tell me,” Bailey said.
"Mod me?"
Bailey's face was hidden behind his filter, but his voice was raw when he said, “What do you want me to do?"
"I don't care,” Quint said. “I just want you to do something to me."
Deep in the night, the street where Bailey lived was deserted, the pub on the corner locked up and the street vendors gone somewhere else to sleep.
In the darkness, Bailey unlocked his front door, and Quint followed him in. The rooms had cooled down enough while they'd been gone that Bailey didn't just throw the windows open again, and that suited Quint. If Bailey was going to work on him, he wanted to feel like it was in private.
"Sit down,” Bailey said, pointing at his couch in the gloom. “I have to go get set up, boil some things."
Quint nodded. He didn't need to ask questions and be reassured.
He sat on the couch, leaning back into the cushions, his mind drifting back to the show and the feel of fucking Bailey. It was a good place to go to, and when Bailey knelt down beside Quint, a small solar lamp in his hand, Quint had his hand inside his trousers, touching himself.
"I haven't got a lot of gear here,” Bailey said. “Just some basic equipment. It's not going to be fancy, but I wanted to give you something worth having."
Quint thought about trying to tell Bailey he already had, but Bailey was opening packages of sterile equipment, dropping blades and needles onto the tray.
"Strip off, then spread your legs wide,” Bailey said.
Bailey painted something cold onto Quint's sack and thigh, coating the wrinkled skin and Quint's piercings.
"Want to talk to me while I do this?” Bailey said. “Since I can't watch your face."
"Why do you remove your eyebrows?” It was the first thing that came to Quint's mind, and watching Bailey frown in concentration as he angled a scalpel, the lack of eyebrows was obvious.
"Can't afford to risk dropping a stray hair into a client at work,” Bailey said absently.
"Ah,” Quint said, and then he gasped as something sliced into him, cold and hard.
"Breathe for me,” Bailey said, and then Quint could feel pushing and tugging.
The pain was sweet, rushing through him, the meaning of it making it even better, so that fear melted away and he knew he could face anything. Every time he did that, chose the shape he was, was one more time he triumphed over life and emptiness.
Tiny touches slid through the pain, and Bailey looked up at him. “Halfway,” he said. “Ready for the other side?"
"Ready for anything,” Quint said, his voice a little croaky.
Bailey didn't move to the other side of Quint's sack, as he'd expected. Instead, the slice of pain was further back, on the same side.
When Bailey had finished sticking a dressing over the area, he knelt back on his heels with streaks of Quint's blood on his gloves. “How does it feel?"
"Really tight. Kinda odd."
"It will do,” Bailey said. “I've put two magnets under the skin and secured them in place, so they close together. What you've got is a small skin pouch that no one will be able to find. I would have liked to have given you a real skin pouch, or fixed those horns, but I can't do either of those here. This is practical, at least."
Quint touched the dressing experimentally, pressing the skin of his sack. He felt light-headed, adrenaline rushing through him now the pain was gone, and he could feel the two solid shapes, no thicker than a fingernail, under the skin.
"It won't hold much,” Bailey said, peeling the gloves off. “But sometimes all you need to hide is something small."
"Do you want me to leave?” Quint pushed himself up off the couch. “So you can sleep?"
Bailey bundled up the mess from the mod and smiled. “Why don't you stay until dawn? I need to sleep a bit, but it would be good to have some company."
Quint ducked his head, trying to work out what was happening, and Bailey laughed. “You trusted me enough to cut your scrotum open, I think I can trust you enough to sleep next to you."
Quint shrugged. He was beginning to realize how short his world was on trust.
Chapter 5
Bailey woke Quint at dawn, letting him out of the front door into a world fresh and cool, the sky a delicate peach, currawongs calling and soaring over him.
Quint walked through the morning suburbs, the dressing under his jeans tugging and pulling at the hairs of his scrotum. He'd peel the dressing off later, have a good feel of the work, but for the moment, he was still riding the post-mod high, his feet bouncing off the pavement, a smile on his face. He felt like he could fly away, with the currawongs, any moment.
It was a long walk, back to the Gazza, and the sun had risen and the heat had begun before Quint let himself into the pub and climbed down the stairs to the basement, where he slept beside the generator.
He'd slept a little, beside Bailey in the dark, but he could do with a whole lot more sleep.
* * * *
After an afternoon spent wrestling with the generator, helping Frood clean the tank, pump and filters, Quint was covered in dirt, no longer quite so cheerful and very hungry. The first punters of the night were wandering in, searching for cold beer. Frood, who was not a bad bloke, pushed coins into Quint's hand. “Go and grab something to eat,” he said. “Bring me back something, too."
Quint took the coins, pushing them into his pocket. “Meat-on-a-stick?"
Frood nodded, already distracted by the punters at the bar.
None of the food stalls near the pub sold meat-on-a-stick, so Quint ambled off into the dusk, stirring up swarms of midgies. If he cut through Randwick, to the edge of the wilderness there, he'd find someone selling meat.
Randwick wasn't a corporate area, and Quint had never had hassles there, and even if he was mugged, all anyone would find was Frood's coins in his pocket. Quint's small stash of coins was tucked in his pouch, completely hidden.
Thinking about the pouch, and Bailey, distracted Quint, and he pushed his hands into his jeans and grinned to himself. He hoped Bailey would drop into the pub again soon, or perhaps, after a few days, Quint could go to Bailey's house, leave a note under his door.
The streets were empty, apart from a drifting beggar or two. The houses were quiet, too, no sounds of voices or guitar, no one fucking in the darkness of the shadows.
Quint had just turned around, deciding to get the fuck out of there, away from the freaky silence, when a beam of light stabbed through the darkness, blinding Quint, even when he covered his face with his forearm. “Stop!” an amplified voice shouted. “Face down on the ground."
No one shot at Quint as he pitched forward into the dirt. Footsteps ran toward him, and the light panned away, across the bare dust. Quint tried to work out what in particular he'd done wrong as hands grabbed his arms and secured them behind his back, then dragged him to his feet.
"ID!” someone barked at him, and he shook his head.
Security forces of some kind, though he couldn't see any logos on their outfits.
A torch shone in his face, less bright than the spotlight, and hands searched him roughly, jabbing into his armpits and groin, then pulling
the knife he carried tucked inside his belt out.
"Name!’ another voice demanded.
"Jack Quinton,” he said. “Have I done something wrong?"
Someone hit him, hard, across his face. Now Quint was both afraid and in pain, and he could feel blood trickling down his face.
"You're being charged as an illegal trespasser, under the authority of the Immigration and Migration Corporation."
Quint sagged, his knees buckling.
"How come...?” he asked, as someone shoved him into the back of a vehicle.
"Singapore has bought Randwick."
Quint turned his head a little, getting a glimpse of a woman in a uniform. “No one told me,” he said. “I had no idea it was corporate property."
"Fences aren't in place yet,” the woman said. “No point in putting them up until we've cleared all the illegals out. Be quiet, talking won't help."
No fences or signs, and Quint had still been arrested. Seemed the good luck that had brought him Bailey was over.
Other people were in the back of the vehicle, Quint could hear someone crying over the rumble of the motor starting up, and something warm and squishy moved beside him. Someone's leg.
Asking questions would be useless, the odds he shared a language with anyone else in the vehicle were low, and they were all in the same mess.
Urine, hot and wet, trickled across the metal floor of the vehicle, soaking into Quint's clothes. He didn't think it was his own.
He was destined for a refugee camp, out in the desert. If he hadn't just met Bailey, he might have been more resigned to his fate.
The vehicle rattled to a halt some time later, and light shone around the edges of the door, then filled the back of the van when the doors were flung open. Weapons pointed at the people in the back, and hands dragged Quint out and shoved him against a wall. He blinked, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the light.
He could smell disinfectant and shit, and under that, the pungent smell of the harbor, of rotting seaweed and sewage. He was still in Sydney.
A dozen other people, mostly women and adolescents, were herded out of the van, and then the group shuffled its way into a concrete building. They were inside the Immigration and Migration fortress, behind towering walls topped with heavy weaponry. No one got out of Immigration, except legitimately through the front gates.
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