“That seems a little counterintuitive,” I note, crossing my metaphorical fingers that the AR system will finally do something.

It does not.

“It is intuitive. You see, if two of the Twelve are dead, then the task can’t be done. The mycelium will stop bothering me. It doesn’t do pointless things.”

Kirron sputters, and his discomfiture warms me.

“In that case, you’d really only need to kill one of us.” I jerk a thumb at the centaur man, who forces a derisive scoff. He scoffs more than anyone I’ve ever known. It reminds me of the sounds horses make, and I decide to tell him that if we survive.

Tiberia’s lip doesn’t so much as twitch at my joke. A bead of blood rolls into the crease of her eyelid, and she blinks.

“You’ll notice that your Systems are not responding to me as a threat, in spite of the fact that I’ve explicitly made one. They are a part of the greater whole. They serve The Purpose, even before they serve you.”

Oh. That’s great.

“I’ll tell you more of what I know of the System,” adds Tiberia as we both sort of just gape at her. “If you choose to live.”

I glance at Kirron. Who’s the slack-jawed idiot now, asshole?

His arm gun purrs to life. The rabbit girl turns slightly to face him.

“You wished to retrieve your Peichiko, and she is one of the Artifacts. What you think you want to do and what you must do are already aligned. If you join me, you’ll at least be able to achieve some part of your goal, which you never could have done without my help. And if you try to kill me, you’ll fail and die.” She shrugs again, a pink curl bouncing off her tiny shoulder. “I know which I’d choose, but everyone’s different…and dying will probably be a lot easier.”

Kirron freezes, arm half-raised as his brows slam together in angry consideration. Tiberia turns back to me.

“And you. You want to get offworld. And that is exactly what we must do next in order to complete our task. So. Do you want to leave Jade Palace, or do you want to be buried here today?”

“Er…”

The girl sighs, reaching up to wipe the blood from her face with a sleeve of her fuzzy knitted sweater dress. The scratches are gone. As she brings her arms up, she shakes them a bit so that the voluminous sleeves settle back at her elbows. Then, bending her hands back at the wrist, she aims one at each of us. There’s a soft shcnick sound as something pale, sharp and wet pokes through each of her wrists just beneath the palm. Beyond the half-open door, the green light flickers as figures gather in the corridor.

“Your answers, please?”

Fuck Kirron’s little joke about my Estimated Cunning. I’m not that stupid.

“I’d be happy to be your friend miss,” I chirp. “Please don’t kill me.”

Tiberia acknowledges this with a small nod but doesn’t lower her hand. We both turn to Kirron.

Neither his expression nor his pose has changed since the last time I looked at him.

“And you?” prompts Tiberia.

His leather and athletasilk-clad chest expands as he breathes in deep. He holds it a moment, then exhales through his teeth.

“I’ll join you,” he grates, relaxing his gun arm.

The other hybrid’s nose twitches.

“Are you sure?”

“Uh…yes?”

She sighs deeply and lowers her hands, and the big sleeves fall forward to hang adorably past her fingertips. Stop it. She’s not cute. She’s violently unstable. And cute. No stop. Godsfuckingdamnit what the fuck is wrong with—

“Everything is going to be so much more difficult this way,” laments Tiberia. Then she pulls her left arm up through her sweater’s loose neckline, grasps the bicep with her right hand, and in one motion so swift I’m not even sure I actually comprehended it, rips it off. The entire arm that is.

She rips her fucking arm off.

“Oh,” I say for some godsdamned reason.

Kirron makes a noise that sounds like choking.

Outside in the hall, there’s the thumping of retreating footsteps as most of whoever was out there fucks off. But one of them trundles through the door. A gray-faced man who wears an all-black three piece suit and carries a shovel.

“Thank you, Mr. Brisby,” sniffs the girl, holding her dripping arm in her remaining hand as her pion plunges his spade into the dirt and begins to dig. The smell of rot intensifies. Chunks of something pale are intermingled with the soil. I squint at them.

Bones. They’re bones.

Satisfied with the depth of the hole, the man steps back. Tiberia tosses her arm in, leaving a trail of pink globules in its wake. At the stump of her shoulder, the blood has congealed into a sort of translucent jell. Forcing my attention from the stump, I watch the man instead as he proceeds to bury the freed appendage. Though his skin looks dead, he’s kinda…kind of hot actually. Somewhere just beyond middle-age, salt and pepper hair. Hard features and perfectly trimmed beard. A tattoo peeks out from his sleeve, spreading down his hand. Twisting, scaled coils inked in teal.

“Do you like my butler?” Tiberia’s expression is inscrutable, but she tilts her head a bit as she fixes the voidlike black of her gaze on me.

“He seems…nice,” I venture.

“He is very nice now, aren’t you Mr. Brisby?”

“Yes, Miss. I do try,” he replies as he pats the gravesoil flat with the back of the shovel. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Kirron’s expression twist with disgust. But he’s not looking at the bone-dirt. His gaze is fixed on Mr. Brisby’s face.

“You’re wondering about his mycelium,” observes Tiberia. Kirron nods mutely. I look closer, and kind of wish I hadn’t. There’s a subtle tracery of fungal filaments just beneath the surface of the guy’s skin. More visible around his eyes than anywhere else.

“He was a very bad man once, weren’t you Mr. Brisby?”

“Yes, Miss. I was.”

“But he’s had therapy, and now he’s better.”

I glance from Kirron to the weird butler-man and back to Kirron, but can’t bring myself to meet the rabbit girl’s glassy gaze again.

“Th—therapy?”

Tiberia yawns. “We should be on our way now. Come.”

“I don’t suppose you plan on explaining any of that?” wonders Kirron, sounding as though he already knows the answer.

“And the arm thing?” I pipe up. Wh—why did…why?”

“You wouldn’t understand yet,” responds the rabbit girl.

The further we get into the depths of the Thirteenth’s warrenlike stronghold, the more people we encounter. Many look like ordinary citizens of the Cradle, but there are also Claws and other uniformed types. I pay special attention to the skin around their eyes, and here and there I notice a few more like Tiberia’s “butler.”

“Where are we going?” presses Kirron after a few minutes.

“To get my things.”

“And then?”

“And then we buy passage offworld using the valuables in that sack Ms. Six has been carrying around.”

“You can…you can just call me Six.”

“You seem to be in a high position here,” notes Kirron. “Surely you already have access to a ship—?”

She shakes her head, velvety ears a-flopping and gills a-swaying.

“Don’t be silly. We can’t use our own ships for this. Everyone would know who I was, eyes would always be on us. The Thirteenth’s involvement cannot be known. But you’re right. I’m her Ninth Life.”

“You’re whose what?”

There’s a flat sort of resignation to the centaur’s tone that tells me he’ll probably lay off the questioning soon.

“We’re here,” announces Tiberia, ignoring the dying gasp of Kirron’s will to make sense of anything. Like the rust-blood door before it, this entrance opens at her approach. A mass of twisted, living wood and hinges of greased bone. I only get the briefest glimpse into the space, catching sight of what looks like a bedroom decked in black and filled to the brim with equally inky, very fluffy stuffed animals. Then Mr. Brisby dips inside and shuts the door behind him. Tiberia yawns again and taps her foot.

A while later, the man emerges. He’s put on make up to hide his “therapy” and changed clothes, too—now sporting a dark gray button down and black pants. He’s got a pile of clothes in his arms, and a pair of luggage kits vaguely resembling ancient steamer trunks chug along in his wake. One of the trunks he leads up to me, and it pops open so I can deposit my stolen goods inside.

“Forgive the delay, Miss. There were a few things you forgot,” he explains, clearly addressing his mistress.

“Thank you, Mr. Brisby,” she says, gesturing for us to follow her again. My body’s designed to put up with a lot, but even my muscles are starting to get a little sore…especially what had been my main sack-carrying arm.

At least it’ll be easier getting passage with her on our side. This shouldn’t take too long. Then I can finally get some rest.

But just before the four of us can step out into the purple shadows of the Cradle’s first level, Tiberia stops. While she pulls up her oversized hood to hide her face, Mr Brisby distributes the clothes in his arms. An ankle-length trench plus a black hat and gray silk scarf for me, and a sort of asymmetrical cloak with a high cowl for Kirron.

“Put those on and lead the way,” she says, turning to Kirron and I.

Horse-man raises his eyebrows but otherwise just stands there like a big, dumb action figure.

“Uuuuh…what?” I stall, examining the hat. Guess there’s room to cram my ears in there.

“You are Mrs. J, my foster mother, of sorts. An older woman who belonged to the same brothel as I did” Tiberia informs me. “Mr. Brisby is my adopted father, Mr. J. Your wealthy, rebellious human lover who bought both of our freedom. Saved me before they could throw me to the metaphorical wolves.”

For the briefest moment, Tiberia’s voice sheds its usual inflectionless monotone and takes on a dramatic lilt. “Now shamed and stripped of his Sign, surname, and most of his assets for marrying scum like you, he is taking us offworld to start a new life before they can brand him Thirteen. Kirron is your bodyguard, Brick. Another hybrid prostitute he befriended and freed with the promise of a job.”

I snort. “So magnanimous.”

Kirron scowls. “Brick?”

“We’re a found family.” continues Tiberia. “New to this place. We can’t appear as if we know too well what we’re doing here. And so,” she inclines her head to me. “Lead the way please, mother. Oh, and my undercover name is Antionette, by the way.”

“Nice and under-the-radar,” I comment, sure at this point that sarcasm is safely lost on her.

“Thank you,” replies the rabbit girl absently.

Kirron looks at me as he tosses the cloak around his shoulders. It drapes over his gun arm, hiding it.

“You heard what she said, older woman. Lead the way.”

“Don’t you mean Mistress, Brick?” I shoot back, shrugging into the trench as I scan around for the nearest stair or lift. “Or maybe Boss Lady?”

“I’d like to request a name-change,” says Kirron to Tiberia, pretending to ignore me.

“Denied. The name I chose is carefully calculated with the help of the mycelium. It’s perfect.”

The skyport and private shipyards are up top, of course…but anything official and public is a no-go, so we’ll be flying private.

“Keep an eye out for a bar,” I tell the others as we near the neighborhood surrounding the private shipyards.

“Really?” Begins Kirron. “You—“

“Listen, skyport’s not an option. And we can’t exactly just waltz into the private shipyards, either. We have to do this the right way. We have to schmooze with the right people. Therefore, bar. Spacer Bar.”

My reasoning actually manages to shut him up, and we head off. It takes a while, but eventually we find a likely enough place. The Broken Crescent: a many-leveled hole in the wall full of scuffed steel surfaces, oiled wood and old deadship parts.

We all order drinks—ember ales for Kirron, Mr. Brisby, and I and a Shirley Temple for Tiberia. Mr. Brisby pulls my seat out for me, and as soon as I sit down I slam back nearly half my greasy pint in one go. The spice, caffeine and alcohol light a fire in my belly that makes me feel slightly less like a half-dead gutter rat. The bar’s denizens take immediate note of our presence…some subtly, some less so. The first to approach us is obviously a pilot, cephalopod genes apparent in his slit-shaped, sideways pupils.

“You need a ship offworld,” he says. It’s not a question.

Everyone looks at me. Of course. I give him a curt nod. “Yes. Passage for my husband, our foster daughter and bodyguard. To Lotus Sister or the Celestial Bridge. We aren’t picky about the jump point, so long as we leave today.” The moment these words pass my lips, more chairs scrape the floor.

“Fly with Thurst if you want to get robbed,” calls another pilot, already getting up. Their claim is met with jeers and agreement as others join in on the trashing of Thurst. His crew over near the bar bristles, and one of them grabs a dissenter by the collar and punches him in the face. Chaos ensues. Thankfully, it keeps a respectable enough distance, though I do have to duck a couple of times to avoid an overshot tankard.

As the dust settles, a slight but mature figure with slicked-back hair emerges…two brutish companions of far greater stature at her back.

“I’m Quilla Locatzel,” she says, thrusting her hand at me. “Pilot of the Arowana. You’re with me.”

I look at her, glance at the others. But they just wait, silently and expectantly, for me to handle it. Assholes.

“Er, I think we’d like to weigh a few different options before we make our decision. How much—“

But the woman’s shaking her head, the ever-shifting patterns on her secondary layer of skin transitioning from autumnal tones to acid green ones.

“That’s not how this works. We’ve settled it between us. No one else here will make you an offer.” At that last, she raises her voice a notch—yellow eyes narrowing.

I move to get up and the others follow suit…save Kirron, who’s always standing. The pilot puts up her hand.

“When I say ‘here,’ I mean here in the Cradle.”

“What if your ship doesn’t meet our needs?” I hedge.

“It does.”

“What’s your price?”

She spreads her lips to bare silvery teeth. “Everything you’ve got. Unless it’s worth less than 7 million credits. In which case, you’re out of luck.”

“That’s insane.”

“And you’re desperate.”

When I have nothing to say to that, she smirks.

“Take a few hours to decide. Ask around about the Arowana. Hells, look for another ride all you like. But if you want offworld, meet us back here before Stone Sister rises.”

“Fine,” I say. “We will look for another ride elsewhere. Come,” I call over my shoulder as I brush past her. “Darling, Antionette…Brick. We’re leaving, and we won’t be back.” That last I aim at the bitchy pilot. Everything we have, my ass. I need money to start my new life once all this artifact business is sorted out.

Neither she nor her crewmates do anything to stop us. But as we near the door, others break away from the ranks of shady spacers…all five of them following us out into the deepening twilight.

 

AR System engaged. Potential Threat identified. Blink-Scan initiated.

 

Stats roll across my vision. Pretty intimidating ones. These are men with rhino and wolf and viper DNA, prickling with strength and barely-concealed weapons and combat kits. But unlike myself and the other hybrid anomalies I’ve encountered today…not a one of them has Sai.

I focus my attention on the strongest one, the guy taking the lead.

 

Threat Designation - “A Big Toothy Pain in My Ass” (1)

 

Species: Hybrid - Human, Tundra Wolf, Orca

OP Level: 79

 

Estimated Health: 100/105

Estimated Sai Pool: 0/0

Estimated Strength: 89

Estimated Cunning: 44

 

Augments -

Basic Kit

Warrior Kit Type C (Personal Retainer)

Custom Kit (Arm Replacements)

 

Further statistics unavailable, scan length insufficient.

Calculating optimal response

 

Fucking finally.

 

Shield Engaged

Sai Pool: 18/90

 

Green, fuzzy light flickers to life around me. The blue glow of Kirron’s shield echoes it a heartbeat later, but it’s so faint I doubt it’ll last long.

I try to memorize the looks on the thugs’ faces when they see we have Sai, because if we get through this they’ll make the whole ordeal worth it. But they recover all too quickly…probably guessing it’s just some kind of new tech. Damn the never-ending march of progress.

The orca-wolf guy fixes his beady eyes on my far more gorgeous ones. Of gods-damned course.

“Yer master ain’t too happy with you, little fox,” he rumbles, throwing his left arm outward and to the side as his big fat hand balls into a fist. Seams in his flesh begin to part. “But he won’t pay me as much if I damage the goods. So don’t make this too hard on us, eh?” There’s a heavy shlunk as something resembling a six-barreled gattling gun rolls out of his forearm and locks into place. Meanwhile, his companions power up and brandish weapons of their own.

I raise one cool eyebrow, though on the inside I’m shrieking and running away very, very fast.

“Odd choice for close-quarters, don’t you think? Maybe a little overkill?”

The gunner chuckles, a deep, disconcertingly pleasant sound. Reaching into a belt pocket with his free hand, he withdraws a pair of hybercuffs and tosses them at my feet.

“Put ‘em on fox, or yer friends are going home in a chum bucket.”

I look from the cuffs then back up to him, and try not to smile.