6.

When I woke up an hour and a half later, Wild Doc told me the operation was a success. He explained that I might feel dizzy or disoriented for the next few days, but in general, everything went smoothly. 

I asked why I couldn’t feel the pain, and he said that he’d injected me with an Optic Cleanser.

“But the sign?” I said, thinking of 'No CleanserFluid'.

“That’s right, isn’t it?” He pulled a water bottle out of the davenport desk and placed it in my healthy hand. 

I had instinctively reached out with my right, but remembered with slight embarrassment that it had been amputated. I was close to asking him about the men—He ignored me earlier. Maybe he’ll have an answer this time. But before I could, he spoke again:

“Those men,” he said, as if reading my mind, “are the sort of evil I don’t like to help. The type that’ll do anything to get their hands on CleanserFluid. You know why?”

“Because it’s addictive?” I said. 

He fluttered his palm, fifty-fifty. “You’re half right, but not for the reasons you’re thinking of. Normally, the only way to get CleanserFluid is through Optic Cleansers, hence the name, but Jet Corp are the people who make it. They send packages to Ceter every week, supply the City with enough money to keep people in work, but it’s all for their own gain. So they have subjects to test their weapons on. You can see where I’m going with this.” 

“The Grand Fiesta.” I was so muzzy. I lay back on the hospital bed, staring at the blue bandage around my missing hand. Each clench resulted in a peculiar phantom sensation: ghost-fingers signalling to my brain that something was still there. 

“That’s right,” he said. “But I digress. Those men are Black Marketers. They sell CleanserFluid to helpless addicts and make a lot of money. My, why do you think so many of them would rather risk their lives in the Grand Fiesta for money than get a real job in the City?”

“Why?” I asked, tuned in. 

“Because getting a job in the City is difficult when all the trivial ones are done by androids and all the important ones are handled by either those who got there early or those with education, except some of them are like me, working down here, because all doctor-positions are taken.”

“That’s awful,” I said, wiping my eyes. “Was it like that with my pa?”

He spread his hands. “No idea. Was he a doctor?”

“No. A mechanic.”

“Regardless,” he said. “I gave you one of my only batches left. The effects should wear off in an hour or two, but by then the pain should be manageable.”

“Thanks, Doc,” I said. “For everything. I mean that.”

 

7.

Rogue and Silver were waiting for me when I stepped out from the surgery. They were sitting against the wall of the tunnel, next to some TV sets. My sense of smell had gotten worse, but Silver’s cigar smoke still managed to force its way into my nostrils. 

I took a sip of water, swirled it around in my mouth, swallowed, and said, “I survived.”

At first they just looked around, and I thought they mightn’t have heard me, but then Rogue peeked around the TVs and sprang to her feet. She hurried over. “Are you alright? You were in there a long time!”

I raised my amputated hand, swallowed, and said, “Wild Doc cut it off.”

Her eyes slowly bugged—those disquieting, sexy eyes with their dim green undertint. “What?” she shouted. “Why?”

I explained to her the situation, and by then Silver stepped up next to her. 

“Real sorry to hear that, you gonna be alright?” he asked. 

“She better be.” Rogue gave him a considering, worried look, then fixed it on me. “C’mon.” And she went behind me, unstrapped my backpack, handing it to Silver.

“What are you doing?” I said.

“Silver says there’s a motel up from here,” she said. “We’re checking it out. You're pale like a ghost.”

“Money.” I made a pay-me gesture, remembered Mylo—These weapons will make us some big bucks—and scowled. “Money-money-money. We have none.”

“I’ll figure somethin’ out,” said Silver, blowing smoke into my face. “Monkey-Wrench runs Withergate. She might be willing to lend a hand.”

The pun, intentional or not, made me smile. “What if she doesn’t?”

“Regardless, I'm selling the allypus and getting us at least some money. So don’t worry. We’ll head down, check the place out, and see what she and Charlie have to say.”

“Charlie?” said Rogue.

“Her robot,” he said. “Listen”—he patted my shoulder—“we’ll be fine. Take it easy, alright?”

“There’s more,” I said.

“What is it, Ashe?” asked Rogue softly, now looking as worried as she had moments ago. 

“I want a cybernetic replacement.”

Silence.

“What’s that—?” said Rogue.

“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” said Silver. “You know how dangerous that is? How much it costs?” He tipped the ash from his cigar onto the floor. “You’re talking thousands.”

“I’m aware,” I said, clearing my throat. “But . . . look, I can’t live with one hand. I need two. I don’t want to live like this.” I dipped my head, staring at the bandage again. “I’ll need two, I can feel it. I know it.”

“A hunch? Intuition?” said Silver. “Your safety is what matters most here. Both you and Rogue's. Scavenging around for money will take way too long. And, just to let you know, cybernetics aren’t done by professionals. They’re done by people like Badger. You really want that? A hacker sticking a chip in your brain?”

I felt overwhelmed, and my stomach was sudsing. “Look,” I said, “there is one way, but I can already tell you’re not gonna be up for it.”

“What?” Silver spread his hands. “What can possibly make that much that quickl—” He paused, and his mouth gaped into an ‘O’. “Oh. . . . You’re thinking of taking part in the Grand Fiesta, aren’t you?” As he spoke, his tone returned to sharp and bossy.

Rogue said, “That’s not a good idea.”

“That’s the only idea!” I shouted. “And I’m doing it, this Saturday. I don’t care how dangerous it is. I’d rather die trying to get my hand back than live like some cripple who can’t even do a push-up.”

Silver sighed, swung my backpack over his shoulder, and facepalmed. “You really want to do this?”

I nodded, slowly. “Yeah, I do.” Albeit, that was a half truth. I only wanted to do it because there was no other way of getting the money; deep down I was a scared little girl. I was well aware that the people who were participating in the event were just as bloodthirsty and just as desperate as me, if not more so. 

Silver didn’t know what to say.

“Ashe,” said Rogue, “please don’t. It’s way too dangerous.”

I looked at her sadly. “Sorry, that's all there is.”

“Can you wait it out?” she said. “We could . . . I dunno, sell? Some things?”

“Like what?” Silver and I said at the same time. 

“Like Old Rusty? Maybe, I dunno. I can’t really think of anything else.”

Silver laughed. “Old Rusty wouldn’t be enough, believe it or not.”

“How much do you need, Ashe? For the . . . um, what’s it called again?” she said.

“Cybernetic replacement,” I answered. 

Silver bobbed his head. “Illegal instalments,” he said. “But only in the City. Down here, not so much. Again, this is the only reason people like it down here. Up there? It’s like The Marble, only not as bad.”

“Do they know about the Underground?” I asked.

Another bob. “’Course they do. But God knows they need people to take part in that event every year. People like . . .” He hesitated. “. . . you, Ashe. But, I suppose, if you’re really hellbent on this, and it looks like you are, then I think I should go with you.”

“Go with me?” I said. “You can take part, too?”

He nodded. “Teams of three are permitted, but no more. The only difference is the ten-thousand-dollar prize is separated between the three, as opposed to one person getting it all.”

“Then I’m doing it, too,” said Rogue.

“Oh, no,” said Silver, waving his hands. “This is Ashe’s decision, not yours.”

“I care about both of you just as much,” she said. “And I sort of agree. There’s no way to get the money, it’s dangerous . . . but hell, you have a point, Ashe. How’s she supposed to make it to the Jet-Ship with only one hand? How’s she supposed to do anything?” She said this without taking her eyes off me, which was odd, because it was totally directed at Silver. 

“Alright,” he said gruffly. “You two are startin’ to do that thing where you agree on stupid things. But I understand. I’ll ask Badger about it. Speakin’ of, let’s head up to him. He probably has that tracker out by now, and we need ourselves a new set of identities before we do anything out there. Grand Fiesta or not. We’re still wanted. Understood?”

“Gotcha,” I said, delighted but tired.

“C’mon,” said Rogue, strapping her backpack on tight. She gave me a light tap on the back. “We’ll be alright soon.”

Yeah, maybe. Or maybe not.

Together, we proceeded through the tunnels to Badger’s apartment. As we walked, an ad from the Grand Fiesta played on all the TV sets, creating a polyphonic sound which echoed through the Underground’s din.

The sound was that of a voice, speaking with merriment:

“APPLICATIONS FOR THE GRAND FIESTA END AT MIDNIGHT! BE SURE TO GET YOUR BLOOD IN THE RING FOR A GRAAAAND PRIZE OF TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS!”

Shit. What time was it now? I couldn’t tell without my Infrared. I suddenly felt worried.

The door was already open when we arrived, and Badger was tinkering my Infrared with a spindle-shaped tool. The Infrared’s covering had been screwed off, exposing technological bits: the circuit board, wires, batteries, and so on. On the holo-computer’s screen were colourful words, numbers, and symbols punched against a background of ones and zeroes: branching lines of code.

Was this what he had to do to keep Jet Corp from noticing that he was removing the tracker? It seemed like an awful amount of brainwork.

“How’s the tracker comin’ along, Badge?” asked Silver.

“Yeah, did you remove it?” Rogue asked rapidly.

Badger snapped a head up at us, his eyes hidden behind those goggles, a look of breathless shock replacing his concentrated visage. “Didn’t hear you come in,” he said. “Forgot to lock the door. That’s what happens when I set my mind on something: I forget things.”

“So how is it?” I asked, and Silver closed the door behind us. “Did you manage to get it out?”

He smiled and made a thumb-and-forefinger circle. It took me a second to realise that between the thumb and finger was a tiny, almost unnoticeable black chip. That must have been the tracker. “All done,” he said.

“Thank God—” I breathed, pressing my handless arm on my chest.

“But,” he said (there’s always a but), “you’ll have to completely redo your settings. Virtually all your data—locations, names, messages, etcetera—has been wiped. It’s no different than buying a brand-new one.” He spoke fluidly. “There’s a slim chance that The Tower managed to track it before being removed, but a chance is a chance. So, this is where the identity solution comes in. Have you three decided what names you want to go by?”

I stood, thinking, and then Silver said:

“Jonas. Jonas Locke. Has a nice ring to it.”

“You’re right,” said Badger. “It does have a nice ring to it.”

Rogue hummed thoughtfully, then said, “I dunno. . . .”

“How about Crimson?” I suggested with a smile. “Like your hair.”

She thought it over for another couple seconds. “Hm, well alright. Yeah, Crimson. That sounds neat. But how are you gonna change my name? I don’t have an Infrared.”

“Glad you asked.” He walked over to his bed, pulled something from underneath (a box), and rummaged through it. Shortly after, he pulled out a device that looked strikingly similar to a radar speed gun, only it was knitted with blue wires hooked up to a battery. He pointed it at Rogue, and where the muzzle would be (if they had muzzles normally), there was a pyramid-shaped crystal. “Say cheese!”

FLASH!

Refulgent blue light beamed into her face.

She recoiled. “What the fuck?” she yelled. “What was that for?”

“Relax,” he said, and Silver chuckled.

“My eyes, gosh, that’s bright,” she complained, hunching over as if she was going to puke. I laughed. “It’s not funny,” she said.

“Sorry.” I stifled whatever giggles were left in me.

Badger pulled a cord from the side of the gun and plugged it into one of the holo-computer’s jacks. “You’ve never had an Infrared before,” he said, “so any picture of you, any semblance of identity, is completely up for fabrication. It might not be so simple with you, Silver. Since you’ve had your identity changed already.”

“You have?” I said.

“Well I had to do something,” Silver said. “Couldn’t let those bastards find me.”

“So what’s your real name?” I asked. “Before you decided to call yourself Silver.”

“That doesn’t matter,” he said. “What matters is who we are now, not who we were. Understand?”

I looked at him doubtfully, considering his response and whether I should press further, and then decided that it simply wasn’t worth it. Silver was a good man. Maybe it was probably for the best that we didn’t know his true name.

Rogue trod over to the screen. “Crimson will do,” she said.

“Surname?” asked Badger.

More thinking, more ums and hmms, and then she said, “How does Valentine sound?”

“Crimson Valentine,” I said. “Sounds hot.” That last part slipped out accidentally, and my skin prickled with embarrassment.

“Alright.” Badger typed it in. “And what about you, Ashe? Have you decided?”

But I couldn’t think of a good-enough name. I had the whole world of them to choose from, and yet none, not a single one, sounded right for me. Ashe was the signature which had been riveted to my personality. Everything else sounded lame as I contemplated them: Abigail, Abby, Cassandra, Cassy, Lexi. . . . Lexus, Lexa. . . . Alexa.

“Wait,” I said, “Alexa. That’s the name.”

“Alexa what?” asked Silver, crossing his arms.

“Alexa . . .” I started, sinking into a pit of wordless thought. “. . . Gun. Alexa Gun, how’s that sound?”

“Sounds hot,” said Rogue, mimicking my voice but deeper.

I sniggered at that. “Thanks, Crimson.”

Badger said, “Okay,” and spent the next thirty seconds screwing on the Infrared covering with the ballpoint screwdriver. He turned to toss it to me, then realised, after all this time, that my hand had been removed.

“Did Wild Doc help you out?” he said. “Well I mean, he must have, considering. . . .” He gestured to my hand. “What did he say?”

“That he knew my pa,” I said, “and that he would do it for free. And he did. Except . . . now I need money to get my cybernetic hand.” I explained the situation with the Grand Fiesta.

“Oh,” he said quickly, “you’re sure about that?” I nodded. “Well then, you might want to be quick. Applications end in . . .” He glanced at his computer. “. . . an hour and twenty minutes. You better move now if you wanna make it on time. Quick, punch in your name to the Infrared, select your settings, and yeah. Use your new name when signing up; for everything. Ya dig?”

“Okay,” I said, and thanked him.

“No problem.” He turned to sit down, but stopped himself. “Oh, and one more thing, if you need help with anything, contact me through your contacts’ list. It’s just Badger without the ‘e’. You’ll see it. Give me a ring anytime and I’ll see what I can do to help.”

“Badge,” said Silver, “I’m sorry again for not seeing you sooner. You didn’t have to help this much.”

He snickered. “It’s what I do. Anything to fuck those Jet Corp bastards over, and anything to stop them from getting their way. Plus, I like these two you got with you. Also, don’t worry about your eyes getting blinded. I still have your picture from a decade ago.”

“That much memory in the old boy?” Silver laughed, pointing to the computer.

“You know it. Now get goin’. You don’t wanna be late.” Just when I thought we were finished, Badger added, “The Central Arena. Go there. You should see an android booth on the outer wall, under an awning. You can’t miss it.”

Good thing he mentioned that, because I wasn’t sure if Silver knew where to go, and I had forgotten to ask.