Thirteen

[keaalu]

      “So where are we going now?” Firewire wondered, trudging along in the water-filled central trench in the pipe, Slipstream beside and very slightly behind him.

      “None of your business,” Slipstream replied, in his best, most clipped authoritarian voice. “You just need to know you’re coming.”

      Firewire fell silent again, for a moment or two, his lips irritably pursed. Then he slid his gaze sideways, wrinkled his nose in a half-hearted sneer, and commented; “You know, if I knew where I was going, you wouldn’t have to keep tripping over me, when I don’t telepathically know you’re going to turn a corner and walk into me-”

      “Be quiet!”

      The snap had been accompanied by a shove just hard enough to remind him the younger mech wasn’t scared of dealing out violence, and this time Firewire remained silent.

      Walking behind them, Rasa gave them a serious semi-glare, then leaned closer to Mirii. “I hope that’s not going to turn into a problem,” she murmured, pointing surreptitiously at the two large males ahead of them.

      Mirii gave her a brief, sombre look, and shook her head, helplessly. “I hope so, too.”

      Rasa’s brow furrowed, warily. “I’m serious,” she emphasised. “If he’s going to be a liability…?” The laima didn’t specify which ‘he’ she was referring to, and Mirii sensed she meant ‘either of them’. “Then we’re going to have to take some sort of precaution to prevent trouble.”

      “When you say ‘precaution’, what exactly did you have in mind?”

      “I don’t know.” Rasa shook her head. “I just know I don’t want them coming to blows again. I don’t wanna have to hit them both with an EM grenade, because lordy knows how long it’ll take them to come round, this time.” She watched the two robots forge silently ahead in front. “It’d be easier if they, you know… had off-switches, or something.”

      Mirii gave her a reproachful look. “That is not an analogy I particularly appreciate,” she commented, softly. “We may be machines, but that does not mean we can be ‘turned off’ on a whim when you tire of us.”

      “No, maybe not,” Rasa accepted, although she didn’t look particularly apologetic about the unintended slight. “But it’d be a whole lot easier to slip ‘em some knockout drops if they was biological, you know what I mean?”

      “You would do that?” Mirii arched a brow. “To one of your own kind?”

      “Sure. Why not?”

      “Well it is hardly fair, or even particularly ethical.” Mirii narrowed her eyes, wondering if the laima was trying to make a point that she herself couldn’t see. “Are they not important enough to deserve the opportunity to voice their opinions?”

      “Well, sure. So long as they do it quietly.”

      “I am not sure I follow.”

      “Well, uh, lessee.” Rasa studied the ground as she walked, trying to think how to word it. “Us Denizens may not always see eye to eye, down here,” she explained, softly, at last, “but we’ve mostly learned to resolve our differences the quiet way. Fighting – and especially yelling – bring attention from up top that we don’t really want. See?”

      Mirii nodded, silently, slowly realising what her friend was meaning.

      “And those two don’t exactly fight quietly, eh?” Rasa went on. “No offence meant to your lover, over there, but if he can’t keep his voice down? We’re gonna have to do it for him.”

      Mirii pursed her lips and glared, very slightly. “He is not my ‘lover’,” she grumbled, softly.

      “Eh, whatever. Point still stands, hon.” Rasa gave her a sad glance. “A lot of us – me included – are living on borrowed time, if he brings our police down here? You can be sure there’s gonna be folk who want him in bits, especially if anyone gets caught.”

      “I will talk to him,” Mirii reassured, softly. “The last thing I desire is for anyone to get hurt…”

0o0o0o0o0
      All things considered, the laboratory wasn’t so bad as Celerity had feared it would be. She’d been imagining some bleak, cold, dark grey room that was more of a dungeon than a place of science, and was pleasantly surprised to find a series of well-lit high-ceilinged rooms full of clean surfaces and chrome equipment, although the main room was the only one with enough headspace for Celerity to easily get into it. She came in via the big double doors that led directly outside; the science team themselves were going to work in one of the smaller secondary rooms, visible through a floor-to-ceiling set of windows.

      The spurs on the science team looked to be very much in awe of Pabishka and her wiles, but the team leader was another medusi – albeit rather masculine-looking, herself – and the two women spent most of the time glaring and posturing at each other. Once Pabishka was gone, the leader cracked a few impolite jokes about her (or more correctly, her posterior, because not even the most expensively tailored suit could hide that saggy rear) and the team – Celerity included – chuckled and relaxed.

      The actual measurement-taking was done very quickly by a sort of “gamma capture” laser, which scanned every inch of Celerity’s exterior and a large portion of her interior, too, missing only the minutiae of her more heavily shielded core elements. Once they were done, the team retreated to the smaller laboratory; Celerity, unable to follow because the room’s dimensions were a little too small, peered anxiously in through the window after them.

      Looked like all the preliminary work would be done on a hologram, albeit a relatively basic one, restricted to the confines of the raised circular plinth at the centre of the room. The supercomputer in the basement would to the number-crunching and tell the team if their desired alterations would work properly.

      After a little tinkering by the oldest, rather grizzled-looking spur on the team, the plinth lit up, and the figure built up as cascade of parts, all looking as though they were falling from the emitter in the ceiling. Another of those uneasy flickers made Celerity pull a face; a small silver hologram of herself stood with its arms outstretched and legs placed shoulder-width apart on the central plinth, rotating very slowly. It reminded her a tiny bit of her bad dream – little, laima-sized Lara. At least it wasn’t laima-sized gravid Lara, because that would have been worse (and really inexplicable and creepy).

      One of the technicians glanced up and noticed her watching, and gave her a silly grin and a wave and an all-ok! sign with one hand. She guessed they must think she was checking everything was all right. She forced an anxious smile, and wiggled her fingers back.

      “…Hey… hey? Charm, was it? Hey, down here!”

      At last, she realised that someone was speaking to her; of course, she wasn’t allowed to call herself ‘Celerity’ in public, was she? ‘Charm’ glanced down at her feet to find a fessine in a boiler suit standing by her feet, next to a sort of mechanical lifter – a ‘cherry picker’, she’d heard it called by some species. A sort of platform on an extendable arm, anyway. She forced an apologetic smile, and crouched. “I beg pardon, I was watching the scientists,” she explained, sheepishly, neglecting the part about not being used to her new name.

      “I figured you might be,” the girl said, with a grin. She was pale, and freckly, with her hair done up in two big sausage-shaped plaits that she’d then twisted into a bun at the back of her head. “They’re cute, huh?”

      It gave Celerity the smallest flicker of amusement that the technician’s hair was similar to how her own head was shaped. “I’m not really an expert,” she apologised. “I’m just a machine.”

      “Pssh.” The fessine flapped a hand. “Not what the folk in the Pit say. If they’re right, then you’re not ‘just’ a machine, you’re a woman, like the rest of us. An’ for what it’s worth, I think you look like a woman, too.”

      Celerity smiled, gratefully. “Thank you,” she murmured, humbly. “And for what this is worth… my name is Celerity, not ‘Charm’. Charm is just a-… a…” She struggled to find a suitable description.

      “Stage name? Yeah, sounds right; Pabs likes rebranding things. I figure she thought it was easier than explaining what Celerity means, huh? Cuz – no offence, love – you don’t look that speedy.” She clambered into her cherry picker, a bucket and a paintbrush in hand. “She prolly doesn’t know what it means either, if I’m honest, so it saves her having to admit it when some high-flying corporate deputy asks.”

      Celerity wrinkled her nose, ruefully; at least the technician knew what her name actually meant, and didn’t make some sort of unkind quip about diet foods. “I used to be, way back when I was young,” she explained, softly, rising to her feet to remain at eye-level as the fessine elevated the basket of the cherry picker. “Before I got this bulky old refit.”

      The technician laughed, kindly. “Holies damn it, woman, there’s medusi topside who’d kill to be able to do that so easy. Some companies made their fortune in slimming aids alone, they’d rake it in by offering ‘body transplants’!”

      Celerity dropped her gaze, and forced a smile.

      The technician realised that it must be a sore point. “Oh, hey, hon, I’m sorry. I never thought-”

      “It’s okay, please. I know you didn’t mean it.” Celerity touched her very gently on the shoulder. “What-… what’s your name?”

      The technician looked up. “Galina,” she replied, and smiled, wryly. “Instantly forgettable, there’s gotta be about three million of us with the same name.” She swirled the paintbrush in the bucket and loaded it with masker. “Arms out, hon. Need to get you masked up so they can get a nice white base-coat on you!”

      “Forgettable? I think it’s a nice name.” Celerity put her arms out, obediently. “What do you mean by ‘masked’?”

      “Just gonna paint over your joints with this flexible poly-seal.” Galina demonstrated the fluid on the brush. “To stop us getting white base-paint where we don’t want it, see? Peels off easy as you like, just might make you feel a bit stiff for a while.”

      “I can cope with that,” Celerity reassured, quietly. “Paint in my joints would be worse.”

      While Galina worked, Celerity watched through the big window into the smaller part of the laboratory. It was quite alarming to watch as the little holographic figure on the circular stand in the centre of the lab went through a dozen reincarnations – all of which had outlandish colours, a sultry, big-lipped pout, and of course the most enormous breasts she’d ever seen, which started out big, and gradually grew and grew with each incarnation until each ridiculous, jiggling globe was double the volume of her head. (An imbalance! warning flashed up in her mind just by looking at it, let alone having them try to attach them to her. She wouldn’t even be able to stand upright if they somehow persuaded Pabishka to let them turn her into that.) The final figure was an incredible caricature – vivid pink, silver and black, striking a dramatic sultry pose with that pert aft stuck out and ballooning chest thrust forwards, and a wasp-waist in between them so very narrow she’d snap in half if she wasn’t externally supported somehow. Long, ruthlessly straight silvery-blonde hair spilled from the crown of her head, dropping almost all the way to the floor, and thick black eyelashes outlined her vivid blue eyes. Little white feathery wings sprouted from her shoulders, to complete the ensemble. She wasn’t sure if she should gawp or laugh in horror.

      Galina snorted helplessly from somewhere behind, at last seeing what the big femme was looking at. “Lordy, no-one every try to tell me spurs ain’t the stupidest of creatures,” she snickered. “Someone better remind ‘em they’re supposed to be sorting out a little bit of a refit, not playing dollies.”

      Celerity gave her a glance.

      “You didn’t honestly think they were gonna make you look like that, did you?” Galina teased, gently. “Come on, I’m just a tech and even I know you’d only be able to maintain a figure like that with a hologram.”

      Celerity glanced down at her feet with an embarrassed smile. “After some of the things Pabishka has told me, I’m finding it hard to separate factual intention from spurs just wasting time by playing with the settings” she admitted.

      After they’d finally got bored of playing with her outline, what resulted from their tinkering actually… wasn’t… all that bad. Not all that different to how she currently looked, in fact. Celerity watched it turn slowly on the plinth, arms still spread, a slight smile on its face; the waist was a fraction narrower, the hips a fraction more shapely. The ‘ambiguous’ chest was still not exactly busty, but the corners were smoother and rounder – softer, more organic in looks – and rather than that outrageous hot pink, a soft oceanic turquoise had been chosen for her primary colour.

      “This is only a first draft,” the medusi warned, using the intercom so Celerity could hear her through the reinforced-glass window. “Pabishka will get the final say, and may want us – scratch that, will definitely want us to make more changes later, when we understand more about your functioning.”

      “I understand.” Celerity inclined her head. “And-… thank you.”

      “Thank me for what?” the head of the laboratory wondered, grimly. “Maybe messing up your functioning because some would-be fashionista thinks good looks are better than being healthy?”

      Celerity smiled, sadly. “I don’t think that’ll hinder my operational status,” she reassured, honestly, although if the laima was right and Pabishka did want more alterations, anything major would certainly stop her transforming. “And it looks… all right.”

      “Pssh. I’m a scientist, I know when things work, and I know when this sort of tinkering…” she gestured to the hologram, “is pretty needless. You look fine right now. Why we need to force you to pander to our stupid alien ideals of that a woman should look like, I have no idea. Of course, it’s not like the Madame would understand that, she’s been chasing surgeons most of her life…”

      “Surgeons?” Celerity thought back to the very little she knew of other biological societies, and recalled that cosmetic surgery was fairly commonplace to a lot of them. “Is it that harmful to get a little fat removed here and there?”

      “Pssh, if you think that’s all they do…” The medusi sighed and folded her arms, almost impatiently. “Laima women surgically alter their looks in pretty dramatic, health-impacting ways in their pursuit of what society calls the ideal of ‘beauty’,” she scolded, gently. “It doesn’t mean society is right. How is it fashionable to ruin your health for a few minutes’ good looks?” She threw up her hands. “Never mind. My preaching isn’t going to help you, is it? I’ll give our, ah, heh... ‘good lady’…” She made a face. “…a bell, get her down here to approve things.”

      Celerity watched her go, sadly, and gave Galina a glance; the fessine was working her paintbrush carefully across the flexible area of the big Policebot’s midsection – make that, ex-Policebot, she revised, sadly. “Did I say something wrong?” she wondered, getting Galina to look up. “She seems annoyed with me.”

      “Nah. Pabishka and Elka – um, I mean, Mistress Eliška… have been rivals for years. Elka was after the position of managing director for years, but never had quite enough money, and Pabs beat her to the punch.” Galina went back to her painting. “She’s always been sore that Pabs made her way up the ladder more quickly – I mean, Elka’s the one with brains, here, Pabs just managed to win more deals and make her way up the social ladder faster because she had the looks. At least, back then she had the looks, she doesn’t need ‘em so much now because she’s where she wants to be, and has the money instead.”

      Time passed reasonably quickly; Celerity found that although she didn’t share much in common with Galina, she got on quite well with her. The fessine was very open about her life, hopes and dreams; unusually for laima society, she was unmarried, and relatively well-off, for a so-called ‘low female’, although she was currently also ‘romantically entangled’ with Eliška, which explained how she knew so much about her employer. The medusi had herself made no long-term commitments, either – yet.

      Pabishka appeared in the window, at some point, apparently arguing with Eliška, although their voices were almost completely blocked by the big window – Celerity deliberately refused to meet her nemesis’ gaze, finding herself a very interesting spot on the floor to study. She sensed the director’s scorn upon her, like the scanner of some unfriendly piece of hostile equipment.

      At last, the murmuring, unintelligible voices faded out altogether, and after a few minutes of blissful silence, the small door in the wall beneath the smaller laboratory opened, at last, and through came Eliška herself. She mantled an arm across Galina’s shoulders and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “Nice, neat work,” she approved, affectionately. “I knew I could count on you to do a good job.”

      Galina pinked up and studied her toes, shyly. “Aw, it’s nothing. Just doing my job, eh?”

      “That doesn’t mean you can’t be proud of it. A good job done now saves hours in fixing a bodge-up later.”

      “Likewise, I was serious when I thanked you,” Celerity commented, softly, resting her large hand on the medusi’s shoulder. “That this… ‘fine tuning’ is not necessary except to placate Pabishka? Maybe. But you could have done a lot worse to me than a little smoothing, here and there.”

      “I can’t make any guarantees that it’ll stay ‘just a little smoothing’,” Eliška apologised, softly. “Pabishka is… well, hard to second-guess. She might be happy with it, because we’ve followed her instructions, but if she’s not happy, it wouldn’t be the first time she’s changed her mind and ordered something completely different at the slightest whim.”

      “Regardless,” Celerity soothed. “For now? Thank you.” She managed a small smile. “And I appreciate the kindness. Not everyone would have paid such attention to my feelings.”

      Eliška gave her a sort of lopsided, nose-wrinkled smile in return. “It’s no problem. I like to try and be nice. To be honest, Nuori-Deuchainn have been pushing the legality of their operations here for a long time, and if I can work against the political machine, so much the better,” she growled, softly. “Pabishka’s managed to get herself an incredible level of power over the public and the local council alike, and I have no idea how. I guess she’s just that scary?”

      Galina snorted in a failed attempt to mask a private laugh.

      “Seriously, though. I know we don’t know each other very well, but I think I like you, Celerity,” Eliška reassured. “Although it’s more than just that, too, if I’m honest. All you poor souls caught up in the cogs of the Nuori money-making device deserve better than most people give you. Plus, I don’t want to get caught in any backlash when the slaves revolt, and if I can minimise my chances of being a legitimate target this way? It doesn’t cost me anything extra to be nice.”

      “You think they will?” Celerity wondered.

      “Oh, I think it’s pretty much a given. All we don’t know is when. Why do you think everyone’s so scared of the Denizens?”

      Celerity crouched, getting herself closer to the laima’s level, and perked her head, curiously. “The Denizens…?” she prompted.

      “You’ve never heard of them?” Eliška gave her a curious, semi-suspicious frown.

      Celerity just shook her head.

      “Okay, I’ll give you a rundown. But if anyone asks? You didn’t hear it from me. All right?...”

0o0o0o0o0
      They had covered a good amount of ground, but were still quite far from the Shahr-Pieni city border when Rasa called a halt for the night. Slipstream fidgeted impatiently, but didn’t complain out loud; complaining would have served little purpose aside from to get Rasa annoyed with him. After all, the fact that the Synthetics in Rasa’s group could have continued walking for another few days solid counted for little, when most of the party were biologics and needed to rest; even in the highly-unlikely event that Slipstream had elected to ‘trust’ (ha, right) Firewire to help out, for a few hours, they wouldn’t have been able to carry them all, and didn’t really know where they were going.

      So instead, everyone – synthetics included – got themselves settled in another of those small ‘junction boxes’ where a selection of different pipes intersected, water moving slowly and almost silently through the trench in the centre.

      Slipstream – glaring hot enough to melt holes in thin sheet metal – cuffed Firewire to the most suitable, accessible water-pipe, before settling himself on the opposite side of the box; that his nemesis had to tuck his feet awkwardly right up under himself to keep out of the water was the icing on the cake. A dedicated struggle from the lightly built mech could probably have broken the ceramic, but Firewire didn’t look like he was particularly inclined to attempt to free himself, now he’d finally been caught. Besides, it wasn’t as if he’d have been able to do it quietly, and Slipstream still looked fairly strongly inclined to hand out violence at the drop of a hat. He might be many things, Firewire told himself, but masochist was not one of them.

      Silence reigned for a little while. While everyone else got settled in their blankets, Ausra passed out the rations – unappealing, cardboard-looking protein wafers – and a little clean water to drink.

      Firewire waited until it was silent before speaking. “Weren’t there two of you following me?” he wondered, feigning innocence.

      Slipstream narrowed his eyes, irritably; Firewire had timed it perfectly so everyone would hear. “Does it matter?”

      Firewire looked away, and shrugged as best his manacled arms would allow. “Probably not,” he accepted. “I suppose you just figured I’m not that important after all. Or you know you’re chasing a lost cause, or something.”

      Slipstream bristled. “My sister is not a lost cause…!”

      Firewire glanced around their temporary camp, and arched a brow. “Clearly,” he deadpanned. He couldn’t have made his disdain for the group any clearer if he’d shouted it through a loud-hailer. “So much so that they left you, alone, to find me.” Beat. “Speaking of which, shouldn’t we be heading home, about now? To get her fixed? Or is playing native more important to you?”

      Having already seen what was going on, Mirii caught Slipstream’s arm just in time, before the Policebot could go for his tormentor’s throat. “He is doing this to rile you, pay it no heed,” she counselled, softly.

      “I know that,” Slipstream agreed, irritably. “I’m going to rile him in a minute. With my fist.”

      “I’m guessing from your reactions that your friend has abandoned you here,” Firewire observed, softly, in the silence. “You wouldn’t be being so obnoxious if you didn’t feel the need to hide the fact she’s dropped you on your aft.”

      “You clearly don’t know Celerity if you think she’d ever be so thoughtless,” Slipstream argued, softly, hunching his shoulders. “If you must know – and I have no idea why I’m bothering to tell you, maybe it’s just to shut you up – we got separated in the tunnels. We’re going north to look for her.”

      Firewire gave him a bravely scornful look, apparently content that he was safe since Slipstream had promised to keep his voice down. “Of course,” he agreed, softly. “She’s so small and delicate. I can understand how you’d find her easy to lose track of.”

      Slipstream’s eyes narrowed down to hostile little slits, and he pursed his lips, angrily. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking you know anything about the situation,” he snapped. Again, it was only Mirii’s steadying hand on his arm stopped him going into the attack. “You can blame yourself if you don’t like being dragged hither and yon across the planet.”

      Firewire lifted his chin, looking like he had more to say… then decided against it and inclined his head; fair point. Although if you lot hadn’t spooked me, we wouldn’t be here at all.

      Their rations eaten, proximity alarms set, quiet reigned until the little group finally settled down to rest. Apart from one notable exception, everyone rapidly descended into varying qualities and depths of sleep. Most Denizens had their own blankets, except Rasa and her partner, who were curled up together in the same one, sleeping fairly lightly; Mirii was tucked tidily up by Slipstream’s side, completely silent and motionless in recharge. Even Firewire had got himself comfortable, and was sitting and humming peacefully.

      Slipstream, predictably, was still awake – partly to keep an optic on his friends, who he felt a need to protect, and partly to will bad things onto Firewire. If looks could kill, the captured fugitive would have at very minimum imploded or melted.

      The Policebot folded his arms defensively across his chassis, annoyed at himself, and glared at the little orange mech recharging peacefully opposite him. The temptation to just stomp over there and beat the silly contented smile off his face was rising. How dare the little blot of purge have the gall to sit there all happy and content when he was the root cause of all of this.

      He shut off his optics and tried to find something else to think about. Something to take his mind away from thoughts of murder. Very bad form, for the law-keepers to feel like breaking the laws they were meant to uphold. The fact that technically it wasn’t the law here wasn’t that much comfort.

      At some point – he wasn’t entirely sure when – Slipstream descended into a daydream. He was still in the same sort of boxy ‘room’ they’d adopted as their temporary camp, except it had more floorspace, more inhabitants, and the trench with water-of-dubious-origin flowing through it was missing. He was – distractedly – trying to hold a conversation with Artur, although the laima was a whole lot more mature and sensible than Slipstream remembered him being, so maybe this was nothing more sensible than just wishful thinking? He let his gaze meander, wondering if he’d be able to escape?

      …His spark skipped, a flickering surge of mixed fright/excitement making his systems unstable; he was briefly aware of Artur asking if he was ok, but he ignored him, for now. There, in the distant corner? Sat that pretty little redhead he’d seen every now and then on Deixar main precinct – sitting with her legs curled up on one of the big squashy slouch cushions, talking quietly to one of the natives. He allowed himself to watch her for only a few moments, before losing his nerve and letting his gaze meander elsewhere, before she could catch him looking. But oh! It was good to see her.

      If only he could now somehow dig up the courage to just go talk to her! But he didn’t even know her name, so far, let alone find out who she was under the pretty colouring. He’d had so many opportunities to get to know her, to say hello and share small talk, to learn to relax around her, and the most he’d ever done was touch the brim of his hat to her in greeting when she got too close too unexpectedly for him to escape before being noticed.

      Why would she talk to you, any way? a voice wondered. That stupid, critical voice of his, always there to stamp on his optimism – you’re not working hard enough, fast enough, you’re slow, you’re lazy, stop gawping and get back to work. You’re such a little failure, Seemy, what would possibly interest her in you? You’re a creepy workaholic little stalker who just… watches, from a distance, and would bore her to termination if you ever spoke to her. You do know you’re a stalker, right?

      I’m not that bad, he defended himself against his inner demon. Just… shy. I’m dedicated, I’m hard-working, I’m sensitive to other people’s feelings-

      Shy? Cowardly, more like. How many times have you run away from her now? Couple of hundred, certainly. You’re only interested in work, and you’re bull-headed and secretive about feelings, the demon corrected. She wants a mech who can look after her, protect her, love her. Who can freaking talk to her without clamming up about what he’s thinking! Not your breed of overwound, underclocked, workaholic idiot, and especially not such a weakling one suffering from such extreme delusions of grandeur. Who thinks he can somehow make a difference to where he lives! Where countless others have failed, Seemy alone will prevail in making his home safe again. Beat, laugh. Face it. All you’d ever do is drag her into danger by association, make her worry by not talking to her, stress her out, and run away when things get tough.

      Whatever opinion it might be espousing – and Slipstream felt that the words were unhappily close to the bone – the voice wasn’t his own, he realised, belatedly. It was an alien, external voice, and sounded like a very old enemy of his. One of the ones who’d almost killed him and his uncle, when he’d been very young – almost too young to comprehend it all.

      Stupid little Slipstream, it soothed, as if trying to calm a frightened child. Never could accept help when you needed it, and now it’s come back to bite you in the aft, eh? You came all this way and lost your aunt when you needed her most, after you’d treated her like your own old sump residue, never seeing that without her you’d have failed, failed, failed. The only reason you caught Firewire is that you got outside help! You’re just good for hauling stuff around, kid. The brainless muscle that should be seen rarely, and heard even less. Let the smart ones do all the thinking, you’ll just mess it up.

      Slipstream closed his fingers into fists and concentrated on ignoring the words. Which was particularly difficult because it was right. All the horrible words it said cut wickedly close to the truth, like a white-hot iron along his antennae, and just as hard to ignore.

      You stupid useless little blot of purge, the voice crooned, laughing. Still suffering those delusions of grandeur? Lowly little constable who thinks himself the be-all and end-all of modern policing, when really he’s just overworking himself so much he has to rely on exotic narcotics just to keep going?

      It wasn’t even an inner voice, any more, he realised. It was… external, audible, but so sibilant and all-encompassing it seemed to be coming from inside his head.

      “It wouldn’t surprise me at all,” the voice whispered, from all around him, “if they didn’t cook this all up just to get rid of you. Faked Lucy’s symptoms to get you emotionally hooked. Cooked up a story about a non-existent escapee to get you offworld, because you know he’s still in prison, really. Then when you were here and happily lost, get that fat policewoman to abandon you with the excuse of ‘oops, alien attackers, we’ll meet up later’ – when she has no intention of fulfilling her obligation.”

      “Lara wouldn’t be so mean,” he protested – his voice the soft, light mew of a child. Come to think of it, he felt smaller than normal, too – standing with his face closer to the ground than felt familiar. “She wouldn’t go along with a plan like that, it’s horrible.”

      “She’d do anything for Dack,” the monster in the shadows corrected, with an unkind chuckle. “And you know she would. So don’t give me that bag of old smelt.”

      “Dack wouldn’t do that, either.” He shook his head, emphatically, backing away, trying to find that nice, comfortable pool of light that’d keep the monster away. “Just because he did bad things in the past doesn’t mean he’s nasty!”

      “Oh, pish. Anything for a quiet life, and maybe he’ll get on his brothers’ good sides by getting rid of you. They’re never very patient with you, are they, snookums?”

      Slipstream backed up, soft little huffing whimpery noises issuing involuntarily from his vocaliser, still clutching to his chest the oversized weapon that he could barely lift, let alone wield. His ‘hat’ – which should have been part of his helm! – had somehow come detached, and was now sliding down his head, obscuring his vision. Moisture was welling like hot drops of mercury around his eyes, the humiliation making them sting. He wasn’t going to lose it in front of his arch-nemesis, he wasn’t, he wasn’t-

      “Aww,” the monster crooned, giving him a ‘friendly’ pat on the head that jammed his hat even harder down over his blinkers. “No gonna lubricate yourself, there, are you, Spark?”

      Slipstream made a strangled noise of fright and toddled another unsteady step backward. “Please not hurt,” he pleaded. Why was it so hard to reason? So hard to… to think this through? He wasn’t the brightest, granted, but he’d always had a real-world sort of common sense, and didn’t remember being so… powerless. So stupid.

      “Aww, I wouldn’t hurt such a dear little thing.” The monster had grown again – or had he shrunk some more? “Cuz aren’t you a love?”

      Slipstream cowered away, frightened. “Leave alone,” he instructed, shakily.

      “I tell you what,” the voice soothed, sweetly. “I know you like to stare. So… you can come with me.” The blue monster stooped, and plucked him up off the ground, gently.

      Slipstream squirmed in its arms, but was so cripplingly weak he couldn’t do much more than wriggle. What was it about the giant that made it so scary? It had a gentle voice and a kind manner, totally unthreatening, and yet there was something about it that made his motors twitchy and his spark hurt in his chest, hot and constricted like a drop of lead. It terrified him, and he didn’t even know why.

      The giant set off down the corridor with him clasped gently in its arms. “We’ll find you somewhere cosy to sit, shall we?”

      “Sit nice,” he agreed, reluctantly. “What do?”

      “What are we going to do? Well, see…” They passed the threshold into another of those dingy little rooms; it was mostly cuboid, with water running down the sides and a deep, square pit at the centre – almost like an abandoned pool. Maybe it was part of the drainage system? “I got you a little present.”

      Slipstream peered down into the Pit, and shrank back against his tormentor, whimpering, finally letting the tears escape – however scary he was, the scene in front was scarier. Ankle-deep, filthy water formed a pool in a sunken pit in the middle of the floor; rusty old access ladders with barely any rungs clung like dying insects to the sheer sides where decades of acid-pale green algae made the rough concrete slick with slime.

      …In the pool, wrists cuffed to one of the ladders, curled up on her knees and mostly oblivious, soiled by the filthy water, was the redhead. Her beautiful lines were all dented, as though she’d endured an all-over hammer-massage, and tiny chips of warm red paint floated on the surface of the murky water, like a swirl of blood. Portions of armour had broken off altogether, revealing the underlying mechanisms – bundles of microhydraulics and cabling that looked like organic muscles with the skin all flayed off. And her soft, golden eyes, usually so sunny and friendly, were now murky black pits of tar, great molten droplets of it spilling down over her cheeks like obscene tears.

      “No,” he whimpered, faintly, cringing backwards. “Let go. Please, let go.”

      “Aw, you ain’t gonna thank me?” the monster wondered, sweetly. “After I brought her here all special for you.”

      “Let go special also,” Slipstream suggested, unhappily. “Let go!”

      “Now now, I can’t let her go juust yet. I have things – special things – all planned, for you and her. Cuz I know you like to watch,” the demon purred, satisfied at the baby’s response. “You watch all kinds of things, huh? Just sit there, all creepy-eyed, and stare. And since I know you’d never in a thousand years ever get the courage to even approach her, let along fuck her pretty little brains out like I know you want to… I’m going to help out. I’m going to let you live vicariously, watching me do to her all the things you’d secretly love to have the courage to do yourself.”

      “No,” Slipstream argued, but the whimpery, unsteady tone of his infant voice ruined the assertive edge he wanted it to have. “No hurt. Let go!”

      “Oh I’m not going to hurt her… just yet…” the voice chuckled, descending to a husky murmur. Its lips – hot as embers – brushed against his audios, made him shudder and recoil. “You’ll see. Just… you sit cosy, and watch as I take your pretty little girlfriend…”

      The brush of lips turned into an overly-sexual nibble down his little antennae, making him flinch further away.

      “…and make her scream my name, over and over. First in ecstasy, as I ravish her, fill every little port and valve in that delicious little body with my potency, flood her until she’s overflowing…”

      Beat – another nibble, but harder – hard enough to kink the sensitive little stems. Slipstream squeaked in pain and jerked backwards.

      “Then in agony, as I slowly tear her to pieces. And you know, because I wouldn’t want all that succulent body to go to waste, especially after I filled it so lovingly… I’ll feed her to you. Piece…”

      The monster lifted a piece of that warm red, broken-edged armour. No, take it away.

      “…by piece…”

      It brought the chip closer to him; he clenched his denta together, hard as he could, but sharp fingers dug into the corners of his jaw, right at the hinge, squeezing hard enough to make him jerk his mouth open just to stop the hurting.

      “…by piece…” the monster finished, triumphantly, and jammed the hard-edged piece of detritus between his lips. “That’s it, you little bastard. Take your medicine like the good, obedient little boy you are.”

      He thrashed in the demon’s arms – let me go, let me go! It hurt, damn it hurt-…! The jagged edges tore the inside of his mouth, and when his tormentor forced his jaws closed, the chip of red exploded into sour, acidic fragments that burned all the way down-

      Another of those white-hot, agonising pulses kicked through his constricted chassis, and at last he tore himself to wakefulness. Everything was still stressed and hot inside him, running a painful resistance, but at least there was no monster here. He diverted coolant through his chest, trying to take his temperature down.

      Belatedly, he realised he had an audience. “…Slipstream?” Mirii coaxed, gently, from by his side.

      He forced a smile down at her, just to clear the fog of sleepy distress from his features. “Hey, Mirii. Is everything all right?”

      “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

      Say something, say something. “Yeah,” he lied, at last. “It was just a spike.”

      “A… spike?” She arched a brow, confused.

      “In my fuel-handling system. If I’ve over-exerted, it takes longer to rebalance, and sometimes I get little bursts of excess energy. Briefly greys out components. Which hurts.” He smiled, and shifted his shoulders, growing more comfortable with his lie. The dream monster was right though, wasn’t he? a little voice reminded. You lie and hide your feelings and cheat your way out of having to talk about it.

      “If it was a dream-” Mirii probed, gently, allowing him the option of elaborating.

      “I don’t dream,” he interrupted.

      “I did not believe I did, either,” she informed him, in that same measured voice. “I thought I was damaged, the first time it happened. Once I recognised what it was? I was more content to allow it to happen, and try and glean meaning from it when awake.”

      Slipstream held her steady blue-eyed gaze for another second or two before looking away, vaguely ashamed, and just repeating; “It was just a spike.”

      “…all right.” She didn’t sound convinced, but let him stick to his story. “If at some point you do decide you wish to talk about it? Please. I would be more than happy to indulge you.”

0o0o0o0o0
      While the Denizens travelled through the Undercity, back at the Pit the days rolled past without much change in the routine. By day, Galina would head down in the lift to collect Celerity, for one system or another to be measured up and researched and generally probed for all its secrets, and some more work to be done on her new colouring, but after an hour or two in the lab the big femme would be allowed the rest of the day to herself, for a little precious ‘peace and quiet’. It wasn’t as if it was very quiet in the Pit, with all the noisy children and animals, and she didn’t really have a lot to do, but just being allowed the time to herself gave her back that tiny spark of self-confidence.

      She often found herself thinking that it really wasn’t that bad, here, was it? And straight after immediately wished she could take back the words, but… however much she hated to look at it, it was true. She was well-looked-after, down here, kept warm and safe and operating within optimal parameters, and not even asked to do anything, really. Which was sort of a blessing, in a way – Pabishka, she’d learned, had made most of her money by operating a series of high-end expensive ‘Spa lounges’ (apparently an euphemism for ‘brothel’, here), and she was glad she’d not been party to the seedier side of the laima’s business. Yet.

      When the late afternoon rolled around, Pabishka – or more typically, one of her personal staff – would come down and explain what was going to happen that night, and what they expected from Celerity. She’d have half an hour or so to get ready – and holies forbid she wasn’t, when they came back for her – then she’d be whisked away to yet another function, to be shown off to dignitaries or potential shareholders or anyone else with enough money to make Pabishka all hot and excited under the collar.

      The only evening Pabishka didn’t take her out was when a storm blew in off the neighbouring ocean in the afternoon. It rained all afternoon, starting around the time the midday feed rations were portioned out, and getting steadily worse until it was a full-blown storm by early evening. The thunder boomed and lightning lit up the sky, and the rain fell in curtains so heavy it turned the security forcefield into a shimmering bubble, purple fireflies drowning in a coruscating dome of water. For the most part, the field held up under the barrage, but the strongest gusts overwhelmed it, every now and then, a few bright drops if rain misting through and sprinkling down on the Pit’s occupants below.

      To lessen the risk of an electrical spike overloading a power-grid somewhere, pretty much every power cable had been deactivated for the duration of the storm. In fact, the only systems that really remained active were the security fields, and even then only the upper grid was obviously active, and the four big lightning towers that stood guard around the top of the Pit; Celerity had watched powerful bolts fork down against them at least three times already.

      Most occupants had (sensibly, the big female thought) opted to retire to their little homes dug into the walls of the internal ‘cliff’, to wait for the storm to blow itself out. The giant probably would have joined them, had there been somewhere big enough for her to fit inside, but the only option would have been to block the tunnel from the cargo lift, and she didn’t feel that desperate. Just… didn’t like having to put all her confidence in the towers. If something did go wrong, she’d have nowhere to go.

      Some of the children were still out playing make-believe – if what she could hear was anything to go by, apparently the shimmering bubble of the forcefield above was the dome of an ocean city, and the children were ‘underwater astronauts’, exploring some fantastic, exciting new world. There had been a lot more youngsters out playing, when it had just been rain falling, but when the thunder started a large proportion had retreated back to their little family units to snuggle up with their parents. Most of the little crowd that remained charging up and down the walls were what had been dubbed ‘the orphans’, although they weren’t actual orphans, as such, because they technically didn’t have parents in the first place. They’d been produced through artificial fertilisation and grown in tanks, and dumped into the Pit to finish growing up as soon as they’d been weaned. ‘Orphan’ just sounded better.

      The leggy little pair of altered ruta children that were playing/squabbling around where she was sitting reminded Celerity a little of Footloose and Slipstream, somewhat, when they’d been very young, except that in the twins’ case, Lucy would have been the one posturing and teasing, with Seem content to remain snuggled up to his aunt.

      “Come on, fraaaidy,” the little male teased; he looked a fraction older than his sister, but not by much.. “Come and playyy.”

      She snuggled tighter against the giant’s side, making sure the large fingers were curled protectively around her, and shook her head. “I’m gonna stay with Letty,” she replied, grumpily. “I don’t like storms.”

      “Letty might not want little fraidies like you getting in her plating,” he jeered, waving his tail like a flag. “It’s only a bit of thunder, it’s not gonna come down here and get youuu.” He lifted his hands, curling his fingers like hooked claws.

      “I don’t care.” The little ishten pouted. “And Letty doesn’t mind if I sit here.” She hesitated, and looked up at Celerity’s face. “Do you, Letty?” she prompted, for her brother’s benefit. “Tell him, tell him you don’t mind.”

      Celerity chuckled; the same constant one-upmanship she’d seen in the twins, too. “No, I don’t mind.”

      “Well you’re still a little scaredy-puff!” the een asserted, flicking his tail.

      “Am not.”

      “Are too! Scaredy-puff, scaredy-puff!” He danced from foot to foot, flagging his tail.

      She glared and puffed up her throat hood, flashing the angry pinkish underside at him. “Am not scared!”

      “Scaare-dee-puff-”

      An extra-loud clap of thunder boomed from very close by, the accompanying fork of lightning briefly illuminating the entire Pit in brilliant white light, and he squeaked in alarm and dove for cover by Celerity’s other side, his jeering forgotten. The big female smiled, affectionately, and cupped her large hand gently over him; it was like having a shivering puff of thistledown snuggling against her.

      “Now who’s a fraidy-puff?” his sister asked, innocently.

      “Shut up,” he growled, shakily.

      Celerity stroked her hand gently down over his head, smoothing his fur. “It’s all right. You’re safe down here,” she reassured. “The towers will protect us.”

      He curled his little hands around her fingers, and snuggled closer, silently.

      Celerity could easily sympathise with him; she didn’t much care for storms, herself. A well-placed bolt of normal lightning could lay her out for days, if it didn’t burn out some important component or another, and the storms here were far more ferocious than even the ones they had to contend with at home. Who knew what sort of damage would result from one of these high-powered strikes? She’d just have to trust that the powers that be were familiar enough with storms here to be able to provide effective protection for them.

      By the time came for the evening rations to be delivered, Celerity had accumulated a dozen or so small children around her; some wanting comfort, some wanting protection, some just not wanting to miss out on what their friends were getting. The big femme didn’t mind; it was nice to have the company, with Wen away doing some sort of training.

      “Have you got any children, Letty?” one of the bolder children asked, peering curiously at her face from his spot on her shoulder.

      “No.” She shook her head, with a tired little smile, tickling her finger up under his chin. “None of my own.”

      That triggered a little flurry of questions. Why not? Don’t you like children? Can’t you have them? Is it because you’re a machine? Can you get pregnant? How do you fit it all in?

      She laughed and lifted her hands for quiet. “I can only answer one question at a time, bitlets,” she soothed, once they’d quietened. “It’s not that I don’t want them, it’s just that… well, my people live a very long time,” she explained, carefully. “And we grow very slowly. So we don’t often have children.”

      “Do you want them?”

      She looked down at the fluffed-out little ruta tucked up into her side. “Beg pardon?”

      The little ishten gazed back up at her out of wide, appealing eyes. “Do you want to have children ever?” she repeated. “Mama says it’s easy, that’s why so many of the big ones here have babies while they’re in the Pit.”

      “Mama said it’s the ishten that are easy,” her brother corrected, impolitely.

      “Well that’s silly, it doesn’t mean anything,” the little girl retorted, poking her tongue out.

      Celerity smiled and patted her head. Best not to try and explain that one. “It’s not to do with how difficult it is, Button,” she soothed, before they could get too heavily into their argument, feeling the small head butt up into her palm. “It’s more… well…” How did you put something so complicated into words children would understand? “We live a very long time,” she explained, carefully. “So we don’t really… change, very much. Certainly not very quickly. Having a child is a very big change, we usually have to make sure it’s something we definitely want to do.” Unless your name is Pulsar, and the children come along accidentally.

      “You said you want to,” the ruta observed. “Isn’t that good enough?”

      “It’s… complicated.” Boy, was it ever. “We don’t seem to have a lot of success with children, in my family,” Celerity explained, sadly, and her voice descended into a quiet little husk. “My sister and her partner recently lost their first.”

      The children clustered closer. “You mean it ran away?” one wondered, worriedly,

      Celerity shook her head. “She was hurt,” shot while on duty, because she never told anyone except me and Beemer she was carrying, because she was scared they’d take her off duty, “and it… died. Before it could be born.”

      There was a collective little ripple of sad noises, and more hugs from the little gathering.

      “Well I think you’d make a good Mama,” the little ruta said, with that sort of definite weight to her words that only a small child could manage. “You’re nice.”

      Celerity smiled, past the lump in her throat, and stroked the little one’s head. “Well, thank you.”

      As evening wore on into night, they all began to quieten down as the storm faded from roaring fury into rain alone; most of the little bundles of fur and blanket had migrated from their previous spots and heaped up together in her lap, and were now sleeping peacefully there.

      Yes, I’d love to have children of my own, Celerity explained, in her head, watching over them. More than anything. Hard to explain how much.

      But… I don’t know if Dack wants them. And I want him to be happy more than I want to service my own selfish needs. It’s not as if I’ve never looked after them. Seem and Lucy were close enough that they felt like my own, for a long time. I’m not exactly “missing out”. I just… it would be… validation? Completion? She studied her hands, quietly. I can’t even explain why.

      “You seem to have built up quite the fan club, there, Lara.”

      Celerity glanced up, to find Wen perched by her shoulder, on her usual spot on the scaffold. The big femme smiled in a way that suggested she’d be blushing if she could, and dropped her gaze, humbly. “It’s just because I’m big. They think I can protect them,” she argued, softly. “Still pretty stormy, out.”

      “No, no.” Wen smiled. “I think they’ve got the right idea. They’re staying with you because they like you. And I think they made a good choice. You look like you’re good with children.”

      Celerity smiled, awkwardly. “They don’t even really know me,” she argued, quietly. “I’m just… big and non-threatening. Good to sit on. I-I mean… I don’t really know what I’m doing, even… I’ve never had my own children.”

      “Sweetie, you need to learn to let yourself take a compliment in the way it was intended,” Wen soothed. “The world isn’t going to end just because someone’s said you’re good at something and you believed it.”

      Celerity ducked her head, optics brightening again.

      “The fact you haven’t had any children of your own doesn’t mean you’re not going to be good at it when you do,” Wen reassured. “How do you think everyone here coped? Everyone’s a first-timer at some point.” She clambered across to the big femme’s shoulder, and tucked herself under the blanket Celerity wore like a headscarf. “I don’t know, the fact that you want them makes me think you’ll probably be good at it.”

      Celerity was silent.

      Wen made a face that suggested she was afraid she’d just put her foot in it. “Do you… not want children?”

      The big femme looked away. “Yes,” she confirmed, at last, huskily. “I just… I don’t know if my partner wants them. And I don’t want to force him into anything.”

      “Have you discussed it with him?” Wen stroked her fingers along the bristly antennae, comfortingly.

      “…no.” Celerity shook her head, faintly, leaning in to the touch.

      “Wouldn’t that be a good idea?”

      Celerity glanced up, briefly. “I-… no. I don’t want to push him,” she said, shaking her head. “I want to leave it to him to bring it up, then I can be sure he wants it, too. Not just… just be doing it to make me happy, because I asked him…”