Grando Scrim watched as his men dragged the plastic-sheathed body into the backroom of his club, The Velvet Strip. Orin grunted, grabbing a chair as he pulled the skin's top half into the center of the room. The other employee, Pelo, was barely holding up his half, fumbling with the slick, vacuum-sealed packaging as the skin's feet kept slipping out of his hands.
"Come on, dipshit," Orin growled. "Damn flipper-fingers. I should've just carried him myself."
"Flipper-fingers?" Pelo dropped the skin's feet and held up his mismatched hands. One had three grayish, single-jointed fingers, and the other was a cheap wire-job—unskinned mechanical rods. "You making fun of—"
"Shut up!" Grando snarled. "Get the damn body in the chair." He watched as the men stopped bickering and got to work. Muttering and cursing, they hoisted their package into the seat, and Pelo held it steady while Orin pulled out a box cutter and started slicing away the plastic shroud. The skin was fitted with a mask—a breather to keep it alive during transit. The damn things didn't even have the wherewithal to breathe without a deck. Even so, the vibrancy of its flesh and its thick head of dark hair were enough to proclaim its health as Orin peeled back the plastic.
"Damn guy's young," Pelo remarked.
"Poor bastard," Orin grunted, slicing the plastic over the skin's chest. He nicked the smooth, tan flesh of the thing's pectoral, and a thin bead of dark blood welled up.
"Careful, you idiot," Grando said reflexively. As if to justify his chastisement, he added, "Kid sold his body; God knows why. Maybe he was saving his sick mama. Anyway, no sense cutting it up for no damn reason."
"Sorry, Boss." Orin continued to slice, working his way down to the skin's waist. Then he looked up at Pelo, who was holding the thing's shoulders. "Hold it steady, man."
"I am!"
Grando watched the thug's wirelike fingers flex with the strain of keeping the body from sliding off the plastic chair. He almost chuckled, but that wouldn't be good for his image. He walked over to the desk he kept in the storeroom—sometimes a man wanted a quiet place to work where legitimate business wouldn't come looking—and picked up his stogie. It was the real deal, not some vapor fake.
He spent more on stogies than most of his men spent on rent. It made a statement every time he sparked one up, and this was no exception. He leaned against his desk, stuffed the fat, hand-wrapped cigar between his thick, wine-stained lips, then flicked his thumb, producing a flame from the little mod he'd had installed in the nailbed.
As the blue-green torch ignited his chem-laced tobacco, Grando inhaled deeply, closing his eyes while the nicotine went straight to his brain. His reverie was short-lived. Orin cleared his throat and asked, "Should we leave this mask on it, Boss?"
Grando opened his eyes and regarded the naked body on the chair. It was young—probably not more than twenty. Not overly muscled, but not as skinny as some of the poor bastards in his neighborhood who might be tempted to sell their flesh—literally. "Leave it on for now. Don't want the damn thing to croak on us. Wasn't cheap."
Pelo steadied the body on the chair, then let go, taking a step back. "You sure this is worth it?"
Grando glared at him. He'd already explained to these two knuckleheads what he had. Was it worth repeating? He supposed, for bragging's sake, it might be. Grando reached into his pocket and pulled out the neurodeck—a domino-sized lump of gold and compressed carbon. He held it up, the gold inlay glinting in the dim amber lights, and the crimson seal winking balefully. "You don't believe me?"
"I believe you, Boss!" Orin replied immediately, taking a step back. He was a big guy, Orin. He even had a glitchy-as-hell aura system. Even so, he knew Grando could whistle into the ether and have ten men just like him ready to kill, torture, maim—whatever he needed. Being a boss was a big deal, and muscle like Orin knew where their next meal was coming from. Pelo wasn't quite so smart.
"Boss, that's a pretty piece of tech, but, like, it was in the trash! Maybe just sell it?"
"This is a royal seal, boy," Grando growled, tapping his thumb on the deck. "It was found lodged in a defunct recycler from the salvage of an Imperial dreadnought—a ship that had been floating in orbit over Titan for a hundred years!" He shook the neurodeck. "Whoever this is, he or she was around a long time ago, and they were connected."
Again, he tapped the royal seal. "A Royal. You think they might be happy we brought them back? You think they might show some gratitude? Maybe they know where some bits are stowed away. If not, maybe someone high up will pay a ransom. I don't know how, but this thing is going to pay off big-time—way more than that skin cost me."
While he spoke, Grando moved closer to the body, shaking his head and clicking his tongue. "If I could afford the process, I'd put myself in a deck and take that damn skin for myself. Give this big old body to the Royal." That was the thing—putting a brain in a deck was a hundred times harder and more expensive than making a skin ready to receive one. Only the elite had neurodecks—high-end mercs, Royals, wealthy execs. Scum like him and his boys didn't rate. He flipped the dense little rectangle in his palm. Yet.
"Where do you plug that thing, Boss?" Orin asked, peering at the naked body.
Grando frowned. "Somewhere on the head or maybe the spine—"
"Oh, I saw it!" Pelo said eagerly, pushing the skin's head forward and exposing a weird, black polymer port at the nape of the neck, almost concealed by the thick, dark hair.
"Hang on," Grando said. "Tie his wrists to the chair in case he freaks out when he wakes up."
Orin nodded. "Smart, Boss." He walked over to the bench in the back of the storeroom and rifled through some toolboxes until he found what he was looking for: a couple of good-sized zip-ties. Grando watched as he took hold of the skin's wrists and zipped them tightly to the plastic chair's arms. "That good?"
Grando frowned. "I dunno. You think he could break those ties?"
Pelo let out a high-pitched snicker, shaking his head. "No way, Boss! We use those to hook people up all the time."
Orin shrugged. "I mean, I could break 'em, but I got this system, so…"
"Well, this skin ain't got a system in it. Would have cost me twice as much." Grando hefted the little neurodeck, marveling at its weight. The damn thing was dense. "All right, let me see here." He walked around behind the body and aligned the tiny slots on the sides of the neurodeck to the ones on the edge of the port. "I think I just put it here and push it in…"
He'd barely applied any pressure on the deck before something chirped, and then it slid into the port as smooth as butter. Several tiny clicks sounded from the back of the skin's skull, and then a shutter slid closed on the port, and the body began to vibrate.
"Holy shit, Boss!" Orin cried, stepping away from the unnatural sight.
"Shit! Is it seizing?" Pelo asked, also stepping back. It was like the two meatheads were afraid they'd be seen as guilty in Grando's eyes if the damn thing died.
"Calm down! It's probably normal…" He trailed off as he, too, backed away, watching the naked body jerk and vibrate, rattling the plastic chair legs on the stained concrete floor. "Just give it a minute…"
###
//Equilibrium Cybernetics, Neurodeck Mark 7.9 initializing//
Hector swam in a sea of darkness, a well of nothingness. All he knew was the faint, distant thrum of a heartbeat.
//Compatible corpus vivum detected, commencing memory and neural pattern remapping.//
Images flashed through Hector's mind—his mother, his childhood dog, his father, and a thousand other faces. They came faster and faster, and soon it wasn't just people, but experiences as well—an interminable kaleidoscope of memories, through which he seemed to fall at an ever-increasing pace: school, fights, girls, kisses, sex, military service, the Imperial Guard, promotions, honors, accolades, the Conti family… Esme.
Hector's eyes snapped open. They stung, and everything was blurry. Something was in them—some kind of jelly-like goop. Antiseptic? He blinked, grunting as he tried to breathe. Something was in his mouth and his nostrils. Something was clamped around his face. He heard voices, but they weren't clear. They echoed—muffled, like his head was underwater.
//Neural pattern remapping paused—insufficient host gray matter patterning. Some memories will be unavailable until remedied. Commencing background patterning. You may experience brief moments of nausea or disorientation until the process is complete.//
Hector blinked his stinging eyes, shaking his head, trying to get the stuff out of them. Someone grabbed his head, steadying it while they prodded the thing that was blocking his airway.
//Unpacking Chrysalis 9 Aura System modules. This will take a few moments.//
As the stuff in his eyes started to clear, Hector made sense of his surroundings. He could feel he was in a chair, and he could see a concrete floor. He saw people's legs—some wearing canvas trousers, others in black slacks. As someone grunted and tugged on the thing in his mouth, he focused closer and saw big, scarred knuckles gripping a black plastic breathing apparatus. It began to pull away, dragging tubes with it.
Hector coughed and gagged as the silicone lines slid out of his nostrils and throat. He still couldn't make out words, but he heard garbled voices and laughter. As the last of the tubes slid free, he leaned forward and coughed, hacking up a great gob of clear, slimy solution that spattered on the concrete, splashing his bare feet. His feet? They didn't look right.
Of course they don't, idiot. You're in a new skin. His inner voice was harsh, grating, always irritated when he dwelled on the obvious.
He blinked again, still coughing as he tried to sit up and look around. He was in a cramped, dim space, stacked with liquor boxes and aluminum kegs. The guy with the scarred knuckles stood before him—a big bruiser wearing a green canvas jacket. His face looked like he enjoyed lending it out in service as a chopping block. The man in the slacks leaned close, and Hector shifted his gaze toward him, noting a matching suit jacket and a much handsomer face—at least it wasn't scarred and bruised.
The suit said something, but Hector couldn't make out the words. He shook his head and tried to rub his ear on his shoulder. That got the man's attention, and he pointed, twirling his finger in a little circle while he said something.
//Chrysalis 9 modules unpacked. Accessing refinement log and applying schema to new corpus vivum… Process halted. 95,000 aura potentia units lost to entropy. Insufficient aura to refine corpus vivum or apply archived refinements, abilities, and boosts.//
Hector's blood froze as he read the notice. How did I lose all my potentia? Entropy? None of it made sense. His deck should have been in a conditioner while he waited for a skin. Even if not, to lose all his aura potentia—it wasn't possible.
He coughed, trying to curse as a third person, someone behind him, stuck a hard, sharp object in his ear and twisted, scooping something out. As it cleared the canal, his hearing clarified with almost painful relief. He heard the hum of machinery, the not-so-distant bass beats of club music, and a whiny voice behind him saying, "Gross!"
"It's just packing material," the big guy grunted. "Like greasing up a nice piece of tech before shipping it off."
The guy in the suit snorted. "Thanks for the insight, Orin." He leaned closer to Hector. "Can you hear me now?"
Hector nodded, blinking. His eyes still burned.
"Want me to do the other ear?" the high-pitched voice asked.
"Just do it," the suit said.
Hector held still, bracing himself, then the probing digit slid into his ear and scraped out a plug of goop.
"Better?" the suit asked.
Hector nodded, inhaling through his raw, runny nose. Damn skin feels raw. No nanites?
"I need you to tell me who you are, Mister Royal."
Before he could puzzle out the strange nature of the question, Hector's neurodeck flashed him another message:
//Aura System installed. Functionality limited by corpus vivum. Usable aura-pool capped at five units, regenerating at the rate of one unit per minute. Corpus vivum ambient aura potentia applied to: Strength Boost.//
The suit was still talking, but Hector didn't hear him. He was too busy staring at the dismal news. His aura system—one of the best in the empire—was back to square one. He'd worked so hard to build up his potentia pool!
Almost a goddamn 100k of boosts, skills, and—
The big guy slapped him, rattling Hector's skull and sending little stars floating through his vision. He blinked and then glared up at him. He moved to stand, tensing his arm to swing, but it finally dawned on him that he was fastened to the chair. The guy behind him slammed his hands on Hector's shoulders, holding him down as the big guy leaned close. "Boss is talking to you."
"What?" he grunted.
"Who—are—you?" the suit asked, puffing on a cigar.
"Hector." He stalled as he mentally accessed his aura system and looked at his status:
//Status:
Aura System: Chrysalis 9 – Gold-3
Level: 1
Archetype: --
Aura Pool: 1/5
Aura Potentia: 0
Attributes:
Strength: 8
Speed: 9
Vitality: 8
Perception: 11
Corpus Vivum Enhancements:
—
Abilities and Boosts:
Strength Boost: + Aura
End Report.//
"And who is Hector?" The suit leaned close again, putting his cigar just centimeters from Hector's right eye. He could feel the cherry's unpleasant warmth, and the smoke made him blink.
"Hector Finalis. Guardian Primus of the Conti family." Chew on that, you street rat. Did you know who you had tied to a chair?
The big guy, Orin, made an amused grunt. "Finalis, huh? They really do that, Boss? Give the royal guards funny last names? I thought that was just in the serials."
The "boss" grinned like a cat, his cigar held between his teeth as he stood. "Oh, they do that, Orin, they do that. Look at this, boys! A devil-damned Royal in my storeroom!"
"Release me," Hector said, his voice cracking as he tried to swallow some saliva to soothe his raw throat. "The Conti family—"
"The who, Boss?" the voice behind Hector interrupted.
"Quiet." The suit waved a hand. "I'm having my AI check."
Hector watched as the man's eyes flickered with tiny sparkles. After a moment, he pulled out his cigar, chuckled, and looked down at him. "What year do you think it is?"
Hector scowled, but he doubted it carried much weight in the weak, young skin. "AE 412."
"What the shit, Boss?" the guy behind Hector asked, his voice rising an octave.
The boss chuckled again, shaking his head. "Sorry, Hector, my boy. It's AE 609. You've been out for a while. My AI says the Conti family was slaughtered in a coup, by the way. Looks like you didn't do your job very well."
"Lies," Hector growled, some of his old menace tinting the words. The big guy stepped back, startled by the tone.
"Don't you remember? Hold on…" The boss held up a finger, the gold ring on his knuckle winking in the dim lights. "My AI looked you up. You're supposed to be dead. I mean, real dead. Hah! It says you were a traitor! It says you turned on the Contis and helped with the coup. Killed during the Night of the Gray Phage."
Orin snapped his thick, calloused fingers. "Oh shit, Boss! I think I heard of that. I think there's a vid serial based on it!"
"There sure is," the boss replied, sighing. "Dammit, though. I suppose that means this guy doesn't have much to offer us. Still, I bet the Royals would love to find out we recovered his deck. Hell, even the Imperials! What do you think, boys? Should we send a message to the Lautrec Embassy?"
Hector didn't hear their further taunts. His mind was reeling. The Contis…dead? Esme, too?
I'm a traitor? No.
No matter how he tried, though, he couldn't remember what had happened—why he was in a new skin or what had led to the demise of his old one. He shook his head, looking at his aura level:
//Aura Pool: 3/5
End Report.//
His system had only been able to install one boost, but at least it was a decent one. What would it do for him if he used only three aura? What about five? It seemed so small, but his body was fresh… Five aura wasn't much compared to his old levels, but it might just be enough.
Push an aura, gain three on the scale—that's the rule.
"What's he thinking about, Boss?" Orin asked, leaning over so he looked down his big, crooked nose into Hector's face.
So, if the system says I've got eight strength, I could add fifteen to that. Seems like a pretty damn big boost for a guy in a skin like this.
"I think I blew his mind!" The boss chortled, pulling a big drag off his cigar so the ash blazed.
"Listen," Hector said, licking his dry lips. They tasted coppery, like blood and salt. It pained him to grind the words out—trickery wasn't his thing—but he needed to stall. "I've got someone I could contact—owes me a favor."
"Oh, yeah?" The boss turned to walk in a slow circle, making a show of mulling over Hector's proposal.
Hector looked at his aura report:
//Aura Pool: 4/5
End Report.//
The big guy was still leaning close. The boss's back was to him.
It won't get better.
Hector decided not to wait for his fifth aura unit. He activated his Strength Boost, putting all four of his aura into it.
//Warning! This corpus vivum is not enhanced for aura tolerance; this action may result in an aura overload!//
Hector scowled. He hadn't seen a message like that in a long, long time. He decided he didn't care. If he had to mess up the skin a little to break free, so be it. He needed to get out of there before this lowlife "boss" sold him out. He needed to get someplace he could lie low and figure out what the hell had happened. Most importantly, he had people to kill. He'd taken a blood oath. If the Contis were dead, then everyone involved in their killing needed to die.
The thoughts were a flash through his mind, and he once again activated the boost. This time, his system didn't warn him. This time, his eyes filled with a crimson fire, and his muscles flared with heat as they expanded. His entire body was limned in a furious red glow as the aura poured into him, transforming him into something supernatural, even if only for a few seconds. His thoughts sped up with dopamine and adrenaline; there was nothing like that first aura rush in a new skin.
Heart hammering like he'd just been thrown from an orbital dropship, Hector ripped his arms away from the plastic chair. The left wrist snapped the zip tie. The right wrist shattered the chair arm. In both cases, his flesh tore, and he felt the bones compress dangerously, but they didn't break.
As his arms came free, he surged upward, smashing his forehead into Orin's chin. He heard the thug's teeth clack together, felt the bones in his jaw crunch, and then the big guy flipped back and fell with a thud. A single gasping wheeze escaped his lungs on impact.
"What the—" the guy behind Hector tried to say, but Hector was already whirling, whipping his right fist around in a murderous haymaker. His knuckles caught the much skinnier man on the side of his jaw and, once again, Hector felt bones break—the thug's neck and jaw, and his wrist.
He turned off the pain. He'd been through a thousand battles, broken a hundred bones, and been shot dozens of times. The pain didn't matter. He pivoted just in time to see the boss pulling a fat, chrome peacemaker out of his waistband. It looked like an energy weapon, something meant to burn a six-inch hole through a guy.
Hector took a step to his right, lunged forward and down, and swept his leg through the air toward the boss's knees just as the gun coughed out a buzzing, crackling streak of orange-red plasma. It passed close to Hector's head—close enough that he felt the heat and smelled burnt hair.
As the boss tried to correct his aim, Hector's foot crashed into his knee. Unfortunately, his strength boost had worn off, and his new skin had normal bone density. Even so, his form was perfect, and he felt the suit's knee buckle. He also felt the small bones at the top of his foot protest painfully. Maybe they didn't break, but something didn't feel right as he pulled his foot back under him and lurched forward, aiming to capitalize while his opponent struggled to regain his balance.
Hector caught the boss's wrist as he tried to shove the barrel of his gun at him, then he twisted and pulled him into a wristlock. The man gasped, and the blaster clattered to the concrete. "You fuck!" he cried, only to whimper in pain the next second as Hector pushed him against his desk.
Hector grunted, struggling to maintain his hold with one properly working hand. His wrist throbbed, and he could see the swollen purple lump of the distended bone.
Grando gasped, "How the hell? How do you have a system? Goddammit!"
Gold-class neurodeck, fool. "The deck," Hector grunted.
"L-listen. We can be f-friends. I can help you. You can help me. You're gonna be screwed out there on your own."
Hector shook his head, tweaking the guy's arm. "Why?"
"P-pick up the blaster. Really! I'm a businessman. I already put a pile of bits into that skin you're wearing. B-be reasonable!"
You shouldn't have threatened to call the Imperials. "You'll sell me out."
"Are you kidding me? That was just me trying to show the upper hand! You think I want anything to do with the Lautrec family? I'm a damn criminal! Even if I handed you over, they'd root around in my brain looking for what else I knew. They'll turn me into a vegetable!"
Hector pushed him against the desk again, then let go. He took a step back and bent to pick up the blaster. The charge indicator said it had one shot left in it. That was the problem with small, high-powered plasma weapons. He glanced at the two goons sprawled out on the concrete. "I killed the small one."
The boss waved his hand. "Forget it. I've got a hundred like him. What I don't have is someone with a Royal-class aura system!" He groaned as he pushed himself around the desk and collapsed into his chair. "Damn my eyes, I need a drink. What do you say, uh, Hector? Let's help each other out." He reached into a drawer and, while Hector held the gun on him, pulled out a bottle of caramel-colored liquor. "I'm Grando Scrim, by the way. Come on, let's toast to a new partnership."
Hector ignored him for the moment, turning to regard the two downed thugs. His aura system allowed him to see the potentia leaking out of the dead one. He strode over to the body and put his hand on the chest, waiting for the crimson vapor to trigger the draw. Even as Grando leaned forward, eyes bulging out, Hector felt the familiar old churning in his gut, and then the vapor poured into his hand, rushing into his body.
//3 potentia gathered. Potentia available: 3.//
As he stood, Hector became aware of Grando's ongoing babble, "…doing? You're stripping him? Don't you need a scraper?"
"No." Hector stepped over to the other downed goon. A scraper was what someone with a low-end aura system would use to gather potentia. A gold-class system could do it better. At least that used to be the case; he wasn't sure what had changed in the last couple of hundred years. Considering what he'd seen so far…not much.
When he put his palm on the other goon's chest, Grando cried, "Wait! What are you doing?"
Hector looked up, glaring at the man. "Potentia," he growled, as though the word explained everything. In his mind, it did.
"He's not dead!"
Hector shrugged. It wasn't his problem—the man shouldn't have challenged him. Mentally, he reached for the system trigger he knew was there—like how a person might flex a muscle. He was about to pull it, about to signal the aura system to start drawing, but then Grando babbled another rambling promise: "Wait! You'll kill him in his state! He's one of my best men. Leave him, and I'll make it up to you." He held aloft the bottle of booze. "Come on, we'll be partners. It'll pay off a thousand times what you'll get out of Orin. I swear!"
Hector looked at him, narrowed his eyes, then slowly withdrew his hand, standing. His other hand, the one with the unbroken wrist, still gripped the blaster, its single charge a baited promise. Grando's offer hung in the air—partnership—promises of another kind. Hector's mind flashed to Esme, imagining her scream echoing. He had people to kill.
This scum wouldn't stop him, but maybe he could be of use. The Lautrecs, untouchable in their orbital spires, hoarded aura potentia to keep their corpora viva eternal. He'd play Grando's game for the moment. But every noble who'd spilled Conti blood would burn. He lowered the blaster, forcing a nod. "For now."
His aura system pulsed:
//Aura Pool: 2/5. Corpus vivum damage: critical.//
Hector had only five aura and a broken, low-rent skin, but he had a blood oath to keep.