For the overall majority of the population of Kreuzung, the world outside of their rooms was mostly a long series of hallways and elevators. Long lines of identical doors, fake carpeting, beige walls. A pretense of warmth that hid cold metal. Hypocrisies large and small that had to be endured in order to live.
How did the people of Kreuzung live?
The ordinary people with no other recourse but to keep living?
Those who worked in the service industry, if they worked for a strong brand, would leave this world of halls once a day to go to a mall or food court, where they would find another enclosed space that would occupy most of their day. Those who served “local” shops in the lower districts would trade one hallway for another, or if they were lucky, trade a street without a sky, flanked by identical squat plastic buildings, for a hall flanked by plastic or metal doors. Since those older “street” modules often had defects that led to accidents or flooding, this was not a particularly good trade in terms of their well-being.
Some people did not leave their rooms at all to work– even when they wished they could.
All of this toil was presided over by the vastness of the Imbrium Ocean. Deeper and darker.
Kreuzung was home to millions of people– who lived largely below the tower’s centerpoint.
“Upward mobility” was not as such literally. For someone close to the bottom of the tower and compressed into a block that had dozens of modules each with several hallways, all of it cramped into the tightest livable space– if they even completed their education or achieved some certifications in a field they were competent in, there was no guarantee of a job. And in addition, virtually no guarantee of actually ever moving out of the comparatively cheaper and smaller rooms in the lower part of the tower to the slightly better habitats in the core’s upper reaches. It was impossible to ever believe someone like that would ever work or live in A or B block at the top of the Kreuzung Core. Certainly, a few people did do so– but collectively, it felt like it took a miracle. Most people would never climb from those depths.
In Kreuzung, a large majority of people did not “have a job” in the sense of a stable position in a company. Instead, most people were “contractors.” Contractors technically worked for an agency that connected them to jobs in exchange for a fraction of the pay. These agencies arose from the distrust between the highly stratified classes in the Empire and were a common feature in most imperial stations– an Agency could guarantee that the people it hired were not lowborn scum of the earth, but humble and servile folk with good skills; if they were not they could be easily discarded and replaced.
That was an agency’s promise to the employers; employees were promised nothing but a wage.
All service work was contract work where Agencies vetted candidates that would not harm the upper and middle class sensibilities of those shopping and dining in the middle to upper tier of businesses.
Heavy industry had a culture of “tradesmanship” where workers traditionally formed guilds or unions and had access to better pay, benefits and a slightly better lifestyle than contractors, even as collective power began to be eroded. The tradeoff was in difficult certification requirements, as well as the possibility of losing life or worse, limb. Guild and union health benefits were good, but cybernetics were still expensive. Even with the best possible healthcare plan, this would ultimately saddle the worker with medical debt and a period of recovery that would wipe out some of those other good benefits like the paid time off and vacations. Regardless, this was seen as one of the only ways “up” (relatively) for a lower class worker.
The most on-demand jobs in Kreuzung beside customer-facing services were behind-the-scenes hardware jobs, particularly in monitoring, reporting on and responding to system events. A lot of Kreuzung systems administration had been privatized to the agencies, particularly the grunt work of keeping eyes on sensors and pressure valves and other such things. Contractors did these dull tasks from their homes, until something broke, at which point they would have to go out on the field and assume risk for much less money than a trade union worker did– which was ultimately the point of privatization.
Nevertheless, there were some parts of station administration and customer-facing services that did manage to remain trade-union owned, and there were also good jobs that were not agency-controlled. Dockworkers, for example, had a union, and non-union private dock workers at least didn’t have to go through an agency and could keep all their pay. And it was always possible, even if somewhat unlikely, for a very poor person to excel and become a journalist or a teacher or a nurse or some other “legit” career outside Contracting. These were the elites, comparatively, of lower class labor in Imbria.
One could also always join the Navy.
In Rhinea, in 979 A.D. during the Pandora’s Box’s stay in Kreuzung, joining the Navy meant becoming a National Socialist and participating in the Volkisch Movement’s conflicts– this was less attractive even than contracting. But for some people the food and shelter was enough incentive. Adding insult to injury, however, was that the Volkisch wouldn’t take all comers. No shirt, no shoes– no military service for you. In reality, the Volkisch remained a solidly volunteer army, more than a poor and desperate one.
Middle class labor entailed direct career work in the major corporations or public groups. These jobs were highly class stratified– someone with a parent that was a university teacher, would be able to go into higher education and would be much more likely to also become a teacher. For the children of contractors and service workers, it would be unlikely though not impossible to attain the needed licensing and higher education due to the difficult development environment for the child.
Working directly at a corporate office was the common hallmark of middle class work. Successful corporations and major brands had data, premises and equipment that they did not trust agency contractors to handle. Interviewing was deliberately difficult– people could be weeded out as soon as the recruiter saw their address. Technically, however, the jobs were open for anyone to interview for.
Some people dreamed of making it big by working seemingly outside “the system.” Trying out for roles in films, writing hot novels, creating innovative software, or even putting on personal shows to become influential in the burgeoning network culture– but these things already favored people with existing money and connections, so an “outsider hit” was unlikely as the hits were already being dictated by what could only be considered to be “the system” itself. Just enough “miracles” happened to keep people dreaming, but overall, the structure remained stable and firm. Class was ossified in the Imbrium.
All of this was Imbrian society as it was seen and accepted by the public at large.
There was a tier below Imbrian society, however, below even the most miserable parts.
In Kreuzung, it existed literally below the baseplate of the tower.
In the unkempt, spiraling viscera of the tower’s ancient history, dating back to its construction. Some of the uppermost of the maintenance tunnels still saw a good bit of official use, particularly by very unlucky contractors maintaining and repairing the interstice of the bottom rung of society just a hair above the baseplate itself. Deeper below, there were tunnels that had not been visited by an official contact of the station in decades or more. Most of them had become a sprawling nest of society’s most unfortunate.
Because the tunnels connected back to the ancient construction shafts, which had oxygen systems, they became homes for the dispossessed and unfortunate. Groups both openly criminal and secretly so, took advantage of these lost and invisible places as well to build and hide their own enterprises.
It was in this space below and between “the system” of Kreuzung and Imbria itself, that there existed the parallel society home to myths and legends: such as that of the fearsome “Katarran mercenaries.”
“Hmm? ‘Tarot Chocolate’? What are you giving me this for?”
“It’s dark stuff. It’s too sophisticated-like. It suits you better.”
“Hmm. This is a bit fancy. Where did you get it?”
“There was a boy selling them out of a box. Maybe he stole it– but who cares.”
“As long as the box is real, and these aren’t full of meth or razors.”
“None of that would kill you anyway. Quit being so prissy and take it.”
“I’m just confused as to why you’re giving me anything, even if it suited me.”
“We’re all comrades aren’t we? God damn– look, I got it for Chloe. But she hates dark chocolate. And I don’t eat this kind of shit at all. So there you go. Happy, detective? Just take it already.”
With finality Dimmitra threw the chocolate bar she had been showing off and left the room.
It landed in the hammock beside Kalika. She picked it up, turning it over in her long fingers.
Tarot Chocolate had the logo of Atelier Paradis, a premium brand in talks to join Volwitz Foods. Kalika always thought about those sorts of things, turning over goods in her hands. That fancy font on the Atelier logo, the royal purple mineral paper wrapper around the chocolate. This was a product worth thirty marks with competitors that sold for ten marks. But businesses had hierarchies just like the people around her. She was branded for being a Katarran, for not having any opportunity for some Imbrian desk job; no matter how she dressed or the airs she put on, she was always lesser-than and had to use her body in illegitimate ways to survive. In the same way that a Premium Brand like Atelier Paradis which made high-class and expensive products– was still lesser to a Major Corporation like Volwitz Foods.
She was holding in her hands a symbol of all the things that she fought against.
A story of inequality and alienation starting from the harvest to the final setting of prices.
At each link in the chain, the company that sold this item had stolen from somebody to do so.
Slowly, almost mindlessly, she unwrapped the paper around the dark chocolate squares.
Inside the packaging, she found another little piece of mineral paper.
It was a fortune that read: today you will meet the person who will change your life.
“So this is the sort of malarkey that turns 3 marks of chocolate into a 30 marks bar.”
Kalika sighed and took a bite of it. The complex taste that coated her tongue gave her some pause. Not just the dance of bitterness and sweetness, but the accompanying fruity notes and the glossy texture that seemed to hold its shape only until it met the warmth of her mouth, and then delicately melted. Perhaps this was actually eight or nine marks worth of chocolate in raw material. This was– the good stuff.
“It tastes premium, I must admit. I wouldn’t mind having another one.”
She was speaking only to herself at this point. Dimmitra had already left.
“Maybe I’ll keep my eye out for the little hawker with the box on my way out.”
Kalika slid her legs over the side of the plastic hammock she had been sleeping in. She had strung it up between two pipes on opposite walls in a 3 by 5 meter room. She and her comrades had claimed the space, in one of the many abandoned maintenance tunnels beneath the baseplate and dug around the old construction shaft above which Kreuzung’s baseplate and lower floors were ultimately built.
The Katarran’s room had once upon a time been a pressure monitoring room of some sort, from before the station was completely built. Valves and dials stared at her from every wall, completely motionless. Everything above the baseplate had sensors that were read by computers, so rooms like this were useless. Now it was nothing but pipes and an abused electrical panel in an otherwise empty room.
There were hundreds of places like this. But the locals did not particularly like the rooms farthest afield of the central construction shaft. There were rumors that people went missing in them– one of the tamer superstitions was that there was a syndicate of organ harvesters in the vicinity of the very room Kalika was standing in. It wasn’t too farfetched, but she had not yet seen any. More than likely, one too many opportunists robbed or killed someone here and imagination did the rest to create this myth.
Her own organs were perfectly safe. Even with one arm, she liked her chances in that fight.
Kalika ran the fingers of her biological left arm over the bicep of her mechanical right arm.
Underneath the sleeve of her shirt, she felt the frayed metal and the torn syntheskin.
She tried to move the arm. Extending it felt alright. However, trying to bend the arm toward her, as if to flex her bicep, resulted in a shot of pain through the nerve bundles that remained of her original limb, which had been affixed to the prosthetic’s transmission couplers. She winced, and she could hear the metal scraping in a way that it should not. There was no way she could trust that arm to swing a vibrosword or even throw a punch. She had to get it fixed before anything went down.
Through the crack in the door, Dimmitra peeked back into the room.
“You’re gonna go up, right?” She asked.
“I have to. Nobody down here is going to be able to fix this.” Kalika said.
She gestured to her arm. Dimmitra nodded her head.
“The Premier shouldn’t need us today.” Dimmitra said. “You should be clear.”
“I’m just worried I won’t find anyone who will treat a Katarran.” Kalika said.
“If you don’t, you don’t. Nothin’ you can do. We can have you taken care of at Aachen.”
“We should teach Chloe how to run maintenance on prosthetics.” Kalika smiled.
“She’s fine.” Dimmitra said. Her voice took on a slightly more serious tone.
“I didn’t say otherwise.” Kalika replied. “Thank you for the chocolate.”
Dimmitra, Kalika and Chloe were all Katarrans. “Pelagis” was the race– Katarre was a nation.
But most Pelagis came from Katarre, and in the Imbrian imagination, all Pelagis were Katarrans.
Being Katarre-born Katarrans, real-deal Pelagids born in vats by the dozens and destined to die, they had deliberate genetic embellishments. All of them had been created using the DNA of armored gurnards, small fish with mortifyingly ugly appearances that thankfully did not transfer in almost any way. This was most evident in the pair of roughly rectangular and thin horn-like structures which grew from the back of their heads. In Kalika’s case, her horns framed her ponytail. These resembled a gurnard’s snout. Like a lot of Katarrans in her natural state her skin would have been grey, and her hair would have been white, but aside from their strength, durability and the few signs of embellishment, they were human.
Two legs, two arms; a head and neck; shoulders, breasts, hips. She was just a woman.
Kalika used cheap pigment treatments to alter her skin and hair and appear at least a little bit more presentable and less monochromatic. Imbrians disliked the cheaper cosmetics because it made the skin unnatural colors– it was tough to get that Imbrian pinkish-white fairness using the cheap skin pigments. That usually required a second skin to get just right. For Kalika, it sufficed to make her skin go from grey to a stark pink flush. It made Imbrians less nervous of her, and in her eyes, it made her look prettier.
Raylight Beauty’s budget products sufficed to keep up this appearance.
Her hair, meanwhile, she dyed a shiny grape-purple color and tied into a long ponytail.
For Katarrans, even mercenaries, such preening was not uncommon nor beneath them.
It was all part of coping with the warped relationship they had to their bodies.
Every Katarran mercenary in the Imbrium was more than likely someone who escaped from Katarre itself and service under a Warlord. It only made sense for anyone with that kind of repressive background to assert their individuality. Kalika had an ideal of her own body and her own sexuality which she expressed for her own comfort. She wore wine-colored lipstick and a similar type of eyeshadow, she wore toner on her face, she dressed in the nicest shirts she could afford and even owned a brand jacket from Lanzknecht, Epoch Clothiers’ edgy line of streetwear itself inspired by Katarrans. It was “steel-silver” colored and cut sharply, with see-through sleeves. She loved that jacket– it felt like skin.
Tights and a pencil skirt accentuated her long legs and figure. Heels made her feel more sophisticated (and feminine– for a woman who punched people’s heads open sometimes, this was more vital than it might have seemed). She even wore perfume sometimes. It was all part of the product she sold to the world– a Katarran’s body, born to kill and ready to die. (And look good doing it.) It showed to the discerning eye that she cared about herself, had a sophisticated personality, spent money on herself.
In this way, Katarrans survived, trying to retain the soul of human living despite all the abuse they suffered– and despite the extremist Solceanist belief that Katarrans did not actually have souls.
Dimmitra was a bit more spartan in her own style, but even she had one. Her grey trench-coat had beads sewn into it by Chloe. Her pain black shirt had the midriff quite literally ripped from the rest to expose her toned belly. Her black boots were stained and left as such. She had fingerless gloves. Her hair was dark, which meant she dyed it, but she cut it short and manageable. Like many mercenaries she communicated, ‘I am tough, and I can kill you– or whoever you pay me to kill’ but she also demonstrated self-care.
“Where is Chloe anyway?” Kalika asked.
“She’s visiting Platform Town.” Dimmitra said. “She wants to grab a souvenir.”
“She can be such a kid sometimes.” Kalika replied.
“So what? That’s good. You want her to be a nihilist?” Dimmitra said.
“Relax.” Kalika said. “I am just making observations. I am not criticizing her.”
Dimmitra walked to the other edge of the room, where her own hammock was strung.
“I’m staying here. Waiting for Chloe to come back.” She said.
“Figured. Don’t worry too much about her.”
She was clearly on edge, but Kalika did not push it any further.
She liked those two– they were cute together. They felt like they had a future ahead.
Kalika picked up a false leather bookbag from a corner of the room and slung it over her shoulder. There was a vibroblade inside, and she had a vibroknife hidden in an arm harness under the sleeve of her clip-down shirt. No guns– it was too easy to make a ruckus and get caught that way. Guns had to be a weapon of last resort when there were unfriendly eyes and ears everywhere.
Or a weapon for the final stages of an operation. Never at the beginning.
For now, nobody knew they were any different than any other Katarrans in Kreuzung.
From the metal door into the room, Kalika exited out into a long, circular tunnel, two meters tall. There were a few doors down from the hallway and an obviously riveted elbow piece on the corner. These tunnels were built out of a standardized series of ferristitched sewer tunnel sections that were used for water treatment, waste management and pressurization. Kalika nonchalantly walked the halls in her heels. There was a massive maze of these kinds of tunnels all around them.
From what Kalika understood, the process for building Kreuzung required a huge hole be drilled at the bottom of the crater and a substation to be buried under the baseplate. This building was known as the central construction shaft. It doubled as part of the foundation, as well as housing the construction equipment, elevators and supplies to begin the building process. The workers extended out supports in weak parts of the ground and built out infrastructure for themselves within these tunnels, since they could not live comfortably in the substation. Materials were partially mined out of the surrounding crater, but also brought in from the rest of the Imbrium along with the rations for the workers. It was a gigantic undertaking, and the suffering of those workers was still evident in the suffering way that people still lived below the baseplate. They were forgotten; much in the same way the old workers were.
Those workers were never counted among the heroes and glories of Kreuzung.
And the people of Platform Town wouldn’t either; unless something dramatically changed.
“Maybe Erika would say ‘we are the change’– but I don’t hold such presumptions.”
Kalika traveled through several similar-looking tunnels, ambling confidently in her high heels without missing a step. She knew where she was going even though the path was dim, lonely and so identical it could have easily confused someone into thinking they were going in circles. Another reason a lot of the locals avoided these less-traveled outer tunnels. Eventually, however, Kalika found an old and out of service bulkhead into a pressurization room, and there was a woman and her daughter sleeping inside.
Out the other door, and she was in a hall with a small crowd.
While there was a stereotype of homeless or impoverished people as being filthy or nasty, you would not see it from the platform town residents. They kept their clothes clean, nobody smelled, the hall was dusty and there were some wrappers and bags about because it was simply not possible to keep dozens of metal halls completely clean without vacuum drones or formal staff. Almost everyone she passed had a hoodie or a jacket and a good pair of pants. Sturdy, comfortable clothes that they could sleep in and keep warm that also held up to walking daily. Shoes were the sore spot for many of them, because the tunnels and the platforms were rough on cheap plastic sneakers. Because they washed with saltwater that was let in from partially dismantled desalinators, there was a bit of wear and graining on their mainly plastic clothes, but nobody was living in filth. Everyone did their best to keep the place livable.
There was a lot of hustling in the corridors. Mainly people selling or trading in miscellaneous goods they kept in boxes or blankets, always something easily portable and commonly in need like snacks or tray dinners, first aid supplies (and illegal drugs), shoes, sundries; provenance unknown and priced suspiciously. While hawking was much more profitable (relatively speaking) above the baseplate, there were people selling or bartering things around Platform Town nonetheless. Maybe because they had heat up above and were hiding; maybe because they were trying to flip NGO aid supplies or stolen goods.
Nobody tried to hawk anything to Kalika. They could tell immediately she was strange.
Platform Town and its residents had dignity. No amount of poverty would prevent them from having it. People tried their best to live whole and healthy lives. They tried to keep things as clean as possible. They maintained a quiet peace. What was palpable, however, was caution and distrust among the residents. Kalika definitely stuck out among them, and there were a lot of idle eyes thrown her way, but it wasn’t in here that she needed to blend in– it was up above. Nobody could blame them for staring at a Katarran who was vain enough to wear makeup and tights and heels down here among the desperate folk. Her relationship to the space was fundamentally different and she knew she must have looked like a voyeur. She didn’t have to live here, like them; she was just passing through here on a mission.
She would leave here– go on to the next thing. Until she lost her life to the violence.
Like a lot of other underworld travelers that hid in places like this from the public eye.
That she had supposedly loftier goals didn’t help her feel like any less of a parasite.
Kalika strolled by one of the entrances out into Platform Town itself, which was built by parking all the cargo elevators on the same level within the construction shaft in the center of the ancient substation infrastructure, creating a sort of “town square” for the entire underground town. Platform Town’s elevating mechanisms were then struck in place so it could not be plunged down the shaft. It resided about 100 meters below the baseplate, separating it from the tunnels that still saw some use farther above, but keeping it accessible to the underground dwellers. This was done out of necessity and safety. Keeping out of the way kept them relatively safer from the authorities.
Platform Town had been raided before. But it was a difficult and ugly sight for the people above, so it was mainly forgotten, its own world separated by 100 meters of empty vertical space and several more of winding old tunnels. For a station that was less than two kilometers tall and a few more wide, Kreuzung was vast inside of its own walls. One could give as many objective measurements of space and distance as one wanted– but the reality was, in terms of class, Kreuzung contained within it several entire worlds that may as well have been measured in hundreds of kilometers of distance apart from one another.
Kalika traversed one and now she had to leave to another.
At the end of the hall, there was a smaller personnel elevator. There were some things that did not get core power down here, and people improvised portable battery-pack devices to power them. But the elevator was always powered from the core above. However, it was also always guarded by someone. On that day it was an older man with a red face and a heavily white beard. He had on a brown jacket and a flat cap, and his hands were in his pockets. He had boots, unlike a lot of people here.
“I’m going up.” Kalika said. He was standing in the way of the elevator door.
“You are, are you?” He asked.
Kalika tried not to roll her eyes. It was always something like this.
“We already talked to the Watchman.” She said.
The guard’s bloodshot eyes locked with her black on yellow eyes.
They had done more than talk, too. Erika — the Premier — had sent a crate of supplies.
“Okay. Watchman isn’t here. Maybe nothing you gave the Watchman got to me?”
“How much do you want?”
“Maybe it ain’t bribes? What if I just don’t like you fish fuckers?”
What if I rip your fucking head off? What if I kill your entire family?
She recalled, in Erika’s cheery voice, before delivering what was a routine threat–
It’s not their fault; their attitudes are a result of abuse and exploitation; we must be kind.
Exercise the fortune you have that allows you to simply walk away, Erika would say.
Sighing internally, Kalika lifted her hand from her bag, and therefore from her sword–
“That would be pretty unfortunate, but my life would go on. And my journey, too.”
“Your journey– pfeh– fancy bitch aren’t you?”
Begrudgingly, he stepped aside just enough for her to walk past.
Kalika made no more eye contact, no aggressive gestures and kept a neutral expression.
Erika was right– there was no point in upsetting or fighting these people.
It wasn’t their fault they had been cast into the deepest darkness of the world to rot.
Into the elevator she went and up and out of the world below the world.
Platform Town’s elevators could take someone to the tunnels directly under the baseplate, and from there, the safest way up without anyone knowing you had been in the underground was to take an emergency ladder up above. It was common knowledge passed around the inhabitants of the underground which ladders had their panels ripped off already and were easily accessible, and these took the would-be trespasser into discrete places out of sight from crowded thoroughfares.
In this fashion, Kalika climbed a ladder in a dark room, opened a hatch, and stepped out of the dim alleyway next to an automatic desalination plant on the lowest tier, rejoining the above-ground world on a street in one of the lower modules of Kreuzung. The ceiling was low, and there were squat plastic buildings with scratched-up unpainted metal streets between them. The sunlamps were maybe half-working. But compared to how people lived in Platform Town, it was downright luxurious. There were shops, eateries, there were small crowds of people with merry expressions, and there was an unimpeded way up higher. Kalika pulled out a portable from her jacket, checked her route, and got moving.
She had to find someone to repair her arm– before she needed to use it seriously again.
Her first thought was to go to the medical NGOs that served the lower level folks.
Not because she was lacking in funds– but because they might actually agree to see her.
Traversing several of the tight halls that adjoined the street module where she had entered the station, she finally found herself two or three street modules away in front of a large, temporary plastic building which bore the logo of Khumeia Pharmaceuticals, one of Rhinea’s major medical manufacturing corporations. Despite the logo, there was a line of people, and signs calling out free healthcare services, including biostitching, which could take care of lacerations and broken bones by itself.
It felt promising, so Kalika stood in line. Maybe they could ferristitch her arm joint.
She was in line for almost an hour, about thirty minutes of which she spent staring straight at a desk with a nurse behind it, who would take people’s information and then point them to a room inside the building itself for procedure. Soon as Kalika walked up, the nurse raised her hands.
“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid we can’t help you here, ma’am. Our grant specifies primary care services to Imbrians. We are beholden to the terms of our grant, so we can’t see any Katarrans.”
Rotten luck– not even charities in the lowest rungs would look at Katarrans!
“Incredible. So I stood in line for nothing? You couldn’t have just shooed me out?”
“I recommend looking for a private practice to assist you. Have a nice day.”
Grumbling, Kalika walked out, clutching the sling on her bookbag tightly.
There were very few private medical practices in the lower levels of the station. They were mostly run by samaritans who could shoulder the unique pressure of existing in places with higher levels of poverty, and therefore, desperation. Those few that existed were booked out months in advance because there was high demand for any kind of healthcare. That piece of advice from that wretched nurse would not help. Kalika took another elevator, though she was loathed to climb further as she knew that Imbrian racism only got worse the more affluent the population became. Her hopes began to dim.
From her next elevator, she exited onto a beautiful park full of white flowers.
She had looked up a cybernetic augmentation prosthetics service center that had a walk-in storefront near the park. They took walk-ins because they essentially took someone’s entire arm off them, repaired it, and then called them back a few hours later to reinstall it, it was all very process-driven. This process and the specialization of their service meant they could easily treat the dozen or two dozen people who would coincidentally all have broken cybernetic arms or legs the same day. Kalika was hopeful as she walked in through the sliding glass doors of the ritzy “Capua Limb Service Center.”
There was nobody inside, so she could walk right up to the gentleman behind the counter.
“Hallo,” Kalika said, waving the hand of her prosthetic arm with a little difficulty. “I’m having a bit of trouble with this one. I think it’s the joint– it got bashed hard in an accident.”
“Can I have your name, sex and date of birth ma’am?”
“Name is Kalika Loukia. Date of birth is tough. Sex– Look, I’m a Katarran, you know–?”
The man at the counter seemed to make up his mind quite quickly hearing her name.
“Unfortunately ma’am, we only service prosthetics we installed. You’re not on the list.”
“What?” She held up her portable. “But I read that you’re a walk-in service center.”
“We are, but we can’t work on just anything, we don’t know your specific needs.”
“Is that how it is? Then how am I supposed to get this thing to looked at?”
“We might be able to see it with a referral from your doctor. We can look them up.”
“Thank you. Please give it a try. Her name is Hilana Tarik.”
“A Shimii?” Again the receptionist immediately gave her a skeptical look. He did not even attempt to search that name. “You might have better luck asking around Tower Eight then.”
Kalika closed the fist on her biological arm and shut her eyes with frustration.
“She was a Khedivate Loup actually– but I get the picture. I’ll see myself out.”
She stormed out of the building, clicking her heels as hard as they would take.
Her next idea was to look up prosthetic sales shops– places with actual manufacturing.
Since she could not get the thing she was wearing serviced, she would get a new one.
While her arm was special, she could live with an inferior model that just worked.
So she made her way to a small workshop tucked into a corner of a business block–
“Sorry, but we don’t service existing hardware in here ma’am. We can take your measures and build a new arm for you, but we’ll need to see a prescription from the doctor who installed that one, so we know what kind of work’s been done on your biological arm’s remains. Do you have a prescription?”
Surrounded by models of arms all in cases on the walls. Kalika was briefly speechless.
Not even in a place that just sold arms could she actually purchase a new arm?
“I don’t– I haven’t seen the doctor who installed this in years.”
“Then I’m sorry ma’am, but we can’t help you with that. It’s the regulations.”
“So let me get this straight. You only replace someone’s broken prosthetic if you get an okay from the original doctor? What happens if they died or went missing? I’m in pain right now!”
“It’s unfortunate ma’am but the rules are the rules. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
This particular receptionist was much less patient with her than even the last.
Feeling a knot in her chest of anger and shame, she left the shop and wandered aimlessly.
At first, she had been merely annoyed.
Then she spent so much of the day so awful fruitlessly.
Now, she was actually afraid. Now she felt helpless. She felt the weight of her prosthetic, she felt acutely every defect that it possessed, she heard the scraping of the metal like it was being broadcast through a booming speaker, felt the roughness where the synthskin had broken like the texture of sandpaper, and the pain felt like it was worsening. There was nothing she could do to make herself better, to return to normal, and every step felt more troubled than the last she took. Her arm was heavier, clunkier, less mobile, it felt like it would pull her through the floor and into the water itself to drown.
Useless, with only one arm, she would fail to defend the people she loved again–
She had not been paying attention. Walking mindlessly around a corner–
Kalika bumped directly into another person, and both fell to the floor.
“Oh no! I’m so sorry! I made you drop your bag! I’ll get it!”
A girl had bumped into her.
Fallen right off her heels and on her rear, her bag off her shoulders.
Thankfully nothing spilled and nothing broke.
She laid eyes on the person she had bumped into– and her gaze lingered for a moment.
Collecting her bag– was a Shimii, a young woman with long, dark hair, short, fluffy ears and a little fluffy stub of a tail that was comically short. She had a brown jacket that was clearly a bit worn-in, over a very fine button-down shirt and a pair of pants and shiny shoes. Dark-eyed, with sleek features, handsome. But with a soft, pretty smile, clearly nervous. Kalika was a little bit speechless looking up at her.
Having recovered more quickly, the Shimii girl extended a hand to help her.
“I’m sorry for bumping into you! I wasn’t paying any attention. Let me help you up.”
Kalika took her hand– warm, firm. She was a bit lean, strong. An active kind of girl.
Good upper body. She worked those shoulders. Legs a little less so, but still solid.
With her assistance, Kalika stood up and dusted herself off. The girl handed over her bag.
“Thank you. It’s not a problem. No need to be nervous.” Kalika said, smiling.
“Ah– well, I’m glad then. I hope you have a nice day ma’am–”
Kalika stretched out a hand.
“Um. Homa Baumann.”
They shook briefly. Kalika locked eyes with the younger woman.
“Homa, you live in Tower Eight, don’t you? Are there any Shimii medical device shops?”
“Medical devices? Um.”
“My prosthetic arm is broken. None of the Imbrians around will see me.”
“A prosthetic arm, huh–?”
Homa looked slightly bewildered. Kalika should have known it was a long shot–
Then, from their shared handshake, Homa pulled Kalika’s hand forward.
“I think I know a place. Follow me. Tower Eight’s not very far from here.”
“Oh! Well, thank you! Can Katarrans actually–?”
“I’m sure you can! I’ll raise a stink otherwise! Imbrian bastards are always allowed in!”
Homa pulled Kalika along by the hand at a quick clip– she was surprised by the girl’s initiative.
They strolled by the park from before, through a few elevators, down a crowded mall with a high pavilion and to a tram station. Homa badged her way through the tram station gate, and still holding Kalika’s hand, led her through. The guards did not express any interest or concern over Kalika. She and Homa rode the tram together, crossed another gate. They were both quiet. Homa stared out into space during the elevator rides and in the tram, her expression a little dark– she seemed to notice this eventually.
“Ah– sorry. I’m not ignoring you. I have something on my mind.” She mumbled.
“It’s okay. You don’t need to say anything.” Kalika said.
“I’ll take you to a place– you can get back. You’re not a Shimii, they won’t stop you.”
“Thank you. Will you be alright? I didn’t bump into you too hard, did I?”
“I just want to go home– and kinda forget everything today. I– I’ll be okay.”
“I get it. I also want to put today’s nightmares away before receiving tomorrow’s.”
They crossed another guard gate at the other end of the tram. No questions asked.
Down another elevator, and Homa again took Kalika’s hand firmly and led her around.
And– strangely enough, she always seemed to grab the artificial hand too.
Her tug on it was just a little bit painful due to the arm’s condition– but Kalika did not mind.
Such nonchalant attention made her feel just a little bit girlish, she had to admit.
They arrived at a colorful street full of plastic buildings from which Shimii sold goods, services, food. There were so many ears and tails about, hijabs worn, beautiful Fusha calligraphy, the sound of song-like prayer and the smell of spices — it brought back certain memories. Homa took her down the street, past a few grocers, turning a corner on a flat-topped mosque filled with folk and animated conversation, decorated with a series of banners advertising the day’s philosophical topics for open discussion.
“I thought there was–there!”
Homa animatedly called out and pointed farther up the street–
And in the next instant, her ears dropped, and her tiny tail sagged.
They stopped in front of a two-story plastic building. It had exterior windows facing the street, but they were all shut and colorful curtains drawn over them. The front door was locked, the doormat in front dusty and forlorn. There was an old sign which read “Fahrooz Orthetics” with the logo of the Imbrian Khumeia Pharmaceuticals to show they were affiliated. But the building was clearly disused. The sign was fading, and the plastic had not been treated for sunlamp exposure for a good bit and was beginning to discolor. The only thing which had been kept was the bubble bush in front of it– because that was community managed and not actually the property of the building owner in any way.
Homa grunted. She let go of Kalika’s hand. “I’m sorry. I’m so useless, dear god.”
She raised a hand to cover her face in shame. She was taking it so much harder.
“It’s completely fine. Thank you. It was lovely of you to try.” Kalika said.
Homa made another frustrated little sound. “Will you be okay?” She said.
“Yes. I will be fine. Run along home, Homa Baumann. Have some rest.”
“Thank you– again, I’m really sorry for the trouble.”
“Don’t be. And furthermore,”
Kalika put a hand on Homa’s shoulder and smiled directly at her.
“It’s her loss if she turned down such a handsome and courteous young lady as you.”
Homa’s ears stood back up. Her face flushed red. She nodded and walked away.
Kalika could see her tail swishing as she left. Awkward girl; so cute when she was flustered.
Her intuition must have been right. Homa must have really come back from a bad date. Poor girl; it was worth it to follow her along, even if it didn’t turn up anything for her search.
At least Kalika felt more stable now. She had almost had a meltdown over her arm.
“Ah– the glow of youth. Or, you know– I’d say that if I was that much older than her.”
Kalika sighed. She felt just a bit foolish herself. She looked at the building again.
She lifted her arm. It was a bit sore– Homa could not have known but with the bad elbow the arm’s balance was all wrong and it was starting to hurt the remains of her flesh. She was having even more trouble bending it than before. There was an awkward feeling, as if her brain expected the arm to have already bent at a certain angle, but the mechanical arm was not all the way there.
I guess I’ll sit this one out. I’ll get transferred to the Rostock and wait for everyone—
“Oh ho? Interested in this old clinic, are you? Is there perhaps an emergency?”
From behind Kalika, a Shimii woman approached.
Her features were mostly concealed by a green and white hoodie, but through the holes in the hood exposing her ears, Kalika could see that the color of her fur was honey-yellow, therefore the woman was a blond. Aside from the hoodie she had long pants, with a voluminously fluffy yellow tail swaying behind herself. Her stature was fairly small, her figure short, wide and round, but her mannerisms had such a confident and easy presence that her stature did not matter. She exerted a certain pressure.
Kalika could tell her aura was particularly dense despite her emotions appearing ordinary.
She was suspicious, but at the same time, if she could get her arm repaired–
“I’m looking for a cybernetic prosthetic repair. My arm was damaged in an accident.”
The hoodie wearing Shimii nodded her head in acknowledgment, her face barely visible.
“Unfortunately, that clinic closed down over a year ago. However, you’re in luck. I happen to have been the one who leased the place to its former occupants, and I taught them everything they knew about the practice too. I came here for nostalgia’s sake, but I can see you just this once. Just don’t tell anyone– it would inconvenience me and the folks here if people mistook this for the reopening of the clinic.”
It’s a bullshit-sounding story, but I don’t have a choice but to try my luck.
Erika and the Rotfront needed her. She couldn’t afford to be out of action if something happened. She couldn’t afford to be dead weight. None of them would ever say that to her– because they were all too nice. But Kalika would not forgive herself if she stood around helplessly while they died–
She had to get this fixed and return to her post. Had to; today. She was dead set on it.
“I can’t turn down such rare courtesy.” Kalika said.
She saw the golden eyes beneath the hood for a brief instant.
“Lovely. Follow me, then. You can call me ‘Hudson’. But I must stress– please don’t tell anyone.”
“I’m Kalika Loukia. On my pride as a Katarran, my lips are sealed.”
Hudson walked around the side of the building, between it and the next one there was about two meter gap. Behind the building was the wall of the module, and Kalika had assumed the buildings were flush together with it. However, there was also about a meter gap between the buildings and the back wall of the module. Probably for access to electrical paneling or something like that. Hudson led her to a rear door that opened with a keycard, and into the interior of the building itself.
“Watch your step. We’re going upstairs. Follow me closely.”
It was pitch black inside the building. There were blackout curtains on the windows, and the lights weren’t on inside. The only illumination was a tiny green LED on a wall panel indicating that the building still had electricity. Everything must have still been up to date and paid for, and the interior was not really dusty or unkempt. Human activity must have been utterly nil since it closed down, and yet, it was maintained.
Kalika could track Hudson fairly well through the interior of the structure. From the back door they hooked a right through a tight room, and then another left to the stairs. At the top of the stairs, Hudson led her down a short hall to a room in the front corner of the building’s second story.
Inside that room she finally switched on a light by placing her hand on the wall touchpad. A largely undecorated room became visible around them, white walls, an air circulator unit on the ceiling, a storage unit with multiple drawers. In the middle of the room there was a table with a stitcher.
It was this machine that caught Kalika’s eye. “Nanostitching machines” were ubiquitous in manufacturing and in mechanical repair, but also in medicine. Biostitchers, Ferristitchers, Synthistitchers, and others, were all conceptually this same type of machine. They were equipped with cartridges of material which was manipulated and used by extruder arms to build something nanometer by nanometer.
In a kitchen, a biostitcher could be loaded with mulched up vegetable matter, a flavoring cartridge and a vitamin solution to create edible, aesthetically pleasing “fresh” veggies; in a medical setting, that same machine with minor modifications to the extrusion arms could be loaded with body-compatible materials to sew up wounds or even fill in the gaps in broken bones or lacerated flesh. Ferristitchers melted down metal in tiny amounts to “stitch” together steel parts and plates bit by bit. For someone working on human cybernetics, the weapon of choice would likely be a combination of all of these machines.
“Okay! I’m going to need you to pull your sleeve back up or something.” Hudson said.
She pulled down her hood. Her face was unremarkable– pretty, but certainly with nothing to hide, one would think. Golden eyes, a round jaw and tall fluffy ears. Long, flowing blond hair styled in a way that it exposed her forehead and fell around her shoulders. She looked like she could have been any other Brennic or Volgian Shimii, though there were also blond Shimii of other heritage. Her skin was a sandy pink color. She truly looked like any other bystander could have. An ordinary Shimii woman.
Kalika obliged. She took off her jacket, unbuttoned her shirt most of the way and slipped her arm out of the sleeve and out of the shirt entirely. On most of it, the synthetic skin shredded and peeled. While it was affixed tight to the outer sleeve of the prosthetic, it could be dyed to look like the rest of Kalika’s skin, but when it was coming off, it turned completely white and unnatural. Where the arm had been struck, close to the elbow, there were jagged bits of material as the surface sleeve and a bit of the internal ligaments had been shorn. She was surprised it wasn’t more broken, as she had blocked a vibrobaton strike in a snap reaction without heeding the consequences. Hudson examined the extent of the damage.
When Kalika tried to bend the arm, working the joint, there was visible friction between the broken parts of the forearm and the parts that moved the joint, creating a creaking metal sound that seemed to be getting worse the more that Kalika moved the arm. Hudson raised a hand as if to tell her to stop.
“I recognize this model. You’re in luck. Full fix coming right up.”
She approached, and with Kalika’s consent, she used a tool to separate the prosthetic arm from the ring that had been installed farther up the arm. When Kalika had lost the arm, all she had was a little bit of flesh and muscle close to the shoulder. That flesh was melded into a ring cap that hosted the couplers, to which her prosthetic attached. Because she lost most of her arm, the prosthetic needed to have its own elbow joint. From what she understood, that was much more complicated than just a forearm would have been. Without the prosthetic, the coupler array hung loose and exposed that ring of metal and screws and a lot of bloodshot veins and visible nerves where it met Kalika’s flesh. When she tried to move her arm now, only the stray coupler-links wiggled uselessly like steel worms. Her nerves were sewn into the coupler and thus into them. Their only purpose was to translate between the flesh and metal.
“Technology is wonderful, isn’t it? But– it’s still a pity, to lose a limb. Especially for you!”
Kalika said nothing. She stood with her back to the wall and averted her gaze.
“Katarrans’ natural bodies are already stronger and more durable than an ordinary Imbrian body, so it’s extra tragic for them to lose a limb. You can get away with losing a leg, but they call Katarrans who lose their arms, ¾ of a Katarran, don’t they? It’s seen as such as a tragic shame among your kind!”
Hudson tittered while tenderly stroking Kalika’s prosthetic, and taking it to the table.
“So that is why,” she continued, hooking one finger into the orifice resulting from the damage near the elbow, “only something I made would suffice for a Katarran warrior who retains her pride.”
Kalika’s eyes narrowed. She hated being spoken about in the abstract like this.
Those words piqued her interest, however. “So you’re affiliated with that Loup doctor?”
“Oh! So Nile installed this for you? That makes sense– that woman is such a good samaritan.”
Years ago– Kalika had been riding with an entirely different crew altogether.
She risked her life for them, and her limb. Then she left them behind.
That was when she had the fortune to meet that doctor. Hilana Tarik– or “Nile.”
“Do you know where she is now? It’s so much harder than I thought to get this serviced.”
Hudson shook her head. “I’m afraid she and I don’t have much contact these days.”
Kalika was not going to pry into it any further then. She felt it was pointless to push it.
While Kalika watched, Hudson opened the glass hatch at the top of the ferristitcher. Most of the operating table was taken up by the machine. She set the arm down in the center of the table and closed the hatch. As soon as she powered it on, lasers scanned the prosthetic and on an attached LCD screen a highly detailed wireframe model appear. Extruder arms and manipulator arms from the floor and walls of the ferristitcher box arrayed themselves around the prosthetic in preparation for the operation.
Hudson took a look at the LCD screen attached to the stitcher machine. She used the touchscreen to zoom in on the minute details, swished her finger over it. She made corrections to the default plan that the machine had drafted after scanning the arm and she gave new instructions to the machine. Once she was satisfied with her work, she turned back to Kalika briefly, her golden eyes cheerfully wide.
“We’ll spot-melt some of the imperfections and then spot-fill them.” Hudson said. She sounded almost like she was talking to herself even though she was addressing Kalika. “Once the structure is repaired, I’ll pull out the old elbow tensioner and the broken ligament, ferristitch new ones, and then ferristitch them into the arm.” Her eyes fixed on Kalika’s shoulder, twitching one ear. “As far as repairs are concerned, I’d be happy to fix it for you if it breaks again. Get in touch with Sunspot Health Cooperative and someone will help you. Failing that, you can ask Theresa Faraday from Solarflare LLC, based in Kreuzung.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. How much will I owe you?” Kalika asked.
“Owe me? Nothing. Don’t mention payment– I find it gauche, you know? I’m an artist.”
Kalika crooked one eyebrow. “I’m sorry, but I don’t trust that you’re doing this for free.”
“Well, start trusting. I categorically refuse your money.”
Inside the ferristitcher, the arrayed arms began to work.
It looked almost like a swarm of rigid metal crab legs dancing all over her arm.
Barely visible sparks appeared, the contacts being made at such a minute level it was hard to imagine.
“Nothing in Imbria is given without an ulterior motive.” Kalika said.
Erika would have hated her for saying such a thing– but it was her natural reaction.
Charity — with a few exceptions — was a two-faced strategy, a conspiracy, however gentle.
In response to her skepticism, Hudson chuckled.
So far, for as long as Kalika had seen her face, she had a placid little smile.
Now she put on a grin as she gave her answer. Swinging her arms open in a grandiose fashion.
“Don’t get me wrong. I am not doing this for you because I care about you as a person. Anything I built, I maintain. There is a legacy, woven into the metal crafted under my watchful eyes. It is my DNA, my seed, my egg! You are gravid with my legacy, Kalika Loukia, and I would be remiss to be bias against you and allow the work which you have been blessed with to rot and become useless. That would invite others to say my craftsmanship was less than legendary– and I will never accept that. On my pride as well.”
Something about being gravid with anyone’s legacy made Kalika feel sick to her stomach.
Having to depend on people like this was so rotten. Everyone had some awful ideology.
At least this pervert was fixing her arm for free.
“Suit yourself then.” Kalika said. She averted her eyes, staring at the wall.
Hudson continued to grin to herself with satisfaction as the machines did her bidding.
“These tensioners are based on the same materials as the housing for vibroblade oscillators. One of my cleverer ideas. It’s lightweight but tough and can endure a lot of force being put into it. It supports depleted agarthicite nanowire muscles to achieve Katarran levels of biomechanical labor output. This is the only model of prosthetic that will suit a Katarran mercenary. You are quite lucky indeed.”
For a few minutes, Hudson ran her mouth about the prosthetic.
Until the ferristitcher stopped halfway through.
“Oh! Hand me a cartridge please. Use the one labeled Mixture III.”
Hudson pointed to a drawer just over Kalika’s shoulder.
She turned around, opened it with her good arm and pulled out the one cylinder left.
It was just a little annoying, not being able to use a second arm to pick the object up.
Having to pull out the drawer, stop, and then use the same arm– it was a little frustrating.
Missing an arm– was frustrating. That was how effective her prosthetic had been.
She was drawn back to the time shortly after losing her arm, trying to go without.
She hated it. It triggered feelings of anxious self-loathing she had not felt in a while.
Without a warning, she lobbed the cartridge across the room into Hudson’s awaiting hands.
Judging by the materials she was working with, Hudson really didn’t care about money.
“You said that has depleted agarthicite in it? You’d leave something that expensive here?”
“What’s the worst that can happen? Someone breaks in here, is not stopped by any locals or by Arabie’s enforcers, and makes away with nothing but a ferristitcher cartridge? It doesn’t matter to me. Plus I do think you overestimate how criminal the people around here are, nobody would bother.”
Hudson opened a hatch on the side of the table and pushed the cartridge into the underside of the table, where the spot-smelter was located that softened up the material so it could be piped to the arms. Once the machine was reloaded with material, it resumed ferristitching automatically, and within minutes, it had completely repaired the sunken-in part of her arm and the frayed metal near the elbow. Then, the manipulator arms separated the elbow mechanism and one ligament from the structure, setting them aside. Hudson opened the hatch into the main workspace, pushing the prosthetic arm out of the way of the manipulators and extruders. She then began to swipe and swish her finger on the ferristitcher’s computer using the touchpad, issuing updated instructions the machine began to follow.
Pecking and spinning and slicing across an axis– they were building something now.
“Do you ever feel dysmorphia for the body you used to have?” Hudson asked.
Kalika grumbled. “I don’t view myself as having lost my body.”
“But do you feel a phantom pain? Like now, with your arm nothing but couplers.”
“No.” It was a lie. Kalika felt terribly uncomfortable and eerie with a missing arm and the hanging couplers coming out of the remains of her arm. She could not help but ‘move her arm’, it was something unconscious and automatic, especially because of how restless Hudson made her.
Each time her brain and nerves sent that command, it just made the couplers shudder.
Whenever that happened it did unnerve her. It was an uncomfortable sensation.
“Did you know– once you become fully biomechanical, that feeling goes away. You are set to right; you reach an apotheosis.” Hudson said suddenly. Kalika narrowed her eyes at her.
Her aura shifted– her intentions– “Have you reached an Apotheosis, Kalika Loukia?”
Hudson absentmindedly raised her arm–
One of her hands suddenly launched from the wrist as if launched by a jet anchor.
It all happened so fast–!
Kalika dropped her good arm, releasing the knife hidden in her sleeve, catching it and swinging up.
One fluid motion– was it fast enough–?
Saint’s Skin: Anoint!
Hudson’s hand, glowing yellow with a sickly aura,
met Kalika’s knife, burning red with furious conviction and deflected it,
sending the object to the floor in an instant.
“What the fuck are you playing at?” Kalika shouted as the hand fell to the floor.
She had the knife in hand, held out in defense.
“Sorry, sorry! I just couldn’t help but check you out. I’ll stop now!” Hudson cried out, folding her ears.
There was a whirring noise, and Hudson’s hand was pulled by the cable back into its wrist.
She raised her fingers to her eyes, removing two lenses that had been covering them up.
Rather than gold, their actual color was a metallic, ice grey, with dozens of tiny digits and symbols visibly playing about the surface of the clearly mechanical orbs. When she smiled bright and wide, Kalika noticed, for the first time, the presence of the tiny seams around her cheeks like surreptitious plate joins. Her wrist, having fired its hand, now had a visible seam between the hand and forearm. And as if to further demonstrate the illusions of her body, that big bushy tail split into several mechanical, sharp-tipped implements, which quickly rejoined back into the original form of a bushy cat’s tail.
Kalika had never seen anything like it. Was her whole body robotic?
No– her body seemed soft on the outside. It was not just mechanical– it was biomechanical.
Just like a prosthetic– a full-body prosthetic.
“You used Saint’s Skin. Do you have the other two gifts too?” Hudson asked innocently.
“Fuck you.” Kalika said. “I’m not just going to forget you tried to attack me.”
“Then, how about you attack me, and we’ll call it even? I’ll resist only as much as you.”
“Give me back my arm. I’m leaving.” Kalika shouted.
Hudson’s expression darkened. Her eyes narrowed.
“No! Not until it’s repaired!”
Her cry boomed across the room and not just because she had shouted it.
Kalika hesitated to agitate her further but kept her guard up.
That punch she threw had been clearly imbued with yellow aura.
Saint’s Skin was not able to force that aether directly into someone else, but the addition of aether passively empowered any ordinary blow, necessitating aether to deflect it. Employing Saint’s Skin could change the ambient auras for the worse, slowly poisoning Kalika with its intentions and causing her emotions to shift unless she controlled them; but if it was King’s Gaze, being struck by the punch would have instantly made her feel sick. She may have devolved into a vomiting fit from just touching it.
Such was its awful power. The ability to force one’s aura, one’s emotions, directly into someone else.
Those who had the King’s Gaze had every other Gift by necessity.
She had not been paying attention and Hudson had concealed her intentions well. Without having prepared with Oracle’s Voice, she could not tell whether Hudson had used Saint’s Skin or King’s Gaze. Fighting someone with the King’s Gaze was incredibly dangerous and unpredictable. So she had to hold off for now in case that was a possibility and assess the nature of the situation.
Hudson’s aura was powerful. She was practiced in not just psionics but aetherics too.
When Kalika mentioned taking her prosthetic and leaving, Hudson’s aura flared.
That provocation triggered a band of undisguised, hateful-feeling black aura.
Nothing else the Shimii attempted had been done with killing intention behind it.
Kalika relaxed and laid back against the wall again, sighing deeply. No use in pushing it.
As if realizing she was being seen in a different light, the Shimii’s aura softened.
“Offer still stands, by the way.” Hudson said. “Give me a good hit and let’s be friends.”
“I’ll never be your fucking friend, you freak. Just hurry up over there.” Kalika said.
“That’s too bad.” Hudson smiled. “Maybe I can befriend that cute girl you were with–”
Snap. Inside Kalika’s self a taut and fraying string holding her back burst utterly.
In the next instant, a red flash; a swing of the arm; an error noise; the ferristitcher paused;
From across the room, a wave of force blew past that stirred the ferristitcher instruments.
Its wake a shining bloody red trail that started in a furious swing of Kalika’s vibroknife–
–and connected with Hudson’s cheek, splitting the artificial skin over the side of her face.
Kalika’s eyes flashed as furiously red as the harmful aura which she had hurled at Hudson.
Her brain screamed with pain that she ignored. Shaking, teeth bared in unremitting fury.
Struck by the red aura, and visibly wounded, Hudson’s aura started to take on Kalika’s anger.
Kalika realized what she had done and drew back. Stupid. Stupid move. God damn it.
“Saint’s Skin: Vestment.” In a second, the polluting red completely disappeared.
Hudson took direct command over her aura, preventing Kalika’s anger influencing her.
She sighed heavily, with one hand over her injured cheek. She then smiled again.
Her aura normalized completely. Blue and green, the colors of humanity. No red or black.
“So you do have the King’s Gaze! It really was so serendipitous that we met!” She cheered.
Absentmindedly, she restarted the ferristitcher. It completed the parts it was building.
Without paying Kalika further heed, Hudson opened the ferristitcher’s hatch and set the arm back on the center of the workspace. A manipulator arm took the elbow piece, and another took the new ligaments and the machine set about quickly reassembling these parts into the arm to make it complete. Kalika was speechless. She thought she would have provoked a horrific response from that attack.
Hudson’s joking threat had gotten the absolute worst rise out of her.
It had been stupid– but she could not have stood by for that Homa girl to be victimized.
Not on a whim– not on anyone’s whim. Kalika would not tolerate an innocent to be hurt.
But Hudson cleansed her own aura of Kalika’s infused anger so quickly and easily.
She was back to her unbothered self. It really was all nothing but a joke to her?
“King’s Gaze is extremely rare. Mahdist Shimii once saw it as a sign of a divine right to rulership, without knowing what it really was and what it meant. And yet, a few people with this ability are on this Station right now. Who knows– maybe even somebody you met on the street today could possess great power. Kreuzung has become a place of destiny; I can feel it brimming in the aether itself.”
From the ferristitcher, Hudson withdrew Kalika’s arm and took it in her hands. While the synthetic skin was all gone, the carbon-fiber sleeve was a sleek shiny black, and all of the damage had been fully repaired. It looked brand new. In fact, it looked even better than when Kalika first received it.
“It’s fixed. Let me install it.” Hudson said. “Can I come closer?”
“Yes. Fine. I don’t want to spend another second here.” Kalika grunted.
She was so vulnerable. In an untrustworthy person’s “care.” It pissed her off.
To be treated like this– just because of what happened to her body.
When she should have been allowed to rest, instead she had to keep fighting.
“You better not try anything.” Kalika said.
“Okey-dokey. I don’t want to hurt you. Please trust me for a moment.”
Hudson ambled over to the other side of her room.
She gently gathered the couplers and led them into the associated ports in the arm. She pushed until the prosthetic locked into the steel ring bolted on the remains of Kalika’s old arm. Then she turned the upper arm ring until it locked the prosthetic tightly into place. Kalika could feel the couplers attached to the correct synthetic nerve bundles. When Hudson pulled back a step, Kalika could move her arm.
Once the deed was done, she slipped her arm back into her shirt and clipped it back up, closing it over the lacy purple brassiere she had to partially expose throughout in order to let her arm out.
She donned her jacket anew and put away her knife back into its trick sleeve.
Hudson smiled at her, with her synthetic skin broken, partially exposing the soft carbon-fiber muscle that formed part of her face. Kalika fixed eyes on her. This individual was extremely dangerous, no doubt about it. However, she did not seem intent on killing or causing injury, for the moment.
“You keep acting like this is all a big joke. What is your agenda?” Kalika asked.
“I’m building the greatest machine in the world. My greatest work of art.” Hudson said.
Kalika grunted. And yet, there was no sense that Hudson was actually lying about this.
“Hey c’mon I was just messing with you! I helped, didn’t I?” Hudson cheerfully cried out.
“Whatever. Go to hell. I’m not thanking you for any of this.” Kalika grumbled.
She started on her way out but stopped into the door to Hudson’s operating room.
Without turning around to look at her again, Kalika warned:
“Touch a hair on Homa Baumman’s tail, and I’ll rip your entire fucking head off.”
“Sensitive to the plight of innocents?” Hudson asked jokingly. “I have no interest in her.”
“That better remain the case. Or you’ll make an overwhelmingly powerful enemy.”
“Whether enemy or friend– just remember, to take care of that arm for me, okay?”
Kalika hissed and continued on her way, leaving Hudson behind with finality.
Stepping back out into the street, thoroughly aggravated by what had transpired.
After spending the entire day, and being socially, verbally and physically manhandled, she finally had a working arm back. She could resume her duties with the Rotfront now, but everything was upside down. They knew other militants might be operating here; but enemy psychics too?
She would tell Erika that the Rotfront had some rival conspirators aboard the station.
Not that there was anything they could do about it quite yet. Their hands were tied for now.
They could not afford to cause a ruckus until their meeting with Kremina Qote concluded.
For all her big talk, Kalika herself was no great defender of the innocent anyway.
She had been helpless to do so even under the guidance of the “hero” Radu the Marzban—
–and now, she felt just as helpless anyway with the naïve idealists of the Rotfront.
Staring at her arm in her sleeve, opening and closing her black, segmented hand.
There was always so much Ocean, deeper and darker and more mysterious, out there.
On any given day, she could meet with something too powerful to deal with herself.
Even with all the mysteries she had been inducted into, she could become a victim too.
“We have to get stronger. I have to– I can’t let the same thing happen again.”
Visions of beautiful memories forever burned in the pyre of violence and hatred.
Any moment, any wrong decision, and it could all happen again. She could lose everything.
She could not afford to be lackadaisical at all. Fighting until death was the Katarran way.
Thinking of it as a fruitless struggle that could meet an insurmountable wall and just end–
–was too cruel to consider.
Kalika made her way from Tower Eight back to the baseplate of Kreuzung core.
Homa had been right. The guards at Tower Eight did not care whether Imbrians, Katarrans or other races went in or out of Tower Eight as long as the Shimii’s movement was being monitored and controlled. She thought Katarrans had it bad– these conditions must have been so dehumanizing for the Shimii.
With that bleak thought in her brain, she located one of the hatches to the tunnels below the baseplate and took another elevator back down to Platform Town. It was about 22:00 in the evening by the time she got to the underground, so the surly guard at the door had been replaced by an indifferent-looking young woman with a hoodie. She gave Kalika a brief glance before proceeding to take her eyes off her again, briefly rubbing the butt of a vibrobaton clipped to her pants while leaning on a wall.
“Watchman told me to tell you that your ‘Premier’ is expecting you.” She said.
“What? She came down here?” Kalika asked.
“Yeah. Erika, right? She gave everyone stuff. She’s kinda alright.”
“Jeez. Thank you for telling me.”
“Just doin’ what the boss says ma’am.”
Kalika hurried into the ancillary tunnels and out into the exterior ones.
Hurriedly crossing the labyrinth to make it back to the room where she had left Dimmitra.
She saw yellow light coming from the door. Torchlight. So they were in there.
Kalika rushed into the room, and immediately heaved an exasperated sigh.
“Why are you down here? Do you have something against your own personal safety?”
In the middle of the room, between Dimittra, Chloe and her own bodyguard Olga–
A woman in a red greatcoat and hat, with long, smoke-blue hair down to her waist. Black horns protruding from the back of her head curled up, just a bit more rounded than Kalika’s rectangular horns. When she turned with a gently pink grin on her face and with a flourish of her slender arms, locking her mismatched eyes, blue and green, on Kalika’s own with such confidence. Beneath the coat, she had a skirt with a high waistband and a button-down shirt tucked into it, worn with tights and heels.
Soon as Kalika acknowledged eye contact, she tossed her hair.
And winked one perfectly shadowed eye. Incorrigible, stupid, reckless girl—
Erika Kairos, Premier and Commander-in-Chief of the militant communist band Rotfront.
Whose name she recently declared was instead the Nationale Volksarmee.
“I’m staking it all on this, Kalika! I already said so! Hiding away ill befits a leader!”
“Getting killed ill befits a leader too!” Kalika grumbled.
“I’m stronger than that. Don’t worry about me. But now that you’re here, you can be on-hand for tomorrow, if you’re so worried.” Erika crossed her arms, smiling. “I’ve secured us an audience with some real hardcore communists, Kalika– I’ll be meeting with actual Union special operatives!”
Kalika blinked, briefly left speechless. If she heard that correctly– what was going on?