“Well, if you say so.” Jase doesn’t look convinced.
“Still doesn’t matter,” Kiro mumbles. “Who cares about the Brown? Gummies are in charge anyway, that’s what you said.”
He starts eating his noodles, the chopsticks curiously delicate in his large hands. Jase throws his skinny arms up theatrically, narrowly missing a wok moving through the air.
“Big man, we’re probably the last megaspire where it’s possible to get something approaching privacy. We’re the ones who make things happen, out here in this sunken shithole. You want an embargoed silkie hapsuit with all the latest sensegadgets? You talk to us. An anti-filter board that’ll bypass the regional blocks and let you see the global ’Net? Still us. Surveillance programs to track down dissidents avoiding your morality filters?”
Jase frowns.
“Well, you don’t talk to me, but there’re others here who’ll do it for you. That’s why the gummies keep us around, why we’re gray, yeah? Mix of black and white, good and bad, yin and yang and all that Han philosocrap. We keep the cameras offline here, and the gummies get plausible deniability for the shady shit they do. That’s the only reason they leave us alone. They’re smart enough to know we’re smarter than they are, and that we’ll never live in a dryburb without breaking it just to find the cracks. They don’t like their people asking questions, but they can use our curiosity, harness it while pretending we don’t exist. Especially if they want to hit the silkies without breaking the treaty, or keep themselves safe from Han memetic attacks, or any of the hundreds of other things their shitty Theocrophant can’t do because they stifle anyone they catch exhibiting an original idea.”
“Doesn’t keep them from cracking down on ’hats they don’t like,” I say bitterly.
“Yeah, well, lots of people like punching down,” Jase replies. “Lot easier than punching up.”
“Cowards.” I motion for more noodles, and Jase grabs another wok.
“I swear, you eat more food than anyone I’ve ever seen. Where do you put it all?”
“Goes to the Game,” I say around another mouthful. “One-to-one fidelity ain’t easy on the body. Especially not after an encounter like that. Dragons’re bullshit.”
The sound of beads rattling interrupts our conversation. Two Han women wearing mechaforce suits walk into the shop, privacy masks retracting into golden plates on the sides of their heads. Both have the straight black hair and tattooed cheeks currently in fashion among the security forces of the Dynasty, but their features aren’t the biosculpted symmetry of natives, and one has dirty blond roots barely showing. Must be client-state embassy guards, probably from the NK or Russo protectorates. Small molyblade scabbards hang from their left hips, atop the articulated limbs of the mechas, and their pupils have a slight glassy sheen, likely from the combat cocktail of drugs within their tattoos.
“Great. Razorgirls,” I mutter.
The left one glances around, then sniffs haughtily.
“Huh. Looks like ass. I thought you said this was supposed to be some world-class noodle place, Karina.”
“The ’Net crawlers must have been hacked. Hey, you, shopboy!” The second one yells at Jase. “We’re hungry. Is there an actual eatery around here?”
“You’ll need to head back to one of the other spires,” Jase responds politely, though his eyes are hard. “I doubt anything here will meet your tastes.”
“You got that right… wait a minute. Ilya, check it out.” She points at Kiro, ignoring me in my baggy clothes. “That one looks delectable.”
The razorgirls stroll up to stand on either side of Kiro. One traces a painted fingernail down the outside of his arm, outlining the chiseled tricep.
“Delectable indeed. Why don’t you join us, big boy, show us some sights, give us a personal tour. We’re much more fun than this trashpile.”
Kiro bows his head and blushes, shoulders hunching in like he’s trying to hide. Awkwardly, he shoves some more noodles into his mouth.
“…Can’t.”
“What was that?” the second razorgirl asks, running her hand over Kiro’s other arm. “I couldn’t quite hear you.”
“…Have to practice. Game.”
“Oh for fuck’s—” The first one backs away, voice scornful. “Forget it, Ilya. He’s otaku.”
“Ugh, you’re right. What’s the point of wasting all that beautiful flesh on a Gamer? Worthless.”
The second razorgirl pushes herself away from Kiro, causing him to spill noodles onto his lap, and he cringes, face darkening under already dark skin, trying to wipe his shorts clean. They laugh, cruel mocking sounds.
I realize I’m on my feet, muscles tensing, arms low and to my sides. The weight of the blade on my hip is solid, reassuring, needing the slightest of wrist movements to appear in my hand. The first one stares at me, letting her hand fall to her molyblade sheath.
“Look, Ilya, a mouse thinks it wants to play. We might have some fun this trip after all. It’s been ages since my moly sang.”
She pulls the hilt free slightly, unwinding the invisible edge coiled inside the sheath. Air molecules hiss and crackle against the barely exposed portion of the blade, creating a light blue glow, and the stink of ozone fills the air. Mentally I prepare myself—molyblades are deadly, but only if they hit you, and razorgirls rely too much on their drugs.
“I think you two better leave, right now,” Jase interrupts, his high-pitched voice friendly on the surface. Cold iron lurks beneath, though, like an Arctic anti-shipping mine waiting for the barest touch to detonate. “I think a couple tourists might have wandered into the wrong place, and bad things sometimes happen in wrong places.”
“Oh yeah? What are you going to do, shopboy? Throw noodles at us? Tell on us to your teacher?”
Jase grins.
“I wouldn’t think of wasting them on you, and my school’s tougher than it looks. You wouldn’t want to meet my teacher. He’s busy, and he hates being interrupted.”
Behind him, Johnny continues shifting woks around, seemingly oblivious.
“See, I’m actually doing you a favor. Getting hit with a jolter”—Jase pulls a small black rod from under the counter and waves it in the air—“while you’re in those fancy suits would be really painful, especially if the jolter happened to be modified with a safety override for mechas.”
The razorgirls step back involuntarily, fear momentarily flashing across their faces. Jase continues.
“However, the pain of having your arms and legs swiftly broken while your mecha tears itself apart would be like rainbows shooting out of a unicorn’s ass if I let her”—he nods at me—“do what she wants to do to you. I don’t have nearly enough cleaner on hand to get your blood off the walls, and I don’t much feel like shopping right now, so let’s say we call this a draw, you two leave, and if you ever set foot in the Brown again, I’ll dump your corpses in the blue after she’s done.” He pauses, looking thoughtful. “But only after I strip out the interesting parts from your mechas. Deal?”
The first razorgirl tenses, like she’s going to finish drawing the molyblade, tattoo coiling into motion on her face, ready to inject its aggressive cocktail into her bloodstream. Jase levels the jolter at her, tendrils of electricity forming at its tip. The sound of rattling cookware echoes in the sudden hush, Johnny still cooking industriously, thin curves of hot metal dancing through the air. I feel myself dropping into a combat trance, pushing aside the pain of my aching muscles, time spinning down like an unwinding watch.