Pressure on my shoulder. I drop the box and twist, reflexes moving me without conscious input. A line of fire explodes from the side of my neck and down my back. Cool air mixes with the warm rush of blood from my skin, and I tumble away, combat knife leaping into my hand, tranqrifle clattering off across the deck, shoulder strap snipped in two. Color shifts and fractures in front of me, emerging from the container door. My own suit flickers, then freezes in hashed gray static, my body tuned to a dead channel, suit integrity too badly compromised.
Fucker. Was hiding in there the entire time. He almost got… no, she almost got me.
Blood drips from a thin, curved blade in the slender figure’s right hand, spattering the steel deck. With a flourish, the infsuited guard whips her weapon down, spraying a thin line of red across the deck, and tenses into a fighting stance, one hand slightly in front, knife hand clenched behind. Her blue eyes stare at me from the kaleidoscopic swirl of the suit, but they’re the empty blue of a crashed server.
Wait… I’ve seen that movement before… No. That’s impossible.
“…Brand?”
She charges at me soundlessly, knife diving for my throat, swirling patterns shimmering like nouveau abstract art. I eel around the strike, trapping her arm between my chest and right forearm, my blade pointed down her arm, hers safely pointed away from me. Our feet dance through blow and counterblow, heels blocking shins, thighs blocking knees, insteps sweeping outsteps, hooking ankles catching air. All the while, she tries to yank her knife hand free, surging motions I barely contain.
“Brand! It’s Ash, Brand! What are you doing out here?”
Her only answer is a series of palm strikes with her free hand, trying to break my nose, cheek, orbital socket. I redirect each one, my hand flowing around hers, guiding her vicious blows safely away, then twist her trapped arm up over my shoulder, putting us back to back, trying to get her to drop the blade. I feel bones grind, but her grip doesn’t loosen.
“Brand, you need to drop the knife. I’ll have to dislocate your elbow if you don’t. You know what that’ll do to your—”
Suddenly, she wrenches her body down, levering her arm out of my grasp. The pops of ligaments snapping in her elbow and shoulder fill the air, her blade tumbling out of nerveless fingers, but she twists and rolls, grabbing the falling knife out of the air with her remaining hand. I flip away from a slashing swing at my Achilles tendon and Brand springs to her feet, right arm dangling loosely at her side, weapon angled at me once more. Through it all—silence.
“Brand…?”
Another lunging strike, keen edge once again coming for my throat. I lean back slightly and let my own blade fall, then trap her wrist between my hands. I continue her forward momentum, keeping her off-balance, then spin and drive her into a container. Her head hits the metal with an audible clang, and she falls to the ground, convulsing. Sparks rise from her skull.
“Brand!”
I rush over, peeling off the infsuit top. Pieces of a haphood fall away, but then stop, like they’re anchored to her scalp. Underneath, a gently rounded face spasms and shakes, the cracked hood components spitting electricity into the chill predawn air. Fine tendrils stretch down from the hood into her head, like fungal roots infiltrating a log. I grab the pieces of haphood and try to yank it free, grimacing at the resistance. The long strands come out reluctantly, pulling skin and hair with them. I scramble wildly to finish removing it, but then Brand screams, the first sound she’s made the entire time. The cry fills the air, guttural, animalistic, and her back arches against the ground, heels drumming frantically. The stink of ozone fills the air, and then she goes limp.
I look down at her face, and it’s all I can do not to vomit. Her eyes are burst open, ocular fluids running messily down the sides of her cheeks like melted wax. Blood flows from her ears and mouth, matting her tangled auburn hair, staining it a darker shade of red. I push myself away from the corpse, into a squat, breathing heavily.
Psych-sec, think of it as a psych-sec, it’s not one of your closest friends, it’s just a psych-sec, hold it together, Ash, finish the job, it’s just a psych-sec.
I look over at the haphood box, cardboard corner dented from the fall. Numbly, I pick up my knife and slice open the packaging, revealing a dark gray half-helm nestled in protective padding. It looks identical to the broken unit attached to Brand.
Why do the gummies want this? What happened to Brand? What the fuck was she doing on this boat?
Without realizing it, my footsteps lead me to the tranqed body of the first guard I shot. I reach down and pull his infsuit hood off, somehow already knowing what I’ll find. A dark gray haphood nestles above his freckled face. When I try to pull it off, clinging friction keeps it in place, like a leech stuck to flesh, and I let it fall back. I repeat the process with the second guard, then turn back to the fallen body of my friend. Stomach heaving, I lean down next to her and gather the cruelly broken parts that killed her into my hands.
I don’t know who did this to you, or why, but I’ll find out, Brand. I promise.
Back in the dinghy, the nameless grayhat silently accepts the unopened box and rifle from me, then hands over a first aid kit and turns the boat toward Ditchtown. I dab antibiotics on my wounds, the cold sea air numbing my exposed skin. The grisly debris at my side numbs my racing mind.
One of my only friends is dead, and I killed her.
7
[The Devil’s Own Playground]
“Hey Ash, how’re you—”
Jase’s voice trails off as he registers my ragged appearance, hair still damp from ocean spray. The gash down my back is hidden by my hoodie, antibiotics and gauze covering the still-aching cut, but I’m sure my expression is ferocious beneath the AR glasses. I feel like shit warmed twice over. Outside, the first stirrings of early morning passersby in the corridors sing their lonely song outside Johnny’s.
“Got some questions, Jase.”
“Ash, you know I love your streams, and you’re practically my sister, but answering questions has never really been—”
I stab my blade into the countertop, tip driven nearly three centimeters into the polymer surface, the metal quivering with a low thrum. It’s bad for the weapon, but I’m past caring.
“Got some questions, Jase, and I’m gonna want some answers.”
Jase swallows, the first time I’ve ever seen him nervous.
“Well, ahhh, discretion is one of the main services we proviurghhhkkk—”
The counter slides beneath my legs, a barrier that might as well not exist. I can feel Jase’s pulse in my forearm, his skinny neck trapped in the crook of my elbow.
“Ran into a friend on that boat, Jase. Bra—”
My throat momentarily tightens, probably just as tight as Jase’s. Saying her name out loud… that makes it real. One of my best friends. Murdered. By me.
“…Brand. She shouldn’t have been there. Now she’s dead. What did the gummies want with that shipment?”
“Hrghhh… I don’t… know… Ash… swear… standard contract…”
Wisps of hair waving on bloody chunks of skull.
“Who gave it to you?”
“Don’t… know… hnghhh… Sawyer… it was Sawyer… drone courier…”
Sightless eyes weeping ocular fluid from ruined sockets.
“Sawyer? The head spook himself? Okay. I’ve dealt with him before. We’ll have a… talk.”
Jase flinches, and I loosen my grip a bit. I don’t want to take my anger at Sawyer out on him.