"I'll try."
"And Machine?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you."
THE REALITY OF IT was worse than she'd imagined. Seeing the women's skins hanging there on the rail of the cool room, padded out by their plastoform inserts, their owners' eyeless faces staring lifelessly ahead, Emily felt the bile rise in her throat and had to turn away, leaning over the sink in the corner to retch, until there was nothing left in her stomach.
For once the files hadn't prepared her. For once she had let the sheer nastiness of it get to her.
They called it "shelling." Five years ago it wouldn't have been possible, but new research had found a way of keeping the flesh of a human being alive without the bone or blood or muscle. These—these skins— had once been "worn" by living human beings; by young women from the Lowers: the kind of women who, even if they were missed by those they loved, would never have been traced, never accounted for, because they were too poor, too unimportant in the scheme of things, to be bothered about.
Kidnapped by special teams, they were taken to a special lab and drugged. There the operation was performed, the surface layer of skin and fat skillfully removed, to be preserved in a vat of nutrients until required. The rest—the living being, stripped to a bloodied skeleton— was given to the Oven Man.
She shivered, thinking of it; trying to imagine the kind of man who would find this sort of thing attractive; who would pay a thousand -yuan a time simply to wear a skin.
Of course, the skin was the simplest part. The really "clever" bit was the part that brought the skin to life—that allowed the wearer to tap into the skin's nervous system and experience exactly what it experienced. A fine mesh of ice was sewn into the inner layer of the skin, feeding to a series of artificial ganglions, at the base of the spine, beneath the sex organs and at the base of the neck, which rooted pain and pleasure signals to the brain of the recipient.
By this foul means a man could wear the body of a woman and make love as a woman. He could feel what it was to be possessed by another man, to have his breasts fondled, the nipples kissed. It was an ancient dream come true. Shelling made it possible. But at a cost . . .
She forced herself to look again—to sear it into her memory. This was what human beings could do to each other. This. She reached out to touch one of the skins, surprised by its warmth, a shiver passing through her at the thought that this had once been a living woman like herself, with dreams and hopes and memories, perhaps with children of her own—children who missed her, crying themselves to sleep at night for want of her. But now . . . Emily shuddered. Now it was a mere sense-matrix, a flesh-pad for some rich, unthinking cunt.
A shock of the purest, blackest hatred passed through her like an electric bolt. Inhuman, some might call this. Obscene. But she had her own word for it. Evil. These bastards were evil.
She pulled on her gloves, then stood before the mirror, taking long, deep breaths, trying to prepare herself. The attack had been an unqualified success. Despite the heavy security of the place, they had achieved almost complete surprise. The guards had been overwhelmed in the first thirty seconds, the alarm system shut down. The rest had been easy.
As for the clients, they were in the next room, lying facedown on the thickly carpeted floor, naked, their hands tied behind their backs.
She had intended to gut the place—to set fires at all the doors and let the bastards burn to death, or suffocate—but that would be too kind. Having seen these awful mementos, she was of a mind to take the bastards back with her; to take them downlevel and keep them; to torment them, the way these poor women had been tormented.
Yet even as she considered it—even as her blood sang at the thought—she knew how impractical it was.
Torment. Yes, they deserved to live in everlasting torment for what they'd done.
She looked about her one final time, then turned away and, drawing her knife, stepped out into the other room.
I'll cut your balls off, that's what I'll do, she thought, looking about her at the dozen men who lay spread-eagled on the floor before her. And I'll make you eat them, you evil fuckers. Every last tiny morsel.
And afterward?
She reached down and grabbed the first of them by the hair, pulling his head up so that he could look at her—at the winking razor-sharp edge of the knife in her hand—and smiled.
Afterward she would have them skinned. Without anesthetic.
the YOUNG HAN crouched in the shadows beyond the broken lamp, watching them come from the lift. He had known something was going on; had heard the screams from up above when he was working in the shaft and had known they would come this way. What he hadn't known was what would happen next.
He was smiling, his deformed face pulled to the right, when the guns opened up. Two of the Hand went down at once, dead. The others scattered, finding whatever cover they could, but it was pretty hopeless. In a minute it was over. He waited, his heart threatening to burst from his chest, his legs weak from the shock of what he'd witnessed, keeping his eyes closed, thinking he'd be next. . . . After a while he opened his eyes and looked.
They were gone.
He stood, putting a hand out to steady himself against the wall, almost falling as his legs gave. He waited, letting his strength come back, then forced himself to walk over to where the bodies lay; forced himself to look.
They were dead. All eight of them were dead.
There was a faint noise, a hint of movement. He turned, his mouth forming a silent cry of fear.
His heart pounding, he shuffled across, then stooped, listening, studying the fallen woman, seeing the faint rise and fall of her chest. She was alive. He leaned over her, studying the wounds to her head and shoulder. They were bad. She was losing a lot of blood. If he left her here she would die for certain.
And if he took her?
He swallowed dryly, then, knowing he had no choice—that he was compelled to help her—he moved around and took her legs. Then, slowly, inch by inch, he began to drag her—away from the scene of death and into the 'shadows. Away ... a snaillike trail of blood smeared on the dusty floor of the corridor. Away . . . the weight of her seeming to grow with every step he took.
AS THE LIFT SLOWED, approaching the top of the stack, Jelka moved to the side, pressing herself against the wall. The feeling that something was wrong had grown in her, until by now she was jumpy, her nerves on edge.
This was stupid—common sense cried out against it—but right now she couldn't help herself. If Kim was in trouble, she had to help. And if he wasn't . . . well, she had to know that too. So that she could get on with her life.
The camera eye over the door swiveled, following her every move.
She closed her eyes briefly, trying to keep control. No doubt they were watching her from the control room and laughing; laughing, because she didn't have a chance.
The lift stopped abruptly. She was there. She waited, expecting the doors to hiss open, but they stayed closed.
"Open the doors," she said quietly, looking up at the camera. "Why don't you open the doors?"
Nothing. Just the underlying hum that was everywhere in the City.
She hesitated, then stepped across and, slipping her nails beneath the control panel's rim, popped it out. Beneath it were a number of other panels. She pulled one out and, taking a second to remember the override sequence, punched in the code.
Nothing. It was like the thing was dead.
She smacked her hand against the mirrored wall. "Shit!"
"I wouldn't do that," a voice said softly. "You'll only hurt yourself."
It sounded like a woman's voice, mature and well modulated, the intonation somewhere between Han and Hung Mao.
"Who are you?" she asked, staring up at the camera.