1. A New Skin

1 – A New Skin

Grando Scrim watched as his men dragged the plastic-sheathed body into the backroom of his club, The Velvet Strip. Orin grunted, grabbing a chair as he pulled the skin’s top half into the center of the room. The other employee, Pelo, was barely holding up his half, fumbling with the slick, vacuum-sealed packaging as the skin’s feet kept slipping out of his hands.

“Come on, dipshit,” Orin growled. “Damn flipper-fingers. I should’ve just carried him myself.”

“Flipper-fingers?” Pelo dropped the skin’s feet and held up his mismatched hands. One had three grayish, single-jointed fingers, and the other was a cheap wire-job—unskinned mechanical rods. “You making fun of—”

“Shut up!” Grando snarled. “Get the damn body in the chair.” He watched as the men stopped bickering and got to work. Muttering and cursing, they hoisted their package into the seat, and Pelo held it steady while Orin pulled out a box cutter and started slicing away the plastic shroud. The skin was fitted with a mask—a breather to keep it alive during transit. The damn things didn’t even have the wherewithal to breathe without a deck. Even so, the vibrancy of its flesh and its thick head of dark hair were enough to proclaim its health as Orin peeled back the plastic.

“Damn guy’s young,” Pelo remarked.

“Poor bastard,” Orin grunted, slicing the plastic over the skin’s chest. He nicked the smooth, tan flesh of the thing’s pectoral, and a thin bead of dark blood welled up.

“Careful, you idiot,” Grando said reflexively. As if to justify his chastisement, he added, “Kid sold his body; God knows why. Maybe he was saving his sick mama. Anyway, no sense cutting it up for no damn reason.”

“Sorry, Boss.” Orin continued to slice, working his way down to the skin’s waist. Then he looked up at Pelo, who was holding the thing’s shoulders. “Hold it steady, man.”

“I am!”

Grando watched the thug’s wirelike fingers flex with the strain of keeping the body from sliding off the plastic chair. He almost chuckled, but that wouldn’t be good for his image. He walked over to the desk he kept in the storeroom—sometimes a man wanted a quiet place to work where legitimate business wouldn’t come looking—and picked up his stogie. It was the real deal, not some vapor fake.

He spent more on stogies than most of his men spent on rent. It made a statement every time he sparked one up, and this was no exception. He leaned against his desk, stuffed the fat, hand-wrapped cigar between his thick, wine-stained lips, then flicked his thumb, producing a flame from the little mod he’d had installed in the nailbed.

As the blue-green torch ignited his chem-laced tobacco, Grando inhaled deeply, closing his eyes while the nicotine went straight to his brain. His reverie was short-lived. Orin cleared his throat and asked, “Should we leave this mask on it, Boss?”

Grando opened his eyes and regarded the naked body on the chair. It was young—probably not more than twenty. Not overly muscled, but not as skinny as some of the poor bastards in his neighborhood who might be tempted to sell their flesh—literally. “Leave it on for now. Don’t want the damn thing to croak on us. Wasn’t cheap.”

Pelo steadied the body on the chair, then let go, taking a step back. “You sure this is worth it?”

Grando glared at him. He’d already explained to these two knuckleheads what he had. Was it worth repeating? He supposed, for bragging’s sake, it might be. Grando reached into his pocket and pulled out the neurodeck—a domino-sized lump of gold and compressed carbon. He held it up, the gold inlay glinting in the dim amber lights, and the crimson seal winking balefully. “You don’t believe me?”

“I believe you, Boss!” Orin replied immediately, taking a step back. He was a big guy, Orin. He even had a glitchy-as-hell aura system. Even so, he knew Grando could whistle into the ether and have ten men just like him ready to kill, torture, maim—whatever he needed. Being a boss was a big deal, and muscle like Orin knew where their next meal was coming from. Pelo wasn’t quite so smart.

“Boss, that’s a pretty piece of tech, but, like, it was in the trash! Maybe just sell it?”

“This is a royal seal, boy,” Grando growled, tapping his thumb on the deck. “It was found lodged in a defunct recycler from the salvage of an Imperial dreadnought—a ship that had been floating in orbit over Titan for a hundred years!” He shook the neurodeck. “Whoever this is, he or she was around a long time ago, and they were connected.”

Again, he tapped the royal seal. “A Royal. You think they might be happy we brought them back? You think they might show some gratitude? Maybe they know where some bits are stowed away. If not, maybe someone high up will pay a ransom. I don’t know how, but this thing is going to pay off big-time—way more than that skin cost me.”

While he spoke, Grando moved closer to the body, shaking his head and clicking his tongue. “If I could afford the process, I’d put myself in a deck and take that damn skin for myself. Give this big old body to the Royal.” That was the thing—putting a brain in a deck was a hundred times harder and more expensive than making a skin ready to receive one. Only the elite had neurodecks—high-end mercs, Royals, wealthy execs. Scum like him and his boys didn’t rate. He flipped the dense little rectangle in his palm. Yet.

“Where do you plug that thing, Boss?” Orin asked, peering at the naked body.

Grando frowned. “Somewhere on the head or maybe the spine—”

“Oh, I saw it!” Pelo said eagerly, pushing the skin’s head forward and exposing a weird, black polymer port at the nape of the neck, almost concealed by the thick, dark hair.

“Hang on,” Grando said. “Tie his wrists to the chair in case he freaks out when he wakes up.”

Orin nodded. “Smart, Boss.” He walked over to the bench in the back of the storeroom and rifled through some toolboxes until he found what he was looking for: a couple of good-sized zip-ties. Grando watched as he took hold of the skin’s wrists and zipped them tightly to the plastic chair’s arms. “That good?”

Grando frowned. “I dunno. You think he could break those ties?”

Pelo let out a high-pitched snicker, shaking his head. “No way, Boss! We use those to hook people up all the time.”

Orin shrugged. “I mean, I could break ’em, but I got this system, so…”

“Well, this skin ain’t got a system in it. Would have cost me twice as much.” Grando hefted the little neurodeck, marveling at its weight. The damn thing was dense. “All right, let me see here.” He walked around behind the body and aligned the tiny slots on the sides of the neurodeck to the ones on the edge of the port. “I think I just put it here and push it in…”

He’d barely applied any pressure on the deck before something chirped, and then it slid into the port as smooth as butter. Several tiny clicks sounded from the back of the skin’s skull, and then a shutter slid closed on the port, and the body began to vibrate.

“Holy shit, Boss!” Orin cried, stepping away from the unnatural sight.

“Shit! Is it seizing?” Pelo asked, also stepping back. It was like the two meatheads were afraid they’d be seen as guilty in Grando’s eyes if the damn thing died.

“Calm down! It’s probably normal…” He trailed off as he, too, backed away, watching the naked body jerk and vibrate, rattling the plastic chair legs on the stained concrete floor. “Just give it a minute…”

###

//Equilibrium Cybernetics, Neurodeck Mark 7.9 initializing//

Hector swam in a sea of darkness, a well of nothingness. All he knew was the faint, distant thrum of a heartbeat.

//Compatible corpus vivum detected, commencing memory and neural pattern remapping.//

Images flashed through Hector’s mind—his mother, his childhood dog, his father, and a thousand other faces. They came faster and faster, and soon it wasn’t just people, but experiences as well—an interminable kaleidoscope of memories, through which he seemed to fall at an ever-increasing pace: school, fights, girls, kisses, sex, military service, the Imperial Guard, promotions, honors, accolades, the Conti family… Esme.

Hector’s eyes snapped open. They stung, and everything was blurry. Something was in them—some kind of jelly-like goop. Antiseptic? He blinked, grunting as he tried to breathe. Something was in his mouth and his nostrils. Something was clamped around his face. He heard voices, but they weren’t clear. They echoed—muffled, like his head was underwater.

//Neural pattern remapping paused—insufficient host gray matter patterning. Some memories will be unavailable until remedied. Commencing background patterning. You may experience brief moments of nausea or disorientation until the process is complete.//

Hector blinked his stinging eyes, shaking his head, trying to get the stuff out of them. Someone grabbed his head, steadying it while they prodded the thing that was blocking his airway.

//Unpacking Chrysalis 9 Aura System modules. This will take a few moments.//

As the stuff in his eyes started to clear, Hector made sense of his surroundings. He could feel he was in a chair, and he could see a concrete floor. He saw people’s legs—some wearing canvas trousers, others in black slacks. As someone grunted and tugged on the thing in his mouth, he focused closer and saw big, scarred knuckles gripping a black plastic breathing apparatus. It began to pull away, dragging tubes with it.

Hector coughed and gagged as the silicone lines slid out of his nostrils and throat. He still couldn’t make out words, but he heard garbled voices and laughter. As the last of the tubes slid free, he leaned forward and coughed, hacking up a great gob of clear, slimy solution that spattered on the concrete, splashing his bare feet. His feet? They didn’t look right.

Of course they don’t, idiot. You’re in a new skin. His inner voice was harsh, grating, always irritated when he dwelled on the obvious.

He blinked again, still coughing as he tried to sit up and look around. He was in a cramped, dim space, stacked with liquor boxes and aluminum kegs. The guy with the scarred knuckles stood before him—a big bruiser wearing a green canvas jacket. His face looked like he enjoyed lending it out in service as a chopping block. The man in the slacks leaned close, and Hector shifted his gaze toward him, noting a matching suit jacket and a much handsomer face—at least it wasn’t scarred and bruised.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

The suit said something, but Hector couldn’t make out the words. He shook his head and tried to rub his ear on his shoulder. That got the man’s attention, and he pointed, twirling his finger in a little circle while he said something.

//Chrysalis 9 modules unpacked. Accessing refinement log and applying schema to new corpus vivum… Process halted. 95,000 aura potentia units lost to entropy. Insufficient aura to refine corpus vivum or apply archived refinements, abilities, and boosts.//

Hector’s blood froze as he read the notice. How did I lose all my potentia? Entropy? None of it made sense. His deck should have been in a conditioner while he waited for a skin. Even if not, to lose all his aura potentia—it wasn’t possible.

He coughed, trying to curse as a third person, someone behind him, stuck a hard, sharp object in his ear and twisted, scooping something out. As it cleared the canal, his hearing clarified with almost painful relief. He heard the hum of machinery, the not-so-distant bass beats of club music, and a whiny voice behind him saying, “Gross!”

“It’s just packing material,” the big guy grunted. “Like greasing up a nice piece of tech before shipping it off.”

The guy in the suit snorted. “Thanks for the insight, Orin.” He leaned closer to Hector. “Can you hear me now?”

Hector nodded, blinking. His eyes still burned.

“Want me to do the other ear?” the high-pitched voice asked.

“Just do it,” the suit said.

Hector held still, bracing himself, then the probing digit slid into his ear and scraped out a plug of goop.

“Better?” the suit asked.

Hector nodded, inhaling through his raw, runny nose. Damn skin feels raw. No nanites?

“I need you to tell me who you are, Mister Royal.”

Before he could puzzle out the strange nature of the question, Hector’s neurodeck flashed him another message:

//Aura System installed. Functionality limited by corpus vivum. Usable aura-pool capped at five units, regenerating at the rate of one unit per minute. Corpus vivum ambient aura potentia applied to: Strength Boost.//

The suit was still talking, but Hector didn’t hear him. He was too busy staring at the dismal news. His aura system—one of the best in the empire—was back to square one. He’d worked so hard to build up his potentia pool!

Almost a goddamn 100k of boosts, skills, and—

The big guy slapped him, rattling Hector’s skull and sending little stars floating through his vision. He blinked and then glared up at him. He moved to stand, tensing his arm to swing, but it finally dawned on him that he was fastened to the chair. The guy behind him slammed his hands on Hector’s shoulders, holding him down as the big guy leaned close. “Boss is talking to you.”

“What?” he grunted.

“Who—are—you?” the suit asked, puffing on a cigar.

“Hector.” He stalled as he mentally accessed his aura system and looked at his status:

//Status:

Aura System: Chrysalis 9 – Gold-3
Level: 1
Archetype: —