After a commercial for predatory cybernetic loans, she turns to look me in the eye.
“It’s because of the allergies. Your nickel allergy makes it hard for you to get even low-cost mods. It just wouldn’t do. Not up there, babe. This way, you still get the aboveground connection. I’m sure your stepsister will let you visit.” She has already moved on. She sees the transfer of wealth from one daughter to the next as a simple, efficient solution. Joshua’s money will stay in the family, after all. It doesn’t matter which daughter he chooses. To her, it’s all the same.
Am I the only person in the room with a functioning non-cybernetic heart?Maybe I’ll go off and join a naturalist commune, eat peanut butter, and dig holes looking for magical quartz in the nude. They would deserve it.
“I want it all back.” The words taste bitter on my tongue, but they arethere, like they’ve been curdling inside me for years. I’m not exactly sure whatitwas. My time? My life? My dignity? My lottery tickets? My extra shifts? My savings? My love?
Joshua blinks, like he hasn’t quite registered what I said. “What?”
There’s a pause—long enough for me to see Dru’s face blanch, her mouth a tight, thin line.
Joshua chuckles nervously, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Fawl, come on?—”
But I don’t let him finish.
“Your arm, Joshua.” I say his whole name to try to return us to formality. But I remember that his full name is actually just Josh. “The mod I paid for. I want it back.”
Chapter3
Metal Clits
Josh didn’t return my arm. Nor any of the 107 calls I made to him over the past forty-eight hours. He didn’t even flinch at the loudspeaker drive-by's I orchestrated every half hour. In fact,I’mthe one who ended up signing the restraining order he slapped on me for what they calledunprecedented harassment. Did I get a little zealous in my threats? Perhaps. Pro tip: threats of violence should never go in writing; screaming them is just as effective. Now, thanks to my…passion, I’m required to stay a hundred feet away from both him and Dru.
Which is why I’m here, pulling petals off a papier-mâché posy in the trade market while he and Dru pack up.
The market is a show, always a spectacle. Vendors, covered in grease and grime, shout from their stalls, hawking their goods with a desperate kind of energy, their booming curses and promises bouncing off the twisting narrow passageways. It’s the same every day—men outshouting each other, elbowing for space, hustling like their lives depend on it. And, sometimes, they do.
“I’m telling you, they’re poisoning us.”
The voice comes from a man so round he looks like he might roll away if pushed too hard. It’s a feat, really; staying fully fed down here takes a lot of work.
“You going on a hunger strike or something?” one of the others says, and they all erupt in laughter.
But the big man doesn’t back down. “The boss’s grandson said it himself,” he insists, leaning in close, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush.
“Yeah? And you seen him since, that damn fool?” scoffs a wiry guy, spitting on the ground and dragging a grimy sleeve across his forehead. “Those machines up there don’t love their own, never have. Wouldn’t think twice about—” He makes a slicing motion across his neck. “—punishin’ him real good.”
The big man just laughs, shrugging. “I’ll take whatever punishment they dish out,” he says with a crooked grin. “Probably just a spanking from his skin bride.”
That sets them off again, real howling now. They jostle each other, knocking shoulders, and falling over each other with raunchy jokes, tossing out vivid, filthy fantasies about what they'd do if a skin bride ever landed in their laps.
Skin brides are a peculiar concept when you think about it. Just unmodded people nothing more. And yet, the moment some machine from above decides to cast their gaze downward and pick one, suddenly, they are transformed—not by surgery or mods, mind you, but by the sheer act of being desired by someone with social currency. That’s all it takes. The Machine’s status alone makes them—what? Valuable? Coveted? A prize?
It makes you wonder if the shit isn’t all just made up to make you feel bad about yourself. These men down here who pant over a skin bride cross these same people, these same unmodded bodies, every day on the street without so much as a second glance.
That’s the truth of it, the thing they’ll never say out loud. We’re all taught to hate ourselves until the right person loves us. No one questions it, not really, because we’re too busy waiting for that one touch of grace that might redeem us.
I pass racks of secondhand cybernetic parts, some still stained with oil, others polished to a gleam. I bought Josh’s parts from a shop like this. I was so proud of myself. Yes, the price in work units cleared me out, but who needs work units when you’re soon to be the pampered little wife of an abovegrounder? It’ll take me seven years to get back to where I was six months ago.
The noxious combination of smells from the hard-fried street food and engine grease from the repair stalls stings my eyes, and I barely dodge a sludgy stream of viscous blueish fluid sliding toward an open drain.
“What? Are you blind? You almost stepped in a manhole!” Screams a blackneck, bearing the signature layer of grime that gathers at the collar.
“Cover your fucking manhole, you belowground cretin,” I say back. No real venom in it, just sporting.
“Hey, you’re down here with me, you naturalist kook,” he spits back.
“Call me a naturalist again, and you’ll lose your other eye. Do you know how many codes you’re currently breaking?”
