“I did. I was surprised those machines up there even let us know.”
“Right? I was shocked we got the warning.”
“Mark my words, that’s going to be the last you hear from that man Ben. He’s going to have an unexplained ‘accident.’ We’ll never hear from him again.”
I don’t know Ben, can never hope to ever know an Iku, but I quietly wish him well. If an Iku can’t survive losing favor with his friends and family, what hope do I have?
I finish the MEAT and nod athank you, prepared to beg for my placement back at the knowledge center. I quit it in anticipation of being a hotshot aboveground. Now I have to crawl back and beg for a spot under the same people who dumped me for Dru. Somehow, this hurts more than being dumped.
“Wait!” The shopkeeper seems to use all his strength to yell. “You could still, uh…get aboveground if you wanted to.”
I don’t like the way he says it. Like I just stepped from Hell into some new circle of pain I didn’t even know existed—Hell Plus: now with more creeps!
There’s asecondway to get aboveground.
It isn’t in the brochures, isn’t in the radio-drama storylines where self-made titans claw their way out of the mines, hoarding work credits for some ungodly number of years until they finally,finallyearn their place among the gleaming towers. That’s the respectable way to make it.
But for those who with limited hardware and a soft mouth, there’s a shortcut.
A contract in a low-level brothel would get you through the checkpoints. No years of scraping for credits, no lottery odds stacked against you. Just a different kind of currency. You’d lick metal clits until your jaw ached for eighteen hours. You’d service cocks designed for efficiency, not pleasure. The little finger-shaped things are all the rage aboveground. Or so Josh said.
But you’d be aboveground.
You’d see the goddamned sun.
Not that I’m morally opposed to using what I have to get what I want. It’s just…how can I be sure this shopkeeper has anyrealaccess? Scams like this run all the time.
“You still have healthy fat deposits,” he says. “A nice hip width, strong legs from climbing in the mines. Some people in high places get really turned on by those.” He gestures to my breasts. “Or anything that makes you look soft and fertile—less like a machine. I’m not talking about a skin house. I’m talking about an actual job.”
“You know of a real position up top?” I lean in.
Aboveground jobs are impossible. Even a job wiping asses requires years-long waiting lists, vetting, byzantine connections, and bribes—somany bribes.
He gives me a tight little nod, and I’m on him like a starved dog.
“How? What is it? Who do you know? If you expect me to stare down any one-eyed snakes without?—”
“Settle down.” He smirks, wiping his hands on his apron, the grease from the sizzling meat now smeared across his stained shirt. “It’s real hush-hush. Discretion at the highest levels, but the requirements are… Let’s just sayunconventional.”
He hands out the last of his sample meats and waves the rest of the hungry hopefuls away. He erases the price on the box and doubles it. Those waiting for samples crash into his store and buy every single one on display.
I make the get-on-with-it signal with my hands.
“They want the ugliest.” His hand flutters in my direction. “Not my words.”
Ugly. That should sting, but it doesn’t. I’ve been hearing worse my whole life. If they’re kind, they sayunfortunate. I barely even flinched. The hook was already in. “Defineugly.”
“Unmodded. With that starvation-red hair.”
“But I do have this,” I say, pulling down the collar of my dress, revealing the smooth, glinting diamond embedded in my collarbone, swollen red and angry.
“I know but—” He leans in, eyes widening. “Holy fish guts,” he mutters, licking his lips. “That’s hypo platinum, isn’t it? Premium grade?”
“Had to be,” I reply, shrugging. “I’ve got allergies.”
“Damn.” He whistles under his breath, his fingers twitching like they want to touch the diamond, as if maybe it’ll rub off on him. “Never seen one up close.”
“What are they paying?” I ask.
