3 – Pete’s

  As Lemon walked toward the building, Hector paused to squint toward the setting sun. It happened to line up with the street just about perfectly, so the globe, made red by the city’s haze, sat like a swollen egg yolk between two distant towers. It was alien-looking, and though he hadn’t spent much of his previous life on any one planet, he felt a little strange—a little out of place as he took it in.

  “You coming?” Lemon called from the building’s bay door. Hector nodded and followed her into the noise and swelter of the gym. It was unlike any business he’d ever seen. Half was devoted to fighting—mats, rings, and workout equipment—half devoted to a “clinic.” It was to the latter half that Lemon steered him. A woman in scrubs circulated among the waiting patients, tapping notes out on her little tablet. Lemon ignored her, walking past a row of plastic waiting chairs to a pair of large dispensing machines.

  While Hector perused the contents of the first machine, a digital screen above the door in the far wall flickered, drawing his attention. It displayed the numeral 12, and a feminine voice announced, “Now seeing patient number twelve. Please proceed through the far door.” Hector turned back to the machine.

  He scanned the offerings—blood packs, nanite infusions much like the one Lemon had given him, stimulants, analgesics, anti-inflammatories, and, on the bottom row, a single product that might do what he needed: Yahtzee Aura Conditioner. He tapped the plastic in front of the bright yellow tube. “This one.”

  Lemon frowned at him and muttered something that the ears of his new skin couldn’t pick up. She pressed her ring against a little blinking circle on the machine. Meanwhile, Hector’s aura system pulsed, sending an update into his retinas:

  //Aura Pool: 5/5. Corpus vivum no longer critically damaged. Aura pathways scarred and partially obstructed. Recommend designating a refinement path.//

  Hector read the message and dismissed it. The refinement path was something he’d need to do, but it would wait until they got someplace he could concentrate—someplace he could rest.

  The machine rumbled, and the yellow tube emerged from the dispenser. Hector grabbed it, nodding to Lemon. “Thanks.”

  A small smile curled the corners of her lips, and she gestured to the exit. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll grab some food and go back to my place.”

  He nodded, slipping the tube into the pocket on the front of his hoodie, then followed her back toward the exit. Along the way, he paused, looking around at the fighters practicing on the far side of the building. “They have systems?” he asked, and Lemon turned to arch an eyebrow at him.

  “Now you decide to get talkative?”

  Hector shrugged.

  “Some of them do. Maybe all of them—I really don’t know. I’ve never been downstairs to watch the fights.” She shrugged. “Ready?” She stared for a moment, and when Hector didn’t respond, she turned and started walking.

  Hector had tuned her out because he’d had an idea: If the fighters in that filthy fighting pit had aura systems, there was a good chance they’d provide more aura potentia than that thug he’d just drained. Three lousy units. It was customary—at least it had been two hundred years ago—for the winner of a fight to claim some of the loser’s potentia. He’d probably only get drips and drabs, but it was something—a way to move toward his goals, even if only a little at a time.

  He needed to look into rifts, too. Did the royals still hoard the access? Didn’t they use to have lotteries for entry? Were most of them still on Earth? There’d been some on Mars, though, right? If he could just—

  Lemon interrupted his nebulous, disjointed thoughts: “You like noodles?”

  “Anything.”

  “Well, good. At least you’re not a picky eat—” She stopped short as a muscular, bald-headed bruiser wearing nothing but a pair of tight shorts and a bunch of bad tattoos stepped in front of her.

  “What’re you doing around here, doll?”

  Hector looked at Lemon, wondering if she knew the man. She didn’t look happy. Her blonde eyebrows drew together as she stepped back and lifted a hand. “I’m leaving.”

  The guy worked his fists in a display of moderately quick shadowboxing. He grinned, exposing some silvery metallic caps. “Don’t want to watch me work out? My girlfriend says it gets her juices flowing—”

  “Then ask your girlfriend. Excuse me.” Lemon tried to step past him, but the guy sidestepped, staying in front of her. The sidewalk beyond the door was busy; the pedestrian and train clamor echoed off the buildings, and the gym clamored with shouts, poorly filtered music, beeps, clangs, and grunts. In other words, nobody seemed to care about Lemon’s little struggle.

  “I said, I have to leave—” she began to say, but then Hector stepped forward, inserting himself between the bruiser and her. He gave her a nudge toward the doorway. She smiled briefly, almost shyly, and started walking. Meanwhile, the fighter wasn’t happy. He gave Hector a shove.

  “The hell, kid?”

  Hector scowled, unused to being called something so dismissive. He remembered the new skin, though, and tried not to scowl too heavily as he turned toward the fighter. “We’re leaving.”

  “Oh! That’s your girl? I got bad news, chum: she’s for sale.” He laughed like he’d said something particularly clever. Meanwhile, he grabbed Hector’s shoulder and tugged, pulling him back.

  If he hadn’t spent his life fighting, Hector might have stumbled off balance. He had, though, so he just moved with it, lowering his center of gravity, and snaking out his right hand, slapping the guy on the cheek. It wasn’t a heavy blow, but it wasn’t a feathery tap, either. It clearly stung and, at the same time, startled the hell out of the sweat-soaked fighter. His eyes fluttered in rapid blinks as he stumbled back. When he refocused on Hector, his look of surprise shifted into angry disdain.

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  Dammit, do I look so weak?

  “You fuckin’ dare?” The young fighter balled up his fists and stepped forward.

  Lemon looked at Hector with panicked eyes. “Leave him!” she hissed, trying to grab the man’s arm. “He’s injured, and he works for Grando!”

  “Get off me, bitch.” He casually threw her aside with his muscle-bound arm. Hector watched how he moved, studied how he carried himself—back rigid, arms stiff and tense, eyes bulging with fury. In other words, nothing to worry about.

  It was almost funny how Lemon, being accosted by the fighter, hadn’t drawn a single look. Now that a fight was brewing? People dropped what they were doing and began to gather, even the pedestrians outside. Hector lifted his fists, firm but loose, ready to shift to grappling hands. He bounced on the balls of his feet, weaving his arms up and down, nice and relaxed as the furious fighter closed.

  Someone said, “A hundred on Chavo.”

  If they’re betting in hundreds, then there’s more money floating around in here than I thought.

  The fighter—Chavo—lunged, launching a right-hand uppercut that would have flatlined Hector, considering his current skin. It was a devastating blow, but it was slow and predictable. Hector moved before Chavo hooked his fist upward toward his chin. It missed by a couple of centimeters, and Hector stepped to the side, slapping the back of Chavo’s head with a loud thwap!

  “You punk shit,” Chavo growled, whirling.

  “Gonna let that kid punk you, Chavs?” a big, dark-skinned man with a chrome arm asked, chuckling.

  “I’ll make you wish you never started shit!” Chavo growled, bunching the muscles in his legs, projecting his intent to charge.

  “You started it!” Lemon yelled, yanking a little canister out of her handbag.

  Hector could guess what it was: some kind of self-defense spray. “Don’t,” he grunted. Think I want that on the breeze? You’ll hit half the people out here if you hold that button for more than a second.

  Lemon looked at him, scowling, but she lowered her arm just as Chavo charged. Hector put a hand on his shoulder and pulled, shifting to the side and adding to the fighter’s already considerable momentum. Chavo crashed into the gathered pedestrians and almost fell through a gap onto the railway, but someone grabbed his arm, steadying him.

  Hector was a little surprised, pleasantly so, by his body’s performance. The nanites had done a good job repairing his stressed tissue, but he supposed the analgesics in the paste were still having an effect. Later on, he might be sore from this little display. The point was that the skin was young and unimproved, but its baseline genes weren’t half-bad. It was limber and strong, with a decent reach. In fact, it might have been better than the skin he’d been born with. Might be good enough to collect some blood debts.

  Chavo rushed him again, swinging a wild haymaker, bringing Hector’s thoughts back to the present. He stepped into the attack, slapped Chavo’s upraised elbow as he slipped under it, hooked his ankle, and gave him a shove. Chavo stumbled and fell again, and this time, another man, this one older and much harder, said, “You can’t win. Stay down.”

  He didn’t yell. He didn’t even raise his voice, but everyone standing around got quiet and looked at him, Hector included. They locked eyes, and Hector recognized a fellow wolf. Chavo clambered to his knees and looked up at the guy.

  “That’s bullshit, Demon.”

  Demon? Subtle. Hector watched as the older man glared down at Chavo.

  “You wanna get slapped around and look like a clown? Go ahead. You wanna learn something? Stand up and follow me.” Without another word, the hard-eyed man turned and pushed his way through the crowd, back into the gym side of the clinic. Chavo stood up and looked at Hector, glaring. Then he turned and followed Demon.

  The crowd started to disperse, and Hector glanced at Lemon. “Let’s go.”

  She glared at him. “Excuse me?”

  “Before—”

  “Yo, man, that was some quick moving. You train around here?”

  Hector stifled a groan, looking at the big guy with the chrome arm. Before that happens. “No.”

  “You really work for Grando?” another spectator asked.

  Hector shrugged, but Lemon stepped forward. “He does, and we need to get going.”

  Chrome arm leaned forward, face close to Hector’s. “Well, look me up if you come around, man. I’m Uncle Joe.”

  Hector looked at him but didn’t respond. Lemon started walking, pushing her way into the moving crowd, and he pursued her. When they’d reached the end of the block, she whirled on him. “Why’d you do that?”

  Hector scowled. “What?”

  “Start a fight!” Her voice rose incredulously.

  He inhaled through his nose, already tired of the conversation. “I didn’t.”

  Lemon glanced at the light, saw they had half a minute before they could cross the tracks, and pressed the issue. “I could have handled that.”

  “Thought he was smarter.”

  “Smarter?”

  Hector shrugged. “Should have backed off quicker.”

  “When you slapped him?”

  Hector nodded.

  “Well, maybe you’re right. Maybe it was a smarts issue, but you’re going to find a lot of that down here. Don’t go around slapping people! At least don’t do it while I’m responsible for you!” Hector didn’t respond, and she continued to glare. “You weren’t mad this time, not like you were at the guy on the bike.”

  Hector tilted his head at her, staring into her pale eyes. She was sharper than he’d thought. She was right; he hadn’t been angry; he’d been messing with the bald fighter. Just a kid. The thought almost made him laugh. He was a kid now, too. Still holding her gaze, he nodded at Lemon. “Right.”

  “You’re so strange.” She waited for the light to change, then led him across the street. After another block, they stopped at a noodle shop, where she ordered ramen, a side of fried rice, two egg rolls, and four cream puffs. While they waited, she looked at him and folded her arms, shifting so she could watch the pickup window while leaning against the wall. “I have beer at home.” Hector smiled, which made her smile. “There it is.”

  “What?”

  “The person inside there.” She poked his chest. “You don’t say much, so it’s hard to get a read. Why’d you get involved, anyway? Back there.” She jerked her chin toward the street, in the gym’s direction. “You didn’t think I could get rid of him?”

  Hector wondered what she wanted. Hadn’t they already covered that topic? Did she want him to say it was to protect her honor? Or did she want the truth? He said, “I wanted to leave.”

  She stared at him for several seconds, then she snorted, shaking her head. “You’re a piece of work. So, let me get this straight. You didn’t care that he was pushy with me. You just wanted to get moving. Right—got it.”

  Hector sighed. Should have lied.

  She was quiet for a minute, but she kept stealing glances at him. She kept taking little breaths, like she wanted to say something, but the words didn’t take shape. Eventually, the pressure to speak got to her, and she blurted, “I mean, you look young, but that expression—do you have to scowl?” She shrugged. “Anyway, let’s forget that Chavo business. At least you’re talking a little more. Maybe try using your words next time.”

  Hector tilted his head to the side as though the idea were novel, something he was contemplating for the first time. It made Lemon smile, and if he hadn’t been standing there in a stolen skin—if everyone he knew or cared about weren’t long-dead—and if he had something other than murderous revenge on his mind, he figured he might have smiled, too.

  The guy at the window called Lemon’s name, and she grabbed the two plastic sacks, handing one to Hector. “My place isn’t far.”