Chapter Text
Saku stopped to calm himself. He put a quivering hand to his heart and clutched at the fabric of his shirt, thoughts of death imposing. He felt no pulse but that of the corridor itself, a feral pounding like the bass drums of the busking bands, a beat deep and guttural, pounding, pounding.
His vision blurred. Was his own pulse there, buried beneath the din? He couldn’t tell. There was no distinction. The beat changed signature and crescendoed wildly, taking on the arrhythmic tempo of death.
Thump, thump, buddy, come on, steady up, I ain’t dead.
The light fixtures flickered and danced and left black voids in their intervals, blinking in and out of consciousness. Dust from collared pipes broke and fell, caught draft and rose and settled back atop. The pipes should have groaned under the abuse, but they knew nothing else and must have thought it natural to be abused.
I ain’t dead, I ain’t—
From a crest the beat came low and fluttered in weakness. Soon it died, as weak things do, and the corridor was lifeless again.
Saku loosed his grip but didn’t move his hand. Even as the last roar faded, the pounding lingered—strong and lively and perfectly rhythmic. His own heart had been tricked by the sensation of the Motorballers and their killing machines on track overhead. In the depths of the stadium they came at once, with all their brutality, to be heard, felt, imagined—but not seen. There was no shame in it, Saku told himself. Fear of the unseen above was, after all, the common fear in Iron City.
Saku braced himself for the next pass and when it came he flinched harder than before. He sucked in a quick breath and choked most of it out. His fingers brushed knife leather at the hip. Just a scrap rat in the tunnels...lotta good this’ll do me.
The dust fell and rose, again and again.
Technicians in jumpsuits came and went down the halls. Some carried boxes with pop-tops and pawed at slick foreheads, while others punched digits into datapads and spoke profanities to no one in particular. Saku interrogated each of them with a look as they went, wanting to know—needing to know—if they’d seen his weakness. Few bothered to return the gaze. Sublevel techs had better things to worry about. Saku knew it but the act was the act and the mask slipped for nothing. He donned his cheapest scowl and continued along, looking tough.
A metal palm between the shoulder blades shot sparks through him, drawing a wince. The blow was stiff enough to call for dukes had anyone else been on the other end.
“Oh, had to do it with the tin-can arm, huh?” Saku said, turning to his assailant.
Vela stalked two paces behind, fluttering the digits of her cyberarm in mockery. She wore a tight tank and blue jeans, no accessories, no adornments. Tied slack around her waist was a jacket she had removed in the heat of the stadium subterrane. She wore a faint look of disgust better than the tank but not better than the jeans; they were new enough and still had their color, only just beginning to fade.
“Pull yourself together,” she said. “The Factory isn’t blind here.”
“I’m together.”
“Another pass and you’ll be apart all over again. Stop touching your knife.”
She had keen eyes for his cowardice. Saku decked most people who made him feel small, but with her he just took it.
“C’mon, V, you know me,” Saku said. “A little jumpy is all. Nothing wrong with being a little jumpy in this business.”
“This business? This is Factory business. We don’t know this business. It’s a different game, nothing like the street jobs we’re used to.”
“Lay off a little.”
Vela kicked something and it skipped along down the corridor. “One more jump and I'll break your knees. I'm not in the mood, you got me? If our Factory man marks us as amateurs we'll go bust before we even get to the table.”
“We are amateurs,” Saku said sharply. “He’s gotta know it, and even if he doesn’t we ain’t smart enough to fool him.”
“Of course he knows it. That’s not what I meant.” She sidestepped to avoid a tech in full sprint. "I told you to stop touching your knife. You got pockets?”
“Lay off. I’ll stop.”
Saku put the knife out of mind. Vela went quiet for a bit then moved alongside him. “That was Juggernaut heading off the pack, yeah? Had to be one of those heavy rigs."
An absent question, like she wanted to get his mind somewhere else. He did, too, so he played along. "That little rumble? Juggernaut? I don't think so. Claymore or Sevenstar, one of them medium frames. Everyone’s running full kit tonight for final tune-ups so they must’ve fooled you." He paused. "Too slow to be Sevenstar. Claymore."
Vela struck him again, softer now, kept him moving. "Look at you, a Motorball expert all of a sudden! Wasn't that long ago I had to drag you to a match if Eiserne wasn’t rolling."
"Or bribe me with breakfast at The Aviary. You know, I kinda miss that, actually. The way they do up those blueberry pancakes? You’d think it was a delicacy straight from Zalem."
Zalem: the city in the sky, the unseen above. Speculation as to the wonders therein was a favorite Iron City pastime.
"Bribery spoils the taste,” Vela said. “Have you ever thought to go without? You might even treat me sometime if there’s a gentleman in there.” She jabbed a finger to his shoulder. “And you wonder why I’m the only girl that puts up with you."
"I don't ever remember wonderin' over it. Most chicks take one look at that shatterblade of yours and figure I ain't worth the trouble.” Saku eyed the weapon mounted on Vela’s cyberarm, a unique piece with a unique name. Even in its retracted configuration it formed a fearsome silhouette, like the rending blade of a cut-throat Motorballer. “If only they knew, right?”
“If only,” Vela replied with a dry drawl.
One of the techs gave Saku a disapproving look so he dropped the scowl a bit, feeling stupid. “My kind of gal ain’t interested in a street tough anyhow, especially not one tangled with the Factory.”
Vela tipped her head. “Should I be offended?” She made a noise like it meant nothing to her.
“Hey, I favor ‘em sweet, the kind that doesn't threaten to break my knees. That’s a rare breed. They avoid the complicated people and here I am complicating myself.”
Saku ran his palm along the concrete wall a ways. It didn’t ease him. A stray grain bit at the skin and he withdrew his hand, dabbing a blot of red to his pants.
“We’re finally on the up,” Vela said, “and you’re already wringing hands over the fall. If you’ve got something to say you better say it now.”
Saku passed by one of the atriums and saw men inside sitting round a table lit dim, passing no words. They turned to see the voyeur and he ceded the view.
“This is a strange sorta place. Everyone’s lookin’ and no one’s lookin’.” Saku rubbed his hand to ease a pain he couldn’t feel. “We’re out of our element, V.
“Right where we need to be.”
“We’ve got a thing going with the gray jobs. Money’s decent.” Vela faked a laugh but Saku kept going. “Get to be your own man, your own woman. No one tugs you around if you’re careful.” He waved the bitten hand. “This all’s machinery.”
“So we make machines of ourselves.”
Saku turned, wanting Vela to see every last bit of reticence on his face. She had small eyes, set deep and narrow as to give her a severe appearance. Small eyes, and sharp, too; always reading but rarely read. Saku looked for a flicker of humor in those difficult eyes and found some. Not much, but enough.
“Don’t even start,” he said. "You've got real big ideas for this Factory line we've been fed. Hey, fine, that's great, take your shot. I've got some big ideas of my own but I keep them in a small enough place to ditch them when I need to. We've got a thing going."
Vela raised her right arm and flexed metal digits. A stale bit of yellow fluorescent clung to the affixed shatterblade, turned sine wave at the edge, then atomized and dissipated.
She put the poison on. “Gray jobs are a dead end, Saku. You think because we’re smart I don’t mean that literally. You’re complacent. People like us die in stupid ways all the time. The Factory makes sure its stupid people only die smartly. Shine a few shoes and you get an office with a high view and Zalem close enough to touch, and once you can touch it it’s only a matter of time before you get yourself up over the edge. If you don’t want to see this as ambition you can see it as preservation. Spin it however you like. Not game to cross that bridge? Then you’re welcome to turn your heels. It’ll make me look awful on the cameras but I won’t force you. Our man's office is up ahead.”
She walked on, stride defiant, leaving Saku to the question. He didn’t have the iron for Factory work and he knew it. Not game by half. That was his answer with finality. The answer gave him some sense of resolution and then the machines passed again and pulsed and raged and crushed the resolution like it was written on wet newsprint. His answers meant nothing in the sunken halls of a Factory cathedral. He felt stupid again—stupid and cowardly. He followed, asking new questions of himself, setting them aside for a stronger man to reckon with.
Down a block of stairs, turned left and left again to a capillary tunnel, there it was: steel door, steel latch, office chamber beyond, a cold quarters, the type pit bosses purposed for meeting unsavory characters but only the cheap ones. Away from prying eyes, as the saying went, though there were rumors of eyes that could pry through anything.
Would they pry that night? Saku thought not. There would be nothing to see.