Chapter Text
Book One
They took away her beautiful clothes, dressed her in an old gray smock, and gave her wooden shoes.
THE SCREW THROUGH CHAN’S ANKLE HAD RUSTED, THE engraved cross marks worn to a mangled circle. His knuckles ached from forcing the screwdriver into the joint as he struggled to loosen the screw one gritting twist after another. By the time it was extracted far enough for him to wrench free with his prosthetic steel hand, the hairline threads had been stripped clean.
Tossing the screwdriver onto the table, Chan gripped his heel and yanked the foot from its socket. A spark singed his fingertips and he jerked away, leaving the foot to dangle from a tangle of red and yellow wires.
He slumped back with a relieved groan. A sense of release hovered at the end of those wires—freedom. Having loathed the too-small foot for six years, he swore to never put the piece of junk back on again. He just hoped Iko would be back soon with its replacement.
Chan was the only full-service mechanic at New Beijing’s weekly market. Without a sign, his booth hinted at his trade only by the shelves of stock android parts that crowded the walls. It was squeezed into a shady cove between a used netscreen dealer and a silk merchant, both of whom frequently complained about the tangy smell of metal and grease that came from Chan’s booth, even though it was usually disguised by the aroma of honey buns from the bakery across the square. Chan knew they really just didn’t like being next to him.
A stained tablecloth divided Chan from browsers as they shuffled past. The square was filled with shoppers and hawkers, children and noise. The bellows of men as they bargained with robotic shopkeepers, trying to talk the computers down from their desired profit margins. The hum of ID scanners and monotone voice receipts as money changed accounts. The netscreens that covered every building and filled the air with the chatter of advertisements, news reports, gossip.
Chan’s auditory interface dulled the noise into a static thrumming, but today one melody lingered above the rest that he couldn’t drown out. A ring of children were standing just outside his booth, trilling—“Ashes, ashes, we all fall down!”—and then laughing hysterically as they collapsed to the pavement.
A smile tugged at Chan’s lips. Not so much at the nursery rhyme, a phantom song about pestilence and death that had regained popularity in the past decade. The song itself made him squeamish. But he did love the glares from passersby as the giggling children fell over in their paths. The inconvenience of having to swarm around the writhing bodies stirred grumbles from the shoppers, and Chan adored the children for it.
“Sunto! Sunto!”
Chan’s amusement wilted. He spotted Chang Sacha, the baker, pushing through the crowd in her flour-coated apron. “Sunto, come here! I told you not to play so close to—”
Sacha met Chan’s gaze, knotted his lips, then grabbed her son by the arm and spun away. The boy whined, dragging his feet as Sacha ordered him to stay closer to their booth. Chan wrinkled his nose at the baker’s retreating back. The remaining children fled into the crowd, taking their bright laughter with them.
“It’s not like wires are contagious,” Chan muttered to his empty booth.
With a spine-popping stretch, he pulled his dirty fingers through his hair, a futile attempt to tame his wild curls, then grabbed his blackened work gloves. He covered his steel hand first, and though his right palm began to sweat immediately inside the thick material, he felt more comfortable with the gloves on, hiding the plating of his left hand. He stretched his fingers wide, working out the cramp that had formed at the fleshy base of his thumb from clenching the screwdriver, and squinted again into the city square. He spotted plenty of stocky white androids in the din, but none of them Iko.
Sighing, Chan bent over the toolbox beneath the worktable. After digging through the jumbled mess of screwdrivers and wrenches, he emerged with the fuse puller that had been long buried at the bottom. One by one, he disconnected the wires that still linked his foot and ankle, each spurting a tiny spark. He couldn’t feel them through the gloves, but his retina display helpfully informed him with blinking red text that he was losing connection to the limb.
With a yank of the last wire, his foot clattered to the concrete.
The difference was instant. For once in his life, he felt…weightless.
He made room for the discarded foot on the table, setting it up like a shrine amid the wrenches and lug nuts, before hunkering over his ankle again and cleaning the grime from the socket with an old rag.
THUD.
Chan jerked, his head smacking the underside of the table. He shoved back from the desk, his scowl landing first on a lifeless android that sat squat on his worktable and then on the man behind it. He was met with startled coffee-black eyes and brown hair that hung past his ears and lips that every girl in the country had admired a thousand times.
His scowl vanished.
His own surprise was short-lived, melting into an apology. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize anyone was back there.”
Chan barely heard him above the blankness in his mind. With his heartbeat gathering speed, his retina display scanned his features, so familiar from years spent watching him on the netscreens. He seemed taller in real life and a gray hooded sweatshirt was like none of the fine clothes he usually made appearances in, but still, it took only 2.6 seconds for Chan’s scanner to measure the points of his face and link his image to the net database. Another second and the display informed him of what he already knew; details scribbled across the bottom of his vision in a stream of green text.
PRINCE MINHO, CROWN PRINCE OF THE EASTERN COMMONWEALTH
ID #0082719057
BORN 25 OCT 108 T.E.
FF 88,987 MEDIA HITS, REVERSE CHRON
POSTED 14 AUG 126 T.E.:
A PRESS MEETING IS TO BE HOSTED BY CROWN PRINCE MINHO ON 15 AUG TO DISCUSS THE ONGOING LETUMOSIS RESEARCH AND POSSIBLE LEADS FOR AN ANTIDOTE—
Chan launched up from his chair, nearly toppling over when he forgot about his missing limb. Steadying himself with both hands on the table, he managed an awkward bow. The retina display sank out of sight.
“Your Highness,” he stammered, head lowered, glad that he couldn’t see his empty ankle behind the tablecloth.
The prince flinched and cast a glance over his shoulder before hunching toward him. “Maybe, um…”—he pulled his fingers across his lips—“on the Highness stuff?”
Wide-eyed, Chan forced a shaky nod. “Right. Of course. How—can I—are you—” He swallowed, the words sticking like bean paste to his tongue.
“I’m looking for a Bang Chan,” said the prince. “Is he around?”
Chan dared to lift one stabilizing hand from the table, using it to tug the hem of his glove higher on his wrist. Staring at the prince’s chest, he stammered, “I-I’m Bang Chan.”
His eyes followed his hand as he planted it on top of the android’s bulbous head.
“You’re Bang Chan?”
“Yes, Your High—” He bit down on his lip.
“The mechanic?”
He nodded. “How can I help you?”
Instead of answering, the prince bent down, craning his neck so that he had no choice but to meet his eyes, and dashed a grin at him. His heart winced.
The prince straightened, forcing his gaze to follow him.
“You’re not quite what I was expecting.”
“Well you’re hardly—what I—um.” Unable to hold his gaze, Chan reached for the android and pulled it to his side of the table. “What seems to be wrong with the android, Your Highness?”
The android looked like it had just stepped off the conveyor belt, but Chan could tell from the mock-feminine shape that it was an outdated model. The design was sleek, though, with a spherical head atop a pear-shaped body and a glossy white finish.
“I can’t get her to turn on,” said Prince Minho, watching as Chan examined the robot. “She was working fine one day, and the next, nothing.”
Chan turned the android around so its sensor light faced the prince. He was glad to have routine tasks for his hands and routine questions for his mouth—something to focus on so he wouldn’t get flustered and lose control of his brain’s net connection again. “Have you had problems with her before?”
“No. She gets a monthly checkup from the royal mechanics, and this is the first real problem she’s ever had.”
Leaning forward, Prince Minho picked up Chan’s small metal foot from the worktable, turning it curiously over in his palms. Chan tensed, watching as he peered into the wire-filled cavity, fiddled with the flexible joints of the toes. He used the too-long sleeve of his sweatshirt to polish off a smudge.
“Aren’t you hot?” Chan said, instantly regretting the question when his attention returned to him.
For the briefest moment, the prince almost looked embarrassed. “Dying,” he said, “but I’m trying to be inconspicuous.”
Chan considered telling him it wasn’t working but thought better of it. The lack of a throng of screaming girls surrounding his booth was probably evidence that it was working better than he suspected. Instead of looking like a royal heartthrob, he just looked crazy.
Clearing his throat, Chan refocused on the android. He found the nearly invisible latch and opened its back panel. “Why aren’t the royal mechanics fixing her?”
“They tried but couldn’t figure it out. Someone suggested I bring her to you.” He set the foot down and turned his attention to the shelves of old and battered parts—parts for androids, hovers, netscreens, portscreens. Parts for cyborgs. “They say you’re the best mechanic in New Beijing. I was expecting an old man.”
“Do they?” he murmured.
He wasn’t the first to voice surprise. Most of his customers couldn’t fathom how a barely mid-twenties man could be the best mechanic in the city, and he never broadcast the reason for his talent. The fewer people who knew he was a cyborg, the better. He was sure he’d go mad if all the market shopkeepers looked at him with the same disdain as Chang Sacha did.
He nudged some of the android’s wires aside with his pinkie. “Sometimes they just get worn out. Maybe it’s time to upgrade to a new model.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. She contains top-secret information. It’s a matter of national security that I retrieve it…before anyone else does.”
Fingers stalling, Chan glanced up at him.
Minho held his gaze a full three seconds before his lips twitched. “I’m just joking. Nainsi was my first android. It’s sentimental.”
An orange light flickered in the corner of Chan’s vision. His optobionics had picked up on something, though he didn’t know what—an extra swallow, a too-quick blink, a clenching of the prince’s jaw.
He was used to the little orange light. It came up all the time.
It meant that someone was lying.
“National security,” he said. “Funny.”
The prince listed his head, as if challenging him to contradict him. A strand of brown hair fell into his eyes. Chan looked away.
“Tutor8.6 model,” he said, reading the faintly lit panel inside the plastic cranium. The android was nearly twenty years old. Ancient for an android. “She looks to be in pristine condition.”
Raising his fist, he thunked the android hard on the side of its head, barely catching it before it toppled over onto the table. The prince jumped.
Chan set the android back on its treads and jabbed the power button but nothing happened. “You’d be surprised how often that works.”
The prince let out a single, awkward chuckle. “Are you sure you’re Bang Chan? The mechanic?”
“Chan! I’ve got it!” Iko wheeled out of the crowd and up to the worktable, her blue sensor flashing. Lifting one pronged hand, she slammed a brand-new steel-plated foot onto the desk, in the shadow of the prince’s android. “It’s a huge improvement over the old one, only lightly used, and the wiring looks compatible as is. Plus, I was able to get the dealer down to just 600 univs.”
Panic jolted through Chan. Still balancing on his human leg, he snatched the foot off the table and dropped it behind her. “Good work, Iko. Nguyen-ssi will be delighted to have a replacement foot for his escort-droid.”
Iko’s sensor dimmed. “Nguyen-ssi? I don’t compute.”
Smiling through locked teeth, Chan gestured at the prince. “Iko, please pay your respects to our customer.” He lowered her voice. “His Imperial Highness.”
Iko craned her head, aiming the round sensor up at the prince, who towered more than three feet above her. The light flared as her scanner recognized him. “Prince Minho,” she said, her metallic voice squeaking. “You are even more handsome in person.”
Chan’s stomach twisted in embarrassment, even as the prince laughed.
“That’s enough, Iko. Get in the booth.”
Iko obeyed, pushing aside the tablecloth and ducking under the table.
“You don’t see a personality like that every day,” said Prince Minho, leaning against the booth’s door frame as if he brought androids to the market all the time. “Did you program her yourself?”
“Believe it or not, she came that way. I suspect a programming error, which is probably why my stepmother got her so cheap.”
“I do not have a programming error!” said Iko from behind him.
Chan met the prince’s gaze, was caught momentarily dazzled by another easy laugh, and ducked his head back behind his android.
“So what do you think?” Prince Minho asked.
“I’ll need to run her diagnostics. It will take me a few days, maybe a week.” Tucking a curl behind one ear, Chan sat down, grateful to give his leg a rest while he examined the android’s innards. He knew he must be breaking some rule of etiquette, but the prince didn’t seem to mind as he tipped forward, watching his hands.
“Do you need payment up front?”
He held his left wrist toward her, embedded with his ID chip, but Chan waved a gloved hand at him. “No, thank you. It will be my honor.”
Prince Minho looked about to protest but then let his hand fall. “I don’t suppose there’s any hope of having her done before the festival?”
Chan shut the android’s panel. “I don’t think that will be a problem. But without knowing what’s wrong with her—”
“I know, I know.” He rocked back on his heels. “Just wishful thinking.”
“How will I contact you when she’s ready?”
“Send a comm to the palace. Or will you be here again next weekend? I could stop by then.”
“Oh, yes!” said Iko from the back of the booth. “We’re here every market day. You should come by again. That would be lovely.”
Chan flinched. “You don’t need to—”
“It’ll be my pleasure.” He dipped his head in polite farewell, simultaneously pulling the edges of the hood farther over his face. Chan returned the nod, knowing he should have stood and bowed, but not daring to test his balance a second time.
He waited until Prince Minho’s shadow had disappeared from the tabletop before surveying the square. The prince’s presence among the harried crowd seemed to have gone unnoticed. Chan let his muscles relax.
Iko rolled to her side, clasping her metal grippers over her chest. “Prince Minho! Check my fan, I think I’m overheating.”
Chan bent over and picked up his replacement foot, dusting it off on his cargo pants. He checked the plating, glad that he hadn’t dented it.
“Can you imagine Bambam’s expression when he hears about this?” said Iko.
“I can imagine a lot of high-pitched squealing.” Chan allowed one more wary scan of the crowd before the first tickle of giddiness stirred inside him. He couldn’t wait to tell Bambam. The prince himself! An abrupt laugh escaped him. It was uncanny. It was unbelievable. It was—
“Oh, dear.”
Chan’s smile fell. “What?”
Iko pointed at his forehead with a pronged finger. “You have a grease splotch.”
Chan jerked back and scrubbed at his brow. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m sure he hardly noticed.”
Chan dropped his hand. “What does it matter? Come on, help me put this on before any other royalty stops by.” He propped her ankle on the opposite knee and began connecting the color-coordinated wires, wondering if the prince had been fooled.
“Fits like a glove, doesn’t it?” Iko said, holding a handful of screws while Chan twisted them into the predrilled holes.
“It’s very nice, Iko, thank you. I just hope Adri doesn’t notice. She’d murder me if she knew I’d spent 600 univs on a foot.” He tightened the last screw and stretched out his leg, rolling his ankle forward, back, wiggling the toes. It was a little stiff, and the nerve sensors would need a few days to harmonize with the updated wiring, but at least he wouldn’t have to limp around off-kilter anymore.
“It’s perfect,” he said, pulling on his boot. He spotted his old foot held in Iko’s pincers. “You can throw that piece of junk awa—”
A scream filled Chan’s ears. He flinched, the sound peaking in his audio interface, and turned toward it. The market silenced. The children, who had switched to a game of hide-and-seek among the clustered booths, crept out from their hiding spots.
The scream had come from the baker, Chang Sacha. Baffled, Chan stood and climbed on top of his chair to peer over the crowd. He spotted Sacha in her booth, behind the glass case of sweet breads and pork buns, gawking at her outstretched hands.
Chan clamped a hand over his nose at the same moment realization skittered through the rest of the square.
“The plague!” someone yelled. “She has the plague!”
The street filled with panic. Mothers scooped up their children, masking their faces with desperate hands as they scrambled to get away from Sacha’s booth. Shopkeepers slammed shut their rolling doors.
Sunto screamed and rushed toward his mother, but she held her hands out to him. No, no, stay back. A neighboring shopkeeper grabbed the boy, tucking the child under his arm as he ran. Sacha yelled something after him, but the words were lost in the uproar.
Chan’s stomach churned. They couldn’t run or Iko would be trampled in the chaos. Holding his breath, he reached for the cord at the booth’s corner and yanked the metal door down its rail. Darkness cloaked them but for a single shard of daylight along the ground. The heat rose up from the concrete floor, stifling in the cramped space.
“Chan?” said Iko, worry in her robotic voice. He brightened her sensor, washing the booth in blue light.
“Don’t worry,” Chan said, hopping down from the chair and grabbing the grease-covered rag from the table. The screams were already fading, transforming the booth into its own empty universe. “She’s all the way across the square. We’re fine here.” But he slipped back toward the wall of shelves anyway, crouched down and covered his nose and mouth with the rag.
There they waited, Chan breathing as shallowly as possible, until they heard the sirens of the emergency hover come and take Sacha away.