Hugh Howey - Molly Fyde and the Blood of Billions

“No,” Cole said, shaking his head.

“Isn’t it delicious?” the man asked. He licked some of the rain off his lips and smiled.

It was the scout , the small man from the Naval office, one of the men they had fought during the floods on—

“Palan,” Cole said.

“That’s right.” The man released Cole and stepped backward. He twirled his sword through the air and looked up and down Cole’s body, as if determining where to end him. “I was demoted because of you,” he said. “High command gave me a few fleshy assignments before sending me to this contaminated outpost.” His arm flashed and Cole felt a sting on his right hand. His body shivered with another delayed flinch. He looked to his hand as he heard something plop into the water.

His index finger was gone. A drop of rain hit the open wound and sparked something electrical within—a jolt he could feel across his artificial flesh. Before he could react, or even scream, another swipe sent his middle finger up in the air, tumbling through the rain with a few drops of crimson, spiraling down to the muddy wet below.

“My career was taken from me, one little piece at a time, for the failures you caused.”

Cole stumbled back, out of the reach of the blade, but the man moved even faster, matching every step with one of his own.

“Now you’ll give it back as I take you apart, one little piece at a time.”

A blur and his ring finger was snicked off with robotic precision.

“Stop it!” Cole yelled. He fought the urge to cover the metal parts of himself with flesh and bone, but he knew that would be even worse. He held his reduced hand in front of himself and kept backing away, his mind racing with some scheme to go out heroically.

“I nearly fried a circuit when you showed up here. I begged to end you. I felt punished to have to merely watch and gather intel. But it seems fate is stronger than the chain of command, eh?”

A flick of the wrist, and Cole’s pinky popped into the air. His entire artificial hand was on fire from the myriad wounds. He splashed backward as the ground beneath him shook, sending small ripples radiating out across the surface of the rain-streaked water.

The small man maintained his range and smiled. Cole wanted to throw something through those teeth, wanted to unleash the full power of his new elbow and hurl something at the man, just as he’d thrown the wrench through the skimmer. But all he had was his goggles, and throwing them would mean he couldn’t even see his own demise coming. Besides, he wasn’t sure he could even hurl the goggles properly with only a thumb to grasp them—

“You can’t even put up a fight with your better parts, can you? Just imagine what I’m going to do to your flesh!”

The unseen blade whistled through the air, slicing the rain in half. Cole’s thumb came off with another bite of pain. It flew up like the others, flashes of inner metal spotted with dollops of subcutaneous blood. Cole watched the digit spin, end over end. As it began its descent, he found his hand turning over beneath it, palm flat, his body reflexively moving to catch a piece of himself.

It landed in silence, all of hyperspace standing still as Cole gazed at the eerie realism of the thumb, its nail still pink and edged with a line of deadened white. He looked up, saw the smile on the man’s face turn into a sneer, lips trembling with raw hate.

Cole leaned forward. He cupped the thumb in his palm, cradling it with what remained of his hand. He dropped his shoulder, brought his hand back as he twisted at the waist, then let fly with everything he had. Every ounce of fear and rage, every vibrating cell in him that wanted to kill in order to live, was unleashed. His hand seemed to boom through the very air, breaking the speed of sound, as it whizzed past. There was a crack as his elbow flew straight, then the sickening feel of his shoulder leaving its joint, his arm yanking forward where it didn’t belong.

Cole cried out in pain and fell forward, sinking down to his knees. He gripped his dislocated and ruined shoulder with one hand and ground his teeth together, fighting to not pass out. Ahead of him, he heard the sizzle of a passing blade, saw the water bubble as something fell through the rippled surface of hyperspace. Cole looked up as the small man sank to his own knees directly before him. His head came level to Cole’s, but the sneer was gone. Half the man’s head was gone. It had been opened up by the bullet-like thumb, a metallic sphere blossoming wide like a silver flower. Tufts of hair stuck to portions of it, and half a flapping face hung to one side.

The mysterious rain peppered the ruined head from behind, shooting up sparks of electricity as the mysterious figure sagged backward, disappearing into his dirt-colored, watery grave.

“How long have we been here?” Anlyn asked.

“Five hundred eighty two thousand four hundred and fifty two seconds,” Edison said. “Approximately.”

Anlyn sighed. “How long in a format I understand?”

“Three hundred seventy six thousand and forty two Hori berts.”

“In days , love.”

“Oh. A fraction less than six Earth days.”

Anlyn groaned. The three hour shifts had gradually whittled down to hour shifts, as both of them reached the limits of their endurance. They took turns passing out where they sat, the sleep seeming to zip by in an eyeblink while the waking hour stretched out forever. Anlyn had spent more time talking to herself the last week than they had spent talking to each other, and she felt half insane because of it. It wouldn’t have been so miserable if the fleet wasn’t constantly shuffling around the incoming ships and moving the queue toward the rift. If they could just engage the autopilot and get a half day of rest, she would be fine for another few days of flying.

The radio squawked with instructions, and she watched as Edison responded his receipt of the transmission. As bad as she had it, Edison’s task as translator made it much worse for him. Often, he woke up halfway through a transmission, and Anlyn had to phonetically repeat what he’d missed. They both operated in a dreamlike haze of sleep deprivation, made worse by the annoying snowstorm outside that never so much as wavered.

Anlyn shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. She couldn’t remember how many shifts ago she’d last showered, or even ate. The only break in her routine had been to sip water and use the bathroom. It was a Wadi’s diet, no different than her years with Albert, and she felt as chained to a cockpit now as she ever had back then.

“How close are we?” she asked.

“N minus forty two.”

“Forty one ships ahead of us,” she thought aloud. “They’ve been going through about one per hour or so?”

“Approximately.”

Anlyn groaned again. It had become as habitual to her as breathing. “Another two days.”

“Slightly less, so reduce your anxiety proportionately.”

Anlyn reached over and squeezed his arm. “Thanks for trying to make me feel better,” she mumbled, “but why don’t you get some sleep?”

Edison patted her hand. “This shift is mine, love,” he said in Drenard.

“Are you sure? I feel like I just woke up.”

“I’m positive.”

Anlyn sighed and leaned to the side, resting her head on his forearm.

“Wake me if you need me,” she whispered, as the blackness of sudden and immediate sleep began to swirl up around her.

“I need you,” Edison said softly.

“I’ll always need you.”

But she was already asleep.

The Wadi held on to her pair-bond’s neck as she ran through a strange canyon. Strange, but familiar. She tasted the air with her scent tongue and realized they had come this route before, but somehow the canyon had been brighter back then, and they had stopped at a watering shaft and refreshed themselves.