Chapters (41)
- Title
- Indicia
- Steel Frame
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Acknowledgements
- About The Author
- 'Ironclads' by Adrian Tchaikovsky
- 'NineFox Gambit' by Yoon Ha Lee
- 'Grunt Life' by Weston Ochse
They work with calm detachment, break the damned lock on my chest and give me back my feet, all in just a few seconds. Seems they don’t know where the key is either. They leave me to rub the blister on my collarbone and to find my stride without the chain.
The next choice is harder than the first. In the end, they decide on Salt. I would too: he could do you just as much damage with his chains on as he could without, and he doesn’t give them any reason to change their minds. He leans so they can reach his throat, keeps every movement slow and obvious. When they’re done, they step aside to let him through; he hasn’t given them any trouble, and they don’t offer any themselves. They’re already sizing up Lear.
Salt finds me in Hail’s shadow, the both of us standing taller now without the weight around our necks. “Still alive?” he whispers.
“Enough to regret it. You?”
He nods back at Lear. “Enough to enjoy the show.”
NorCol armour crowds the chain, weapons free. No one is looking forward to this. If any one of us was going to make a play, the jackets figure it might be him. Somewhere else, something in it for him, and they’d be right. But he’s also not stupid; I’ve watched him counting heads, and half-heard the mumbled calculations. Every outcome is the same.
The marines call in a few extra hands, and move in circles so there’s always an open line of fire. A hair out of place, and they’ll light him up where he stands.
Lear keeps his peace, hands up, palms exposed. He holds perfectly still as they pat him down, stretches his greasy neck for the cutters, and even manages to smother that awful, everpresent smile.
The jackets watch him long enough to see him out of arm’s reach, and a second longer to be sure he isn’t coming back.
“Where to?” he asks, once he’s caught us up.
We look back for Hail, but she isn’t waiting.
WE FOLLOW HER back into the noise, but there isn’t space for questions. It’s enough work keeping stride and not tripping over ourselves.
A pair of marines swing out behind us, and keep a few paces clear. To begin with, I figure they want the distance. Nothing’s dangerous like a con with idle hands, so they spread themselves out, and give themselves time to react if we decide we’re going to make a break.