He stared at it blankly. Then he turned his head. Yep. It had been his remaining real arm. He tried to think of a joke to stop himself screaming. He failed.
“Shut up.”
Something cold and metallic hit him, and stars flashed in his eyeballs. He grunted, realised there was no pain. Turning his head felt weird, but he managed to do so and look at whatever had hit him. It was a synth - in a past life. It had so many exposed joints and extra limbs bolted to its frame that it resembled some kind of decayed insect. It watched him through a single azure lens set into a slab of a head, low between its broad shoulders.
“Not from the Free Machines, I take it,” grunted Conrad.
It hit him again.
“Shut up,” it repeated. Its voice was a bass proclamation.
Conrad shut up. The thing regarded him for a while.
“Your body parts,” it eventually said, “are worth a fortune. Your arm is a trillion Hub credits. Your dual-heart system is a delicacy for the Roth Dominion. The right people would shed the blood of a thousand for a few drops of your own.”
“Then why aren’t I being packed up and shipped out already?”
It hit him yet again.
“Because if you are alive, you are worth twice as much.”
It turned away briefly. Conrad tried to avert his gaze from his dangling arm - he didn’t want to know how it was hung up. Instead, he looked to his right and saw a thick canopy of iv bags and medical equipment. He started counting all the sedatives he recognised.
“People know I’m here,” He said.
“I don’t care.” Something glinted in the corner of Conrad’s eye, and he glanced over at the largest scalpel he’d ever seen, held in a rusted hand.
“You could ransom me back.” He was getting the feeling this might be a personal issue. “Ekspansa would pay billions to make sure I’m safe.”
The thing shrugged. “Perhaps. Arcturus works in mysterious ways.”
Conrad didn’t bother to correct it. “You know Wulf?”
“Why?” The blue searchlight eye whipped around and blinded him for a second. “Do you expect a rendition of my life story? This is not one of your cartoons.”
“Hey, they’re- “
It hit him across the face.
“Why do you keep doing that?”
“Your words are, unfortunately, worth nothing, which means I would prefer it if you were silent.” The scalpel came up. “However, your tongue has a potential application in several alchemical recipes. Maybe I should have cut that out.”
There wasn’t a good response to that, so Conrad didn’t bother. The thing grunted in satisfaction and turned away again, fingers stabbing at a very old portable communicator. The click of the keys echoed in the dark space.
“What’s your problem with me?”
The android went deathly still, and for a wild moment, Conrad hoped it had shut down.
“I was a butler droid for Godking Guillaume,” it said. “Then David Wulf shot me in the face. I presume he had a good reason.” It resumed typing. “You can work the rest out.”
Conrad stared, and realised that anyone coming for him was too slow.
“So, revenge then?” he tried.
“No.” the droid sighed. “I am incapable of making value judgements about anybody above a certain level of income. Unfortunately, a hardcoded predilection for… rich living, requires certain measures to be taken.” The scalpel came up again, this time with purpose.
“Woah, woah, wait!” Conrad wracked his brains. “What about, like, the Asimov Laws? Or the Restrictions? Don’t you have those?”
A sick laugh.
“David shot them out of me.”
The scalpel came down, and the wall exploded. A mass of shimmering black shot across his vision and took the scalpel— And his assailant— With it. There was a loud crash, and Conrad’s vision shot towards the opposite side of the room, where the slab-faced android sat in a heap, screen flickering as its eye stared at a dark figure standing before it. Conrad took them in— Form-fit vantablack armor with the faintest shine of karzantium film, like rainbows at an event horizon. The attacker reached up and removed their hood, revealing light brown hair spooled up into a tight bun. They wore small, flat hoops that pulsed with blue light.
“Plaisir,” they said to the droid, and held their arm out. The air shimmered, and a chunky pistol appeared in their hand, glimmering with a chrome-finish. A sharp, black lacquered nail caressed the trigger.
The synth laid down its scalpel. “Tout le plaisir était pour moi,” it said in response.
“Non, j’étais heureux de le faire.” The assailant laughed softly. “By the way,” they said, cocking the hammer, “it’s A’isha Arcturus Wulf. Respect my name and pronouns, you fuck.”
There was a loud bang, and the synth’s screen went dark. A’isha holstered her gun and spun on one foot to face Conrad
“Hola nephew! You uh, shit. You don’t have a bloody arm. Jesus.”
“Yeah, that’s, uh, that’s a problem.” Conrad pulled at his restraints. “Can I get untied?”
A’isha trotted over at a casual pace that made Conrad’s eye twitch. “You kids and your ropes.” There was a rustling and a soft snap, and Conrad felt the pressure on his ribcage dissipate as the ropes fell in his lap. “You know,” she said, twirling a karambit around her finger, “if you just dislocated all your joints and slithered out you would’ve been dandy, lad.”
“I, uh, forgot.” The sedatives were really kicking in now, and Conrad tottered to his feet. “Thanks, Auntie. I owe you, like, a million. A million and one favours. All of them.” He squinted. “Why did you name yourself after a Power Ranger?”
A’isha slapped him across the face, but lightly this time, like being gently flogged with bootlaces. “Wife of the Prophet, you little otaku git. I was a student of hers years ago; brilliant woman she was. God bless her. ‘Sides, used up a lotta good names on my kids this time around. Never should’ve named your cousin Zoe Fatima, C, really gave up some prime linguistic real estate on that move. I mean, I was wasted when I named my kids, sure, but when was I not back then?”
“Yeah, good point.” Conrad looked at his severed arm. “You were always, pretty wasted. Uh, speaking of wasting things, can we reuse my arm? ‘Cause, that’s a pretty clean cut he did.” Everything felt fuzzy. “I want it to go to a good home at least. Not the severed arm… pound… Shit, did he put noxatine in me? He did.”
Then, very gently, he keeled over and fell on his face.
A’isha sighed and looked at her watch. “Damn, I’m gonna be late for that lunch, aren’t I?” She rolled her eyes. “Eh, xe was late on me last time.” The merchant put two fingers against her ear and speed dialed a number on her neural mesh. It rang for a few moments.
“Good afternoon, Empress.”
“Batiĉé, Park. Hey uh, do you mind swinging by twenty third Orkoji Ave in a few minutes? I may have a, uh…” She looked down at Conrad, foaming slightly at the mouth. “Medical emergency.”
“Conrad, ma’am?”
“Bingo.”
The sound of Park suiting up echoed through the phone. “On my way, madame Empress.”
“Bonza, hun. See ya in a flash, hugs and kisses~”
A’isha hung up and shoved the phone back in her pocket. She glanced down again at Conrad, and then to the dead droid in the corner. She sniffed the air.
“Now where was that gyro truck again,” she mumbled to herself, and stepped casually back over the broken wall onto the street outside.
