6.7

  The android snaps one of her silver ribbons to the hulk of the substation pillar, the metal latching on with a sound like teeth biting into bone. And then she whips around, fast, too fast, the other ribbon trailing through the air in a long, arcing sweep, humming with electric heat, slicing so close to my face I swear I hear it sing. Along she glides, turning her hips and shoulders in snapping jerks, ribbon held taut between her fingers. Her eyes never leave mine, and in the pulsing red substation light, strange lines expel from her sides and pull her up over the pillar. I’m not fast enough to stop her. She might drop, might whip down with the weight of a guillotine—

  Whoosh.

  I dive, and the blade passes so close I feel the air break, but not my skin. It doesn’t cut. It skims, perfect and cold, too sharp for hesitation, too fast for correction. And I can’t reach her. I can’t even think of reaching her.

  She drops from the pillar like she never belonged to gravity in the first place. One foot lands, then the other, out of sync. Her posture resets with every step. Head locked forward, shoulders snapping up, joints clicking into place like her body is following instructions issued from somewhere deep. She doesn’t breathe. She doesn’t look around. She just moves. Forward. Towards me.

  I activate my spoofer, trying to draw in the entire substation, trying to calculate a possible solution. And I shift through the different signatures available. Although most of the electrics have been fried, some circuits are certainly operational. I know because otherwise the other pods would have woken up too, and there wouldn’t be an eerie, shifting red glow shadowing across this place. The central pillar, while inactive for now, can be turned on, and while I cannot directly short-circuit the android, I might just be able to.... Yes, I can.

  I use ‘Manual Override’ on the pillar, turning it ‘On’, and it flashes, weakly at first, slowly churning up with power like an old generator coughing itself awake during a cold winter. Then the sound smoothens out, and the skin of its outer shell hums with thin blue lines.

  I wait. The android approaches me again. One step, two steps, three steps, four, and another swing, the ribbon swatting hard. I duck underneath and cut up with the mantisblade, but the ribbon wraps around the edge, yanks me forward, and—

  I use the force of the swing to guide myself free, ending up behind her. Before she can turn, I get a couple steps in and jolt forward with the blade, a free shot, but her hands snap back, and thin filaments spawn from the fingertips, the same filaments I’d seen those dancers use to catch each other mid-sway, and this time they’re catching my blade and keeping my elbow extended.

  The android turns her head completely without moving her body, tilting on the rotator. A filament lashes out and sticks me in the shoulder, then the rib, and soon they all begin to puncture holes. I scream through my teeth, disengage my mantisblade, and the sudden retraction pulls the cords into my forearm. The pain is blinding, electric. But there’s weight behind it, and I use it. I swing hard, my whole body pulling through the arc, the android at the end of it flailing, dragged, thrown. She hits the floor and slides, arms too light to stop her, legs folding in angles no living thing could bear. She catches herself with those silver lines, threading back up like a spider trying to hold its place in a storm, right on the pillar.

  Now’s my chance.

  I activate ‘Short-circuit’, and a column of white light bursts out of the pillar’s spine, electricity tearing free from its guts, leaping to the metal around it, through the android's threads. The surge catches her mid-movement, one leg raised, one arm in mid-snap. Her body locks. Stutters. Then convulses. The threads whip out in every direction, snapping loose like cables giving up under strain.

  It doesn’t last long, because soon the pillar stops sparking, and the android.... She’s still moving.

  Shit.

  Not only that, but her body jitters, seizing hard enough to rattle the floor beneath her. And then it comes pouring out: the Elydrine, spraying wildly, no longer weeping but gushing, and for the first time, I see the source clearly: the liquid is coming from her neck, the nape blown open, and lodged inside is a fractured canister, the octagonal seal bent and hissing like it wants to blow.

  Wasting no time, I rush in, legs burning, blade primed, heart thudding so loud I can barely hear the sparks. I take a step, one, then two, and raise my mantisblade for the final strike when the android snaps her head towards me, so fast it’s like she was waiting the whole time. She jerks back using those silver filaments, dragging herself clear with impossible speed, and the sudden shift throws me off balance. I slip. My boot catches the edge of the platform and I go low, but I jam the blade between two of the pillar’s holding bars and yank myself upright before I fall.

  She doesn’t give me time to breathe. The ribbon comes hurling through the air, a flash of silver, and I twist sideways just in time to see it carve through a support bar behind me, splitting the steel like wet paper. The metal hisses, glowing at the seam where it burned through. It’s sharp, too sharp.

  We lock eyes for a moment, circling. She’s still jittering, bad, convulsing in short bursts, stuttering in and out of frame like the world can’t decide if she belongs here anymore.

  Then she swings again. Not for my chest, not for the obvious opening, but for my right side. The side where my arm used to be. She’s learning. But I don’t take the bait. I pull back just as the ribbon slices through the space I once occupied, the hum of it grazing past my jaw. One swing. Then another. Then another. And I don’t fight; I guide. Each dodge brings her closer. Each miss pulls her in. Step by step, I’m leading her back towards the pillar.

  Come on. Closer now. Feel the rhythm. Feel the sway.

  I keep moving, guiding her in with every step, every feint, every dodge, as if I’m reeling in something mean and sharp from the deep. And eventually, I get her there. Right where I want her. She goes in for the swing—ribbons crackling, slicing the air—and I duck, drop low, ready for it, bracing for the hiss of metal sinking into steel, for that last perfect moment where I activate ‘Short-circuit’ and fry her to ash. But it doesn’t come.

  Instead, she stops.

  Just like that. Mid-motion. One leg planted. One ribbon raised. Frozen. Like a machine between orders, suspended in some awful half-thought. Her head tilts, not with confusion, but with something colder. She’s not lost. She’s thinking.

  And suddenly I know.

  She saw it.

  She saw the plan coming.

  And for the first time, she speaks, or tries to. Her jaw twitches as static crackles through the vocal unit beneath her shimmering owl mask.

  “Re… reh… reh… recalib—”

  Her voice fractures halfway through, sputters into a mess of crushed syllables and dead air, like a tape winding off its reel, like language trying to force itself out of something no longer meant to feel. Then her head jerks once: hard, like a circuit snapping back into place, and the ribbon tightens in her fist.

  Then, another voice: “Got the code!”

  The android doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t pause. She just turns, smooth as a curtain drawn by unseen hands, facing the black-and-yellow catwalk above where Dance stands, still clutching the panel, irises gold and spun. And in that moment, I know: she’s recalibrated alright. Not just adapting. Not just learning. She’s already figured it out. The whole damn plan. Every step. Every move. It’s not instinct. It’s not programming. It’s something worse, like she’s wired into something bigger. Something watching. Something that sees not just what we’re doing, but what we mean to do. As if she’s being guided by a ghost with a god’s eyes.

  She takes one step, then another. Off-balance, shuddering, but never slowing. One shoulder rising, the other dropping hard, each motion hitting like a hammer swung just enough to keep her upright. And she’s locked onto him. Locked onto Dance.

  “Aw shit, mate,” he mutters, voice low, slow; the words are sneaking out of his mouth before panic can catch them.

  Then she moves. Fast. Faster than before. The filaments whip out and hook the floor, dragging her forward in a blur, and then again, this time up, high, straight over the railing of the catwalk. She drops. Hard. Ribbon raised. Dance bolts, boots clanging as he throws himself off the side, stumbling down the steps, cursing under his breath—

  “Shit shit shit shit—”

  And the android tears along the ceiling, arms stretched wide, those spider-thread filaments snapping between beams and girders as she swings wild and fast, tracking him like heat, like hunger. Sparks drop in her wake. Her body spasms with each lurch, and below her, Dance is barely holding on, one arm clutched tight around his little handheld device, the other flailing for balance as he scrambles, head ducked low, trying not to get opened up from the spine down.

  “Get her the fuck off me, cunt!” he screams, voice cracking, real fear there now, not the playful kind.

  I don’t think. I just move.

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  I sprint across the substation floor, boots slipping on coolant and shattered glass, yelling at her, yelling anything, just trying to grab her attention, pull her away from him, but she doesn’t break focus. I lunge when she drops low from the ceiling, blade out, ready to drive it through whatever soft point she might have left, but she twists before I get close, swings one of those ribbons wide, and the air splits with a low, heavy whoosh. I throw myself back, stumble, catch myself, and she’s already gone, already moving, already chasing. Dance bolts beneath another catwalk, holding his device like it's his only lifeline, and she follows without hesitation, without thought, without mercy. Her arms stretch, the ribbons catch on beams and wires and ceiling struts, and she tears through the air after him, snapping down with every arc, metal shrieking behind her as her weight pulls down whatever she touches. She doesn't slow, doesn't miss, doesn't care. Each move she makes leaves wreckage behind: panels ripped from the walls, lights torn out, sparks raining down like bright knives. She’s destroying everything in her path, not with rage but with purpose, like she was built for this, like there’s nothing in the world but the target she’s locked on to and the path she’s carving to get to him.

  Feel the rhythm. Feel the sway.

  This can work, but only if she gets stuck, only if something holds her for even a second. I might be able to hit her with another short-circuit, maybe through a different node, something farther from the pillar, something she won’t expect. But she’s too fast now, reckless, barely holding herself together. The coolant’s really pouring, and the more that spills, the less stable she gets. Her movements are wrong, and it’s getting worse with every second. She won’t stop. She’s locked onto him like her code is looping, stuck in a directive that won’t let go, and I can’t get close enough to break it. If I try, she’ll see me, twist those ribbons, and I won’t get a warning before one of them cuts through me. Not a slice. Not a scratch. Just gone. Those filaments don’t strike; they bloom out of her like they’ve got minds of their own, thin and fast and merciless, like she doesn’t need to think to kill. All she has to do is move. And she won’t stop moving.

  Feel the rhythm. Feel the sway.

  Dance ducks under the far end of the catwalk, scrambling, but she comes down hard, fast, dragging those ribbons with her, and when they hit the grates, they don’t just scrape; they rip. Metal screeches open, pieces of the walkway pulled apart like paper, and Dance stumbles, tries to backpedal, but one of the threads snakes low and snaps against his ankle. He goes down hard, arms flailing, legs kicked out from under him, and the little rectangular device slips from his hand mid-fall. It skids once, then drops between the busted grates, vanishing into the mess of wiring below.

  And the lights overhead continue to pulse red, red, red.

  Dance screams and kicks back as the android clamps down to his level, steps towards him, and swings a ribbon right for his skull—

  An arm lashes out and catches the ribbon mid-arc, not with strength but with timing, locking it in place by the segmented band.

  My arm.

  And just like that, her head snaps towards me.

  Finally, oh finally, I have her attention.

  “Re—re—re—calib—re-re-re-re-re—rrrrrrr—”

  Her voice breaks into static, and then the filaments bury into me—shoulder, gut, side—over and over, sharp and deep and cold, not cutting but stabbing, penetrating like surgical tools made for pain.

  “What are you doing?” Dance yells, but his voice barely reaches me. It’s far, broken, a line across a storm.

  I scream. I choke on it. Each puncture sends a jolt through my nerves like someone’s trying to play me like an instrument that doesn’t want to sing. The android drives the ribbons into the floor, locking them down, and lifts me up just slightly, just enough to hang: not high, not far, trapped. Like I’m being prepped, wrapped, saved for later.

  Then the voice comes. Cold. Clinical. Calm.

  “Vitals low…”

  She raises her back ribbon, slow and steady, positioning it above me like she means to drive it straight through my chest. Her head tilts once, sharp and final. Her glowing white eyes meet mine.

  “… activating emergency protocols.”

  Then it hits.

  The surge.

  Electricity floods me from the base of my spine outward, flooding every inch of skin, every muscle, every nerve, and it doesn’t stop. It pours out of me in all directions, and the filaments stuck in my body light up white-hot, carrying the charge straight back into her.

  She jerks. Spasms. Twitches violently, and the eyes, those damned eyes: they shatter.

  Her limbs start to fold in on themselves, collapsing in short, ragged snaps, and her voice lets out one final burst of garbled code—

  “Re—re—re—re—”

  —and then nothing.

  Smoke. Crackle. Collapse.

  She drops.

  Dead.

  And I drop, too. Hard, heavy, like every muscle’s locked in rebellion. Can’t breathe right. Can’t even lift my arm. The air’s thick with smoke and that sharp, chemical tang of spent aether, like someone burned a hole in the world and left the stink behind. It clings to everything, to the roof of my mouth, to the sweat on my skin. I try to move, try to sit up, try to push off the floor with one hand and lift my leg with the other, but the pain is too much, too deep, too spread out. Every time I shift, I slide right back on my ass, groaning like a sick dog. Dance approaches me, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out an MX-inhaler. He brings it down to my mouth and gives me a couple puffs. The lemony air turns to liquid and flows down my throat, and I’m hit with that sudden surge of adrenaline while the painkiller gets to work. I look down at my ragged electrician overalls and see nanobots threading bluely along the wounds, but this time my vitals aren’t stabilising; the android must have cut real deep.

  Dance hooks an arm under mine, lifts me one shaky step at a time. “You’re alright, mate. Easy now.”

  I groan again, my voice raw. “The code—where is it?”

  He nods towards the grated floor, to the spot where the device fell through. “Down there. Don’t stress. I’ll crack it again—”

  I reach down, fingers shaking, and grip the edge of the rung. Yank. The metal snaps free with a sharp crack and the whole outer edge of the grate buckles, gives.

  Dance whistles low. “Well, you’re fuckin’ strong, aren’tcha?”

  “I’m not,” I mutter, breath catching. “I’m in pain and—” I suck in air like it might help. “My vitals are dropping. I need a doc.”

  Another breath. Sharper this time.

  Another drop of blood.

  Not much time left.

  Dance drops to one knee, grunting as he digs through the mess of wire and broken grating, finds the device, and pulls it free with a quick flick of his wrist. He doesn’t hesitate, just loops an arm around me and half-drags, half-walks me towards the substation doors. I bring up the spoofer interface again, the screen swimming in my vision, pulsing red at the edges. I hit ‘Manual Override’ to show the encryption.

  Dance leans close, breathing hard. “F3… H5… F3… F3… D1…” he reads, keeping his words slow.

  But my knees give out again. A spike of agony lances through my ribs, and I cry.

  “Come on,” Dance says, catching me. “Stay with me, mate. We’re almost there.”

  Then—

  “Hey!”

  A voice. Male. Muffled through steel. Familiar.

  Dance looks up. “Fuck me, mate,” he mutters, sighing like he just got slapped by the universe. He eases me down to the floor, gentle this time, then pockets the device and rolls up his right sleeve.

  The substation doors let out a low hydraulic hiss, the locks unlatching with a sequence of dull clunks, and begin to slide open inch by inch.

  Dance lifts his right forearm. A metal panel retracts from his wrist, and out pops a triangular housing. Three short syringes click forward in perfect alignment, each one tipped in silver, primed and pointed like a loaded cannon.

  When the doors part fully, three figures are waiting on the other side, one in grey overalls nearly identical to ours, the words OneGrid Services stitched across his chest in clean white thread, and flanking him, the two security guards from the performance hall. They look tired. Unimpressed. They don’t spot Dance right away, only me, slumped on the floor, backlit by smoke and pod lights.

  Dance clenches his fist. The mechanism on his wrist hisses, and three syringes shoot out, dead-on, fast and sharp, burying themselves into the soft spots of each man’s neck with barely a sound. The guards reach for their pistols, get them halfway out, but it’s already too late. The serum works fast. They stiffen, stumble, then crumple like strings got cut, hitting the floor in a heap. Out cold. No blood. No screams. Just the sound of three bodies dropping in sequence and the soft hum of Dance resetting his sleeve.

  “What a load of shit this is,” Dance mutters, hauling me off the floor with a grunt. “Fuckin’ death machine in a bloody substation, of all places.” He glances down, grabs one of the pistols off the floor, fingers curling around the grip.

  “Don’t,” I rasp, chest hitching with each breath. “They—have—trackers.”

  He pauses, nods once, then tosses it aside. “Righty-o.” He taps his temple, steadying me with one arm as we limp through the tunnel. After a second, he speaks again. “Finally. Big man, you hear me?”

  My neural display blinks to life, the cloud room coming in at the edge of my vision. I tap in, but I don’t speak. Can’t reach the mute toggle, not with Dance practically carrying me.

  “Where are you guys?” Fingers asks.

  “Bit of a hiccup,” Dance replies. “Ol’ Mono needs a doc. Big man, can you park up outside the theatre, near the performance hall alleyway, other side? We’re exiting out that way, mate.”

  “Why?” I manage, voice barely above a whisper.

  He doesn’t answer. Just takes a hard right, guiding us down a narrower passage that stinks of old oil and power converter heat. At the far end, another elevator waits, a busted camera blinking dead above the door.

  “Yer. On it,” comes Vander’s voice through the link. “More security headed yer way on the east wing, so good choice.”

  “Had a feelin’,” Dance mutters, already punching the elevator panel.

  We reach it, step inside, and the doors slide shut. He hits the button for the upper level. I slide down the wall, every muscle screaming, breath uneven. The lights above hum loud, too loud, and the lift starts to rise.

  One floor closer to the surface.

  One floor closer to out.

  When we reach the top and the doors open, it’s dark, very dark, but just enough light bleeds in from somewhere far off to sketch the bare bones of the place in shadow. What’s left of the theatre stretches out around us, long corridors padded in red carpet dulled to rust by age, wallpaper peeling like old paint left to sweat in the heat, and dust thick in the air, swirling with every slow, uneven step we take. Dance steadies me forward without a word, and we move deeper, past broken wall sconces, shattered light fixtures, the smell of mold and mildew creeping through velvet rot. We pass a row of cracked display cases, old show posters inside warped by moisture, the faces of performers half-melted from behind the glass. Farther still, the hallway turns, and Dance pulls me towards the back corner of the building, where the walls narrow, and the carpet ends in torn seams. Finally, he stops in front of a boarded-up window, the wooden planks old but at least loose, light pushing through the cracks like fingers trying to pry the place open. He props me gently against the wall, rolls his shoulder, and starts working one of the boards free.

  Snap. One board. Snap. Another. Then he helps me up, my legs all rubber and fire, and takes my arm in his hand like he’s holding something fragile. “Clench a fist,” he says.

  I do it without thinking, without knowing, just tired enough to obey. The mantisblade bursts from my forearm and punches through the window with a crunch of old glass and dust.

  “Thankie doo, mate,” Dance mutters, brushing aside the shards with his sleeve. He pulls me forward, careful, makes sure the edges are cleared, then guides me through the narrow opening, one step at a time, until the air changes: cooler, sharper, outside air.

  I blink. We’re in an alleyway. Not the one next to The Ghost in Satin. The other side. I can’t tell what building it belongs to. Just red-brick, stained and forgotten, the kind that’s seen a hundred years and would rather see none.

  We move. Or he moves me. My feet are trying, but they’re not really there anymore. The world starts to tilt. At the end of the alley, I see it: Raze’s car, doors open, lights on. Just sitting there like a promise I’m not sure I can keep. I try to say something, anything, but my mouth won’t work. My knees go. Dance catches me, but even he’s struggling now, half-carrying, half-dragging.

  The car’s just a few feet away.

  The air buzzes in my ears. My chest gets tight. The light from the alley narrows into a tunnel.

  And then the ground lifts up and swallows me whole.

  Black.