His compatible serials are on the rarer side. “One-five-nine-nine-two-four-eight-three to one-five-nine-nine-two-five-three-nine.” For the past week, ever since it came clear we might need to replace his skin, the numbers have run through my head at night like a lullaby. Jian shines his flashlight along the walls, illuminating the warehouse’s loading docks where trucks picked up boxes marked “nonviable fungibles”–faulty femurs and hearts and livers –from the time before biodroids were grown whole. “I gotta assist you, don’t I? Make sure you don’t come back white.” His smile breaks out shinybright in the glow of our flashlights.
What’s left at the repository should only matter to people like us.įor like the tenth time, Jian says, “I wish you wouldn’t come, Brielle.”įor like the eleventh time, I say, “I’m coming,” because of course as soon as he got this rusting stupid idea in his head, I said he wasn’t going by himself. One little apocalypse and they breed like rabbits.īut hopefully they’re somewhere else, looking for food.
Jian scans the darkened landscape, probably seeking a sturdy-enough tree I could hide in, except there’s nothing but wizened trunks and naked branches. He’s hoping he’ll get double-lucky and find a compatible stem-skin. He heard from someone who heard from someone that the old Smythson Cerebral place has a working rejuvpod, so that’s why we’re sneaking into an abandoned biodroid repository at two in the morning. His face is him, and Jian acts like tearing it off means nothing. It’s harder to accept than a pinkie finger would be, or even a whole arm. He says it like it’s no big deal, just a little epidermal clean-up, Oh ha ha how’d that peeling happen? But what he means is that he has to replace his rusting face.
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