Flesh Tinker - II
The Flesh Tinker and the Fashion Goddess
Ray Aldridge
Hidden in the dead weapons pod, Madeira Ezolico watched her enemy. Her hand covered her mouth, pressing against the scars, holding in rage.
She rocked back and forth, back and forth.
Tomov Trevant stood with the other guards on the sunny landing stage, tall, elegant, self-assured. Glittering pale blond hair framed his smooth patrician face. His crimson uniform was perfect, his orange eyes languid.
Tomov had given her a thousand wounds, beginning the day her mother first took her to the creche.
Even then Tomov had been beautiful, a rosy blonde child with chiseled features. He had looked at Madeira, crowed with infant glee. “Look, isn’t it ugly?” And clapped his little hands together, smiling, eyes twinkling with childish malice. The oceancity of Arcimor was no kind place for a homely child — Arcimor, where the people lived and died for beauty — Arcimor, where the most beautiful one reigned for a season as the Fashion God.
Those chubby fists had grown into heavy clubs, and he had used them to make her uglier still. She touched her scars again, remembering, and her hate rose up so strongly that she felt light-headed.
Madeira shook her head, forcing away painful memories.
Her hatred seemed to glance off Tomov, as if the hard gloss of his beauty armored him against her curses. With all her will, she wished him dead; still he lived, still he smiled. Madeira’s curses lost a little force, though no depth. She watched with half-shut eyes.
An ancient starboat came humming down out of the empty green sky. Tomov sprang alertly back as its skids thumped the platform, avoiding death by a meter. Madeira hissed with frustration; so close!
The starboat’s hatch popped open, a gangway descended, a carpet unrolled like a furry red tongue. A short burst of brassy music blared out, cut off in mid-phrase.
A remarkable person debarked.
He walked down the carpet with a fine confident stride, the tallest, strangest man Madeira had ever seen, and the oldest. He dressed in a flamboyantly antique style; a gold cape with buttercup slashes, a suit of apricot flamesilk, high boots of supple silvery metal. A tangled white mane streamed back from an impossibly wrinkled face. His magenta eyes glowed. His smiling mouth was red and youthful.
The stranger bore down on Tomov, arms wide in greeting.
Tomov drew his weapon. “Stop! Who are you, what do you want in Arcimor?” Tomov’s voice shook.
The stranger stopped, strong violent emotions shifting across his face. Tomov took a step backward, and brought up his weapon. The stranger’s face purpled with rage, the mouth worked silently, the long hands crooked into talons.
Tomov made a squeaking sound and fired. The pale beam shattered into futile orange sparks against the Shield the stranger wore, lifting his white mane into a great halo of snaking tendrils.
“Can it be?” the stranger shouted, raising his arms dramatically, as if supplicating cruel gods. “Arcimor knows me no more? Me, the Flesh Tinker, notorious on a thousand worlds?” The voice boomed across the platform, deep, cold, potent.
Tomov held his weapon awkwardly, as if he could not bring himself to admit its uselessness. The guards rushed forward to seize the Flesh Tinker. They fell back howling, shaking their hands as though flinging off sticky fire, except for Tomov, who had trailed behind. A brief stalemate ensued.
“Croakery!” the Flesh Tinker shouted. “I’ll go with you quietly. This is undignified, and if I have nothing else left, I have my dignity!” fire laughed, a wild cackle, and his eyes were whirling fire.
The Flesh Tinker strolled toward the dropshaft, and the guards trotted to keep up. As they passed Madeira’s hiding place, Tomov glanced in her direction, and she rejoiced to see his perfect features clotted with frustration.
Madeira followed through the empty corridors, trailing a careful distance behind.
The Flesh Tinker led his escort in the direction of the Grand Hallroom, where formerly dignitaries were greeted. Madeira raced ahead, arriving in time to find a hiding place behind a column.
The Flesh Tinker strolled to the center of the hall. The net fell silently.
The weight of it should have flattened the old man, but he thrust the folds from his head, roaring wordlessly, gripping the net in huge knotty hands. It took a dozen guards to pull him off his feet, but finally he was wrapped up tight as a ball of string.
Tomov swaggered forward and bent close to the Flesh Tinker. The Flesh Tinker whispered something. Tomov straightened abruptly, his face white as paper. They moved away through the pillars, carrying the Flesh Tinker like a rolled-up carpet.
Madeira wandered out to the terrace and looked off to the north, where Arcimor’s sister oceancity Mindamon swam, a great featureless bulk against the horizon. She leaned out and looked down at the sea a hundred meters below. The last of the previous night’s suicides bumped along Arcimor’s smooth white flank, a gaudy foam of bright garments, slack limbs, eyeless faces. The tide had taken them away at dawn; the warm breeze had returned them. People leaned from waterline ports, using barbed poles to collect the dead.
Her lover would not be among the workers; Binter waited for her back in their cubicle. She should return to the safety of the undercorridors. But on the way to the dropshaft, she passed the Pit of Desumpt, and heard the Flesh Tinker cursing from its depths.
Tomov had not bothered to post a guard, relying on the high glassy sides of the Pit to contain his prisoner.
She pushed the button that lowered the maintenance ladder.
The Flesh Tinker swarmed up the ladder and bounded toward her, smiling joyfully, reaching for her with hands like hooks. She darted away, screeching, but he caught her in an instant.
“Ah,” he whispered, looking into her face, “Ah... You’re not one of them.” She could not look away from his face. Emotion washed across that eroded landscape; a pulse of white-hot rage, a pulse of bewilderment, a pulse of mad humor, a pulse of insupportable weariness.
Pity appeared, was instantly gone. “No,” he said, “you’re not one of them.”
She turned away, pulling the cowl forward to hide her face.
“Come to my boat, later,” the Flesh Tinker said. “I’ll reward you.” He left, twirling his cape.
Binter stood in the darkest corner of the refurbished storeroom she shared with him. “I’m home,” she said, and went to the bed. He came slowly into the light. He smiled slightly, the expression filtered strangely through the net of scar tissue covering his face. He might once have been a handsome man. He was still tall, and he was powerful from his work at the waterline. Before flaying his face and giving him to the sea, the Mindamoni had taken his tongue; a common punishment on dark Mindamon. Arcimor’s undercorridors were full of faceless silent men and women. They did the city’s dirtiest labor.
Binter had another scar in his side where the barbs had taken him. The man who had hooked him alive from the sea was Binter’s oldest friend.
Binter carried a vocoder strapped to his shoulder. His fingers twitched at the keyboard. “You’re late. I was worried.” The machine’s voice was slow, flat, with a buzzing undertone.
“A pleasant thing happened.”
He opened his eyes wider, indicating interest. He had few expressions left to him, but she was adept at reading them. “Your enemy is dead?” he asked.
“No. But he’s embarrassed, at least.” She told Binter about the Flesh Tinker, dwelling on Tomov’s imminent chagrin.
Binter stirred uncomfortably. After a time she rose and went to him. She patted his heavy shoulder, reassuringly. “I’m sorry I worried you, Binter.”
His eyes were the only undamaged part of his face, large and dark and liquid. “I’m afraid when you go to the upper corridors. Earlybird gangs have killed a hundred underpeople this month; you know this.”
“I’ll be more careful.”
When they went to bed, Binter made her forget her scars.
Only two guards watched the starboat.
How would she get inside? She pictured herself pounding on the Flesh Tinker’s armored hatch while the guards cut her to pieces.
The guards stood together, talking in low voices, facing away. She saw the hatch split open a crack. The Flesh Tinker motioned urgently at her. She ran.
She was close to the hatch when the guards saw her. One jerked out his weapon and fired as she tumbled into the lock. The Flesh Tinker stepped into the opening, snarling. The beam flared from his Shield, sparking so brightly that Madeira covered her eyes; then the hatch slammed shut. The Flesh Tinker’s face was placid when he turned to her; he looked a hundred years younger. “Rascals,” he said.
In the boat, the light was harsh and blue.
The Flesh Tinker led her through a narrow passageway. To either side, open hatchways revealed the shadowy shapes of machinery. Other cabins glowed with the twinkle of telltales, the pulsing light of antique video screens. At the forward end of the passageway he ushered her into a large lounge.
Lifelike statues rose from the floor, thrust from the walls, tumbled through the ceiling. Every human subspecies seemed represented; alien specimens were even more numerous. She stared at one, a Linean male frozen in the act of bursting upward through the alloy floor. The batrachian face reflected precisely the same emotion as all the others — a transcendent, ineffable surprise. She bent close. Every detail was exact, the scaly blue skin, the tiny hooked teeth, the huge golden eyes wide in astonishment.
She felt a sudden irresistible suspicion that it was a cunningly preserved corpse.
She jerked back and lost her balance, almost fell, but the Flesh Tinker shot out a long arm and set her back on her feet. He did not immediately release her arm, and though his grip was gentle, his fingers felt strong as old tree roots. The magenta eyes were incandescent. “Wondering about my curios, aren’t you?” He let her go, laughed wildly, rolled those eyes, clapped his hands to the sides of his head as if he feared it might split open. Abruptly his mouth snapped shut with an inaudible click, and he threw himself into an armchair upholstered in intricately tattooed leather. “Go or stay,” he said in a calm weary tone, gazing at nothing. “I assure you: all who grace my walls came to their deaths through some natural agency.”
Madeira was terrified, but where would she run, if the Flesh Tinker meant her harm? “Natural agency?” She pointed to the Linean. “What of this one?”
“He died during a voyage. It happens. I myself would never take the coldsleep.”
“Why did he?”
“We had a bargain.” The Flesh Tinker glanced at her sharply. Feverish tides of passion rose and fell in his face. “You may believe me, child. Lying is a luxury reserved for those whose heads are not so full as mine.”
Curiosity pushed back her fear. “What do you want here in Arcimor?”
“That’s my business, and none of yours.”
“Will you answer none of my questions? What of the bargain you made with the Linean?”
“What is it to you? I see, I see it now. You wish to make this same bargain! Hee. Hee.”
“No, actually... ”
“Come!” The voice was dark and cold, suddenly empty of all that extravagant emotion. “Disregard my outbursts, excuse them as the weakness of age. I’ll offer you a bargain. I’ll perform my usual service for you; in return you will come with me on a voyage. But you must ride the ice.”
All her life she had prayed for such an escape. “Your ‘usual service’? What is that?”
The Flesh Tinker looked up at her, too surprised to be exasperated. “Isn’t it obvious? My name is my work. I carve bodies into new shapes.”
New shapes? “Faces, too?”
“The simplest matter.”
“But what do you get from the bargain. Not company, if I must ride the ice.”
“Mementos.” The Flesh Tinker gestured, a large movement that took in the whole lounge. “About one in ten thaw out dead; I then acquire a keepsake, an example of my art. And there are other reasons why I must have the boat to myself. I suffer from fits, you see, and at such times, I’m not myself.”
“But there’s so many of them...”
The magenta eyes cooled. “I’m old.”
"What could you do?”
The Flesh Tinker’s hand shot out, touched her face. The long fingers wandered slowly over the scars. The Flesh Tinker’s fingertips had a dry smoothness, like old polished wood, not unpleasant, but very strange. She struggled not to pull away. His hand trailed down her body, over the narrow shoulder, the thick waist. There was nothing sexual in the touch. “I could give you beauty.”
“Could you make me the Fashion Goddess?”
“Of course, but remember, you can’t stay to enjoy your reign. Is it a bargain?”
“Yes,” she answered, without hesitation.
“Ah! A wise decision. And who could blame you? Who would not wish to escape this grim city, where every day at dawn the failed peacocks spill down the wall in waves. A spectacle — no doubt about that — worth seeing, but terrible... ”
The Flesh Tinker took her back down the passageway. In the last cabin he laid her on a cold steel gurney. A cluster of probes sprouted from the gurney at one end, and the tray beneath was filled with black boxes and a tangle of datastrips.
He attached induction patches to her cheekbones. “I hope I get what I want,” she whispered to herself.
The Flesh Tinker made a warding gesture, spreading his hands before his face. "Careful! Such wishes are more dangerous than curses.”
Madeira woke in darkness, propped in an old wing chair, wrapped in a fleecy blanket. Soft light shone from an idling holotank before her. She sat passively, mind empty, watching ghosts flicker through the dim blue cube.
The Flesh Tinker stood quite near. “Ah!” he said. “Awake.”
She sat up, and the world no longer fit. The weights and lengths of her body were alien. She stretched out an elegant arm, and saw the luster of her new skin. Even her eyes felt out of place, too large perhaps, rubbing in their orbits, though her vision seemed perfect.
“Watch the cube.” The Flesh Tinker pointed, and color poured into the holotank.
A beautiful naked woman moved gracefully through a shadowy, early-morning garden. Golden light slanted through the lush vegetation. Madeira recognized none of the flowers. The woman stepped into the full light.
Her skin was pale as ice, her hair like black smoke about her face. Her mouth was wide and red, quirked up at the corners. Her eyes were a clear coppery yellow, impossibly large...
The scene changed. The woman attended a crowded party. She wore a patterned sari that crawled slowly over her body, around and around, the intricate gray-mauve design sliding lovingly over perfect flesh. In a language unknown to Madeira, she spoke to a vaguely man-like creature. It reminded Madeira of the seals that followed Arcimor through the sea, except that it wore a plaid kilt. The woman broke an ampoule under the seal thing’s nostrils, and it lurched away, flapping its long webbed hands. The woman laughed.
“You admire yourself?” the Flesh Tinker whispered at her ear.
The beautiful woman now danced with another seal creature, an awkward hopping shuffle, which the woman nevertheless performed gracefully.
The Flesh Tinker’s words sank in. “Me?”
The Flesh Tinker looked annoyed, an expression as exaggerated as all his others, and Madeira shrank back. “No, of course this isn’t you; it is only how you now appear.” The Flesh Tinker gestured at the holo. “Ammon Tiyado. Dead a thousand years. But still a worthy model, eh? Eh?” His expression was fierce.
“Yes,” she said faintly. “But please, have you no mirror?”
A moment later the lights brightened and a screen on the opposite wall bloomed with a silvery flash.
The beautiful woman sat in a chair under a white blanket, watching Madeira, perfect mouth tense, yellow eyes narrow.
Madeira gasped and put her hands to her mouth. The woman made the same gesture. Madeira’s face was wet, and she saw the tears in the mirror.
The guards were gone when she stepped from the boat.
Madeira returned to the storeroom where she and Binter had lived their lives together, but he was gone.
She made a bundle of the few things she owned. She started to carry the bundle out, then turned and cast it back among the other rubbish.
Binter would be frantic when she did not return. But what could she say that he could believe? Perhaps it was better that she had not found him.
When she turned to go, tears hot on her cheeks, Binter stood there, his eyes wide. He turned away, hunching his shoulders, his hand to his vocoder. “I’m sorry, Citizen,” he said.
“Binter,” she said. “It’s me, Madeira.”
He shrank away and his fingers touched the vocoder. “Where is Madeira Ezolico? Please tell me.”
She drew back. “I know I look like a night person. I have to go away, until after Reveldevil Night.” She bent close to him. “Listen, Binter. On the morning after Reveldevil Night, we’ll go corpsewalking together. The sea will be full. We’ll walk a mile on their bodies. And Tomov will be there!”
Then she left him and went up through the levels, back to the Flesh Tinker’s boat, to wait for Reveldevil Night.
The Flesh Tinker brought her the gown, pale clinging blue-violet moonskin, beaded with tiny amethysts and trimmed with frosty ruby fur. There was a stole, a shade lighter than the gown, woven from a soft silky fiber. It floated around her naked shoulders, an opalescent fog.
“Yes, perfect,” she said, laughing, pulling the stole close.
In the starboat, Madeira stood one last moment before a mirror, as the sun went down and Reveldevil began.
“Come, you’re too beautiful already,” said the Flesh Tinker, taking her arm. The Flesh Tinker was dressed in slightly tawdry magnificence, his suit crusted with linear sapphire, so that light coruscated from him with every movement.
In the corridors, rich fabric rustled, the air was sweet with subtle perfume. When they reached the junction with a major north-south corridor, they joined a bright river of celebrants and poured with them down into the human ocean of the Grand Hallroom.
This night the Hallroom was organized into three levels. When the festivities peaked, a half-million of the city’s hopefuls would fill the vast floor. A smaller dais rose ten meters above the main floor; a third pavilion thrust through the roof of the Grand Hallroom into the night air.
She wondered how she would find Tomov.
The music was an endless pervasive drone, full of a thousand modalities. The Hallroom surged about them, waves of celebration, the crowd growing denser as more and more packed in. The Flesh Tinker beckoned to her, and they danced.
The Flesh Tinker had modified more than the shape of her body; she who had never danced before moved gracefully. Something in her responded, gloried in it, and at times she forgot that the one who held her was a mad oddling with unknowable motives.
Here and there above the crowd, watchmechs floated, slowly scanning. One drifted in their direction, dropped down. “Chosen,” it said. Its voice was thin and sweet.
They extended their arms, and it snapped slender bracelets around their wrists. Then it was gone, and the nearest dancers were applauding, were screaming their enthusiasm, and she had a strange long moment when all the faces froze. The faces expressed every emotion, from black envy to unselfish joy, but each handsome face was imperfect. For the first time, she understood what it was to be beautiful. Tears wet her cheeks, and the Flesh Tinker dabbed at them with a square of lace. “Not yet, not yet,” he said.
On the second level, the dancers were more brilliant, all glittering eyes and smiling mouths. Madeira imagined that she ran with a pack of feral creatures. Should she stumble, would they converge on her, teeth flashing?
Tomov found her there, and the Flesh Tinker faded away, to be seen no more. Tomov was garbed magnificently in black orbsilk and white stonemole leather. He smiled brilliantly at her, as if he had found a long-lost friend. “Dance with me,” he said, extending an elegant hand. “We’re a beautiful pair.”
She took his hand, anticipation burning through her. “What is your name?” she asked.
“Tomov,” he answered. “Your faithful companion. And yours?”
“Ammon Tiyado. Your... companion for now.”
They danced, they talked, she leaned against him intimately. “Oh yes, we’re a pair,” he said.
The second platform grew crowded. “Smile!” Tomov ordered, each time she forgot. They danced; occasionally they sat together, striking graceful poses and sipping pastel drinks. They stood at the balustrade, looking out over the boiling main floor. Celebrants hopped and swayed in a glory of color. “They look like insects,” she said. “Poisoned into convulsions, kicking their legs, twitching their feelers.”
Tomov shot a disturbed glance at her.
Again they danced. A mech approached and Tomov redoubled his efforts. His eyes were wide and staring, his skin gleamed with sweat, his mouth pulled up in a frozen confident grin. He danced with desperate energy, and she followed him easily.
She laughed, and he hissed, jerking his head at the mech. The crowd had fallen back, giving Tomov room for his exertions. The mech dropped down beside them as Tomov handed her through one more twirl.
“Chosen,” it said.
They both reached for the token it held; it put the token in her hand. Tomov looked stricken, but a moment later there was a token for him. His eyes glittered. “I want to be there when you’re crowned,” he said. “And after.”
“Oh, yes,” she said.
On the third level the faces were less predatory, perhaps because many of the celebrants were former Fashion Gods, down from the aeries to mingle with the handsomest candidates of the season. The music was sweeter, more intense. A greater sense of ease prevailed on the third platform, though it did not extend to Tomov; he was gray with expectation.
The night grew late. She swam effortlessly through this more exclusive ocean. She saw the moon set. She looked up at the tall narrow towers where the Fashion Gods lived. The towers were threads of black against the starfields, rising above Arcimor’s back like a thousand masts; at the top of each burned a pale lamp.
She finally found herself dancing alone in a cloud of small gleaming godeyes, the remote sensors through which most of the tower dwellers watched. They dipped and swooped, following her movements, more and more of them, hundreds of them. A long time later she stopped, the godeyes so thick she could see nothing through their golden glittering blaze.
There was a ceremony; suffocating cheers, the embrace of the Old God, the conferring of a pair of mech bodyguards. She was introduced to a small, neat, exquisitely mannered man who was to be her majordomo. Then her hand was thrust into a machine, and the key to her tower implanted in a bone. She felt a trickle of blood at her wrist.
She was the Fashion Goddess.
The evening merged into morning. Many of the revelers went out to the wall and the waiting sea.
Madeira leaned on the balustrade, watching them leap. Tomov stood across the pavilion, and she could feel his uneasiness. Several times in the last hour, he had approached her and been turned away by her mech guards. Each time she had contrived to look somewhere else.
The first rays of sunlight flickered across the pavilion. “Come,” she said to her majordomo. “Take me home.”
She went to the dropshaft, convoyed by the mechs. Tomov trailed uncertainly behind, a wretched smile fixed on his face.
On the main floor, he trotted after her. “Ammon,” he called, his voice bright and strained. She walked on. When she reached the security lock of her tower, Tomov had managed to close the gap, so that he again seemed part of her party.
The majordomo bowed deeply, and indicated the staff with one elegant gloved hand. She mounted the steps to the lock and the servants stepped back, bowing.
Tomov made as if to follow, but the mechs stopped him. When he tried to force his way past, they gave him a jolt of electropain that raised his hair into a wild cloud. He fell and rolled, howling. Madeira turned and laughed.
Tomov got to his feet, shoulders sagging, empty and small.
She looked past him to see Binter, watching from the darkness of a service hatch. He was so ugly, so shockingly ugly. She shuddered and looked away.
Later she would think of many things she might have done. But she was frozen into her pose and her thoughts had slowed and stuck fast in that long moment of triumph. Tomov turned and shuffled off to the seawall, and then Binter was gone too. The mech she sent after Binter returned alone.
She shut the door to her chambers at the top of the aerie, and leaned against it. The Flesh Tinker was there, standing by the arches that led out to the terrace. He turned in a swirl of glittering blue, and fixed burning eyes on her. “So,” he said, in that dark voice. “The fool is dead. Your revenge is complete?”
“Yes,” she said.
The Flesh Tinker looked at her, eyes narrowing. “That’s good. I suppose. But now, time to go!”
She shrank back against the door. “I’m the Fashion Goddess!”
The Flesh Tinker’s face chilled. “You made a bargain.” The potent voice had dropped an octave, was now an inhuman rumble. “You made a bargain; do you now tell me that you wish to dally about here, performing the same meaningless antics you despised in your enemy? You truly want to live in this terrible city?”
Madeira was pinned under the Flesh Tinker’s hot magenta gaze. The ancient face quaked with warring emotions.
Her voice seemed to have gone where she could not find it.
"Do you know why you do this? Why you boil and ferment, endlessly unsatisfied, cutting throats for the tiniest edge in grace? And when beauty fades a little, or you lose at the game of Musical Friends once too often, then it’s off to the wall. Hi ho!”
He loomed over her, quivering, lips drawn back over strong white teeth. Spittle gleamed on his chin. She tried to turn away, but he moved with frightening speed to block her. “Listen! You
She huddled away from him.
He spoke on, his voice deeper and colder still. “Your city was built for one purpose — to breed people who care for nothing but finery. Your fashions are sold on a thousand pangalac worlds. And a profitable trade it is.”
He pushed his terrible face close to hers and his voice dropped into an intimate whisper. “It pleases me to people the worlds with my own standard of beauty, ‘Ammon Tiyado.’ In a few years, her face will be everywhere I go, once again, sweet to my old eyes. A lovely prank, eh?” The Flesh Tinker drew a deep breath. “Worthy of her memory.”
His face was for once impassive, composed, the eyes unseeing. “Such beauty is irresistible. You couldn’t lose; had you worn a wool bag to the ball, you would be the Goddess now. Your part is ended, child. No one will notice or care if you are never seen again. New-made Gods often go to the wall, their purpose exhausted. Get away, while you can. Do you imagine that the Fashion Gods lead delectable lives in their aeries? Do you? Every year a little older, a little less beautiful — what a fitting torment for men and women who live only for beauty. ”
She pressed her hands over her ears, and this time he did not hinder her from running away, into the inner rooms.
Before the sun was high, she took her mechs and went to look for Binter.
The storeroom was unoccupied, with a palpable air of abandonment, and she was suddenly sure that Binter had gone to the wall. She ran through the waterline corridors, her eyes blind with tears, to ask the men with the barbed poles to look for his body. But they thought she was a night person, with her beauty and her mech guards, and they fled in terror. She trotted from port to port, looking out at the dead who floated there, but she could not find him among the thousands.
Back in her aerie, Madeira lay across the lace-and-silk bed. She stared into a silver-framed mirror held at arm’s-length. The miraculous face looked back at her, the yellow eyes dark with appraisal, the rich mouth too taut.
Tears spilled in two shining trails down the marvelous curves of her cheekbones. It occurred to her she could create a lovely effect by attaching a pair of jeweled snails to her cheeks, as if they had crawled from her eyes. Snails of polished citrine, to match the eyes.
She rolled to her back, so that the tears pooled in her eyes, so that she saw nothing but a glittering blur.
She rested in a bed that was hard and narrow, but not yet cold. Or perhaps it was and she could not feel it. Her thoughts were slowing and she had lost interest in the sensations of her body.
The Flesh Tinker had stood by the coldsleep couch, a rare calm smile on his face. “I wish you no dreams and safe arrival,” he had said in that beautiful terrible voice, and then he had dogged down the transparent cover.
She felt less dismay than she might have expected. The odds were very good, after all, that one day she would wake on a new world.
And if not.... A thin thread of bittersweet amusement tracked through her cooling mind. What an elegant trophy she would make for the Flesh Tinker’s wall, that look of perfect astonishment lighting her perfect features, forever.
PULPHOUSE
ISSUE FOUR
TRADE:
Statement of Limitation
LEATHER: Number of 250
50 Trade Publisher's Copies (PC) and 25 signed Leather Publisher's Copies (PC) were also produced.