Lulu flicked his white gold dreads. “Yes, in so far as you didn’t lose your sight on purpose. It’s common knowledge the HawkEyes were gifted soldiers who’d developed tumours or got wounded out on field. You lot were given the choice to go blind, or carry a face full of metal and see. See better than almost every other living creature it turned out.” The ladyboy frowned. “I feel for you, honey, I do. HawkEyes helped stamp out Soul Food. When farmers were blindsided by the crop yield, your kind saw through to its rotten roots. Literally as I understand it.”
Images played across the inside of Hellequin’s reengineered retina. Weevils, billions of them, invisible to the naked eye. Masticating Soul Food at a macular level. Transmogrifying the plant feed into poison.
Lulu continued talking. “HawkEyes opened our eyes to the truth then tried to stop us killing each other when the civil war broke out. For that, me...” Lulu circled his hand to indicate the others in the bar. “...we, are eternally grateful. But, my darling, you did choose this lifestyle, and yes, only the Saints know why...”
Hellequin brought his cyborgian face close to the ladyboy’s. “Most soldiers did have a sight fault. But that’s not my story. My choice, if it can be called such, was to undergo the procedure or face being court-martialled.”
Lulu got the same tight-eyed look he’d had when slapping Pig Heart the previous evening, and Hellequin clammed up. Why risk his livelihood, the canvas over his head, his proximity to Nim by sharing any more information? But then he stared across the room and saw a flicker of neon at Nim’s forehead. The short circuit barely registered with her and she continued to share her laughter with Asenath. She had a life aside from the modifications fostered on her, and that’s what he wanted too.
The metal mass dominating his features, draining any true emotion from them, he confided, “My family owned Soul Food Farm. We flew over what was left of it this morning.”
Lulu’s mouth slackened. His painted gaze darted off to the corners of the bar. “Jeepers, Hellequin! That old skeleton? By the Saints, your kin have a lot of blood on their hands.”
Hellequin let the machine in him lead the conversation. “My dad was the biological engineer responsible for splicing the genes that gave us Soul Food – or for poisoning the land as it turned out. I had no interest in the family business. I was a tactician, got a passion for military hardware, skills which led me to sign up to the Humock Guard. My father stuck by his farming methods. I stuck by my unit. Then I got wind of the intention to blitz the farms that had spread the diseased stock, Soul Food Farm being top of the list.” The amber lens burned liquidly. “I guess you’re right. I did have a choice at that stage. I chose to go against my country and warn my family. And it did buy them a little time. But not enough to protect their land long term against the Humock Guard, against me.”
“You took down your own family?” Lulu shuffled in his seat.
Hellequin experienced an echo of the pain he’d felt when ordering his men inside the boundary fence. It prickled his conscience, but only faintly. “By then, I’d already been hauled up before my superiors. There was no other way for my family to have prepared against previous assault attempts as they had without my feeding them data from the Humock Guard base. I received an ultimatum – give an eye or face being court marshalled and most likely shot by firing squad.” He focused on the ladyboy, the concentric rings of his HawkEye whirring as they rotated.
“Two weeks later, I gave my first order as a HawkEye. From my lung basket, I saw a chink in the barricades at Soul Food Farm and despatched my platoon to move on in. The procedure eased the guilt. There are limiters built into my circuitry which inhibit my emotions. Also the imaging process of the HawkEye stores memories in a more compartmentalised format than the brain is capable of. Non-tactical memories are given less priority, their sharp edges blunted.” Hellequin threw back the remainder of his Jackogin. He sighed and rubbed a hand up into his fleshy eye, muttering, “So, that’s my history.”
“Here. Let me buy you another.” Lulu indicated to the bartender. The Jeridian nodded. Uncorking one of the dark blue apothecary bottles collecting dust on a shelf behind him, the man sluiced new measures into their beakers.
Lulu inclined his beaker towards Hellequin and smiled weakly. “So the poor darling is emotionally stunted. I knew there had to be a reason for the cold shoulder.” His smile broke into a coy grin. “You and Nim make a good pair.”
The Zen monk stood a short distance away. In the silvered twilight, the monk’s habit appeared even more grotesque. The sackcloth hood was a scarecrowish thing brought to life by eyes that glittered while the belt of relics resembled the tools of a witch.
The monk’s stillness unnerved Jaxx. Had the man come to see a Sirinese at prayer? To stand and watch and judge, the only form of condemnation available to a member of a silent order? Jaxx lowered his fists and stared at the monk, perplexed.
“What you doing here?” Eerie confusion settled over him. The monk couldn’t have followed him from the camp. There was nowhere to hide out on the salt plains. There was only endless distance. The crunch of boots over the salt surface, the tug of air at a person’s lungs, the quiet swallow of saliva... he would’ve noticed these things – and not only because he was attuned with the world, but because a man in his profession could not afford to let a stranger creep up.
The monk remained motionless beneath the huge desert moon.
“Sorry to disappoint, but I am a spirit man, father. No disrespect to you, your order, or your followers, but the Saints are too heavy-handed in their laws and precepts to lure me in. Any effort to unsettle me in my prayer will be futile.” Jaxx instinctually brought his fists to his hips again. He felt the depth of the desert pressing in.
His mind swam as the monk untied the belt of horrors from around his waist and cast it aside. Jaxx tucked his fists beneath his armpits, unnerved and wary as the monk gathered up the folds of his robe at the thighs and pulled the garment over his head in one swift movement. In the process of doing so, the monk exposed smooth white thighs, a triangle of down, the concave run of flesh from the hip to the waist, the bud of breasts and nut-brown nipples, and, as the garment was cast aside, a young woman’s face. She threw down the robe and stared at him. Her mouth was overgenerous, her eyes wide and knowing.
She walked over to him, her bare feet making small shushing noises on the salt. Jaxx tensed his fists tighter. Blood drove inside his eardrums. She was in front of him suddenly. Her scent, a mix of hops, sweat and the dark, sweet wine offered by the desert tribe. The young woman cupped his face, fingers touching the stitched flesh at his brow plate. She drew his face to hers.
Their lips touched, parted and remoulded. The hands slipped from his face, leaving heat there. Moving down to his waistband, they dug in and dragged the loose linen shirt up. Jaxx let his arms rise. The press of breasts against his chest made him chew the fat of his lower lip. He breathed heavily; it was as if the salt itself had crept inside his lungs. Her mouth was on him, wetting the eaves of his throat, the scarred clavicle where the knives and nails of others had fought back, the brass rings at his nipples.
“Harām.” Sanctity. The word broke free of his lips. A prayer, or a statement of fact as the woman unclothed him, knelt down, and bid him join her?