This was fucking ridiculous. Wasn’t it?
Yeah, like now the shock is settling in...
His brain was doing a wall-of-death, spinning and chaos and noise. Some part of him wanted to jump screaming from the window and just pray that he’d land with a splatter on the south bank of the Thames...
...wake up in a nice, safe hospital. White walls and blankets and shit. He’d even deal with the intravenous happy juice, at least until they came to get him.
And the window was right there, for chrissakes.
Right.
There.
But that would be quitting. And if there was one thing Ecko wasn’t, it was a quitter.
He paced the length of the pattern-woven rug, kicking angrily at bits of broken table. He spooned more stew. The rocklight slid over him as if it were trying to make him welcome, and his skin shifted with its colour.
The stew, whatever it was, was unexpectedly good – he found himself cleaning the bowl with the breadcrust. It was rich and warm, and it left a feeling of fullness, a luxury that seemed to uncoil through muscle and nerve. He’d been a child the last time he’d eaten anything like it.
It slowed him, helped him clear his head.
Think.
His frenetic pacing eased, then stopped altogether. He put the bowl back on the tray, and tried to focus.
So, here I am then: the Little Pub on the Prairie.
He turned back to the window, to the starless sky and the batshit moonlight. The urge to jump had faded, but the smoulder of resentment had not.
Just remember: I ain’t your bitch, bitch, an’ I ain’t gonna be a rat in your maze. I’m gonna beat this.
From somewhere outside, there came a throbbing of hooves, a squeak of wheels that retreated into the night. He groaned.
Horses? You gotta be kidding me...
For a moment, Ecko had a horrible vision of trying to ride one – he could ride a bike, but anything with legs was taking the fucking piss already. Jesus, Eliza, you’re not funny...
Chances of success at...
Without warning, he was hit by a return of his claustrophobia, a rising, panicked mental shriek. This can’t be happening! He needed to understand, he needed know where he was, how he got here, how he fit in – or didn’t – how much free will he had to make his own decisions. Was Eliza watching him, marking him, managing him? Could she pull his strings and make him dance? He had his start point, but how did he get even the basics – a cache of kit, a hiding place?
A fucking map?
What the hell was really out there?
For a second, his boosted adrenaline meshed with his fear and they screamed engine loud, thundering a pulse beat of blood in his ears. He had a sudden mouthful of stew and bile.
I have to – !
Have to – !
No!
Choking on the effort, he stayed where he was, fists clenched, fighting the rage impulse back under control. He stood, shaking, swallowing. His throat burned. He could almost hear Eliza laughing at him.
Chances of successful adjustment: 17.84%... 17.83, .82...
But she could laugh all she wanted, he was gonna sort this thing, and she could just sit there and fucking watch.
Somehow, he was gonna do this shit.
* * *
He was standing at the long window by the desk when there was another knock on the door.
Outside, the moons shone silent, alien and compelling. They lit the square and faded sign at the foot of the building’s short foregarden. It had no design, no creatures rampant or rearing, it said only “The Wanderer” and it squeaked back and forth in a breeze that tickled his skin through imperfections in the window seals. Tight streets were paved in glistening cobblestones; an empty square seemed to indicate some sort of gathering or market space. Figures hurried, heads down, cloaked and hooded – every fucking one of them looked like the poster boy for the local Guild of Assassins.
Willya look at that. Ecko thought, with a grin. I’m gonna fit right in.
The knock came again. Still flickering with the last shreds of his antagonism, Ecko took three steps across the rug and banged the door open. He snarled, “What?”
Karine stood outside. With her was an older guy, slightly stoop shouldered and only a little taller than Ecko himself. He was in his fifties or more, with a worn, sun-leathered face and brown eyes flecked with an odd orange-gold.
Tiger’s eyes.
Behind him, there was a low-ceilinged, brick-and-beam passageway that hinted at more doors and some sort of stairway. There was a small, moonlit window, but nothing else.
Karine elbowed the brown-eyed man forwards.
“Ecko, this is Kale,” she said. “Kale’s just started with us, he’s still finding his – ah – feet.”
Ecko said nothing, didn’t move. He watched them, his oculars in overdrive and a peculiar, nebulous wariness starting to prickle at the back of his neck.
Kale’s core temperature was wrong, too high.
And as he met Ecko’s empty gaze, it jumped.
It what?
Ecko resisted the instinctive, wary urge to back up. Instead, he stood poised on his toes, blocking the doorway, waiting for the assault, the change, the demon, the dragon, the manifest deity, the whatever-the-fuck it was...
Yeah, you just bring it the fuck on...
Right now, he’d welcome the release.
But the man said, quite affably, “Ecko. How was the food?”
“Fan-fuckin’-tastic.” Ecko didn’t budge, didn’t back down. His adrenaline shivered, eager. “So what the hell’re you? Security?”
“He’s downstairs,” the man said, smiling. “I’m the cook.”
“You like vindaloo?”
“What?” Kale didn’t get the joke. They watched each other, unspeaking.
“Ecko, get out of the doorway, for Gods’ sakes.” Karine chuckled and slithered with remarkable dexterity around where Kale was standing. “If you’re going to be all bristly and paranoid, at least retreat far enough to let me get the dishes.” She flicked an eyebrow, all pert indignance. “Unless you want to clean them yourself.”
Ecko blinked.
Karine’s brusque affection apparently gave her an uncanny ability to take charge of a situation – before he’d even realised it, she’d slipped past him and was picking up the tray. “How you coping, anyway?” She winked at him. “Has Roderick started pontificating yet?”
Huh? Ecko was getting overwhelmed, confused, he didn’t need this. Keeping both of them in sight, he retreated from the doorway. There was a whole new set of social rules and shit going on here...
Chrissakes, this just wasn’t fair!
Their inability to understand his banter bewildered him. And they hadn’t reacted to his appearance – it was like they hadn’t even noticed. His enhancements had been deliberately crafted, bought with pain and endurance beyond human limits – he’d given everything to look the way he did. On some level, it was supposed to give him space, for chrissakes, emotionally and physically...
Yet neither Kale nor Karine seemed to give a shit.
His oculars still working, scanning, searching, watching around him, watching Kale’s every move, every flicker, he reached for something else to say.
“Yeah, he’s crazy. I’m crazy. We’re all fuckin’ crazy. An’ you didn’t answer the question.”
Kale replied, quite calmly, “Why do you have no scent?”
“Chrissakes.” Ecko was lost, he was out of place, he was baffled, his adrenaline was hovering on the edge of a full-on ass-kicking – there was a smouldering volcano of pressure under his skin and these two were just bumbling the fuck about like there was nothing the matter. His oculars targeted the tray, the cook’s eye, ear and heart in four successive seconds.