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394 pages, Kindle Edition
First published July 12, 2022
Grendels have distributed processing, a dozen odd nodes that are in constant flux around the reactor—not unlike the nervous systems of the clever cephalopods, the ones the company breeds on some colony worlds for marine work. Humans have an echo of the same in their limbic system, in reflex and instinct.
Yorick knows that now is the time to stay put. To stay safe. He can drink himself into a stupor in the furnished oblivion of his hotel room, order the host droid to bring an endless parade of bottles up the endless staircase. He can gorge himself until his shrunken stomach is screaming, then throw it all up in the toilet. These are a few of his many pastimes.
come to my blog!Past the alloy stores, past the hydrogen tanks, in the darkest gut of the ship: the torpor pool. Bodies churn in a slow current around the reactor, tangling and untangling, a drifting mass of frosty flesh. They are skeletal, emaciated from the long haul, and their skins are coated a slick milky white by the stasis fluid. They are clinically dead, but not legally corpses.
…the man is hoisted into the air like a puppet, dripping fluid. The dockhands peer at him.
He’s small, pallid-skinned and dark-haired. He has no lower jaw: between the blue curve of his upper lip and the rippled flesh of his throat there is nothing but medical membrane.
“Ugly fucker,” the first dockhand says.
Yorick slips into the jig rhythm, then ignores it, darting through the lull and driving his metal-toed foot into a meaty thigh. The red has reach, but he’s so much slower than Thello. Yorick dips in and out, picking his spots, a slow demolition. The red has bad lungs; he’s gasping before Yorick even starts to sweat. Tuq and Mara and the rest are whooping, jeering, saying fuck him up, Yor, get to the blood, fuck him up good. The red taps ground before he bleeds.
Most Oldie tech is beyond detritivores. As they push forward into the cave, moving low and quiet, they enter the row of structures Yorick remembers from his brief captivity or else from a bad dream. He sees them as avian skeletons hatching from trapezoidal cysts, then biomechanical trees sprouting downward into the earth.
Maybe the grendel knows what they’re for, if they’re art or machine or natural extrusions of the unnatural biostone. Yorick doesn’t talk to grendels, though. He hunts them. It’s been a long time since he hunted in a pack, but the hyena in his bloodstream makes it feel like he never stopped.