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“Help them.”

He should have died here with Trin and Cal and Liana. He should have died on the palace steps, sheltering the prince’s body.

The carry sack weighed on Mac’s shoulder. He shrugged the straps higher.

The palace may have been looted, but the prison hadn’t been touched. Confiscated prisoner goods still filled the drawers in the guard room, and the guard’s shelves still groaned with food.

Mac helped himself to garlic, aged cooking wine, and flaked chili peppers. He hoped it would be enough. In the common room, his metal fingers forced the safe and they did not protest. They ripped out drawers; trinkets clattered to the floor.

“Help them.” Mac’s left eye blurred. He swiped at it with his good hand.

“Are you really Liana?” He knew it was futile to ask.

He chose a leather bracelet and a hairpin from the scattered mess on the floor. If he tried, he could imagine Cal and Trin wearing these things. Yes, these were their possessions. Must be. Taken from them before they were tortured and hanged. He would use the items to call their ghosts, to carry them out of the dark.

Mac took everything he’d gathered to the prince’s torture chamber and dumped them on the floor along with the contents of the pack stolen from Zeb. Blades there were aplenty, and means to light a fire.

Mac cleaned the knife in the flame and transferred it to his right hand. The metal fingers closed, steady and sure. He had no doubt the hand knew what to do. Rolling up the left leg of his trousers, Mac braced himself on a surface already darkened with old blood. He closed both eyes, and let the metal arm do its work.

If he screamed, the excited babble of his arm drowned it out. The flat of the blade cauterized the wound. Mac forced himself to open his eyes. With his flesh hand, Mac jammed the kneecap stolen from Zeb against the burnt-closed wound. Prongs bit deep, and this time he did scream. A faint click and the kneecap locked in place. Red-dark thumped behind his eyes. Mac leaned over, vomited a thin stream of bile. His stomach cramped.

He pushed himself away from the table. His left leg seized, the knee unbending and dead. He crashed to the ground, fresh pain spiking, and a sob tore from his throat. Ghost hand and flesh hand clawed the floor. Mac dragged himself to the scattered trinkets. He used the knife to scratch a circle on the floor, laid the hairpin in it, and sprinkled dried chili flakes over top.

The plum-crush glow came. Mac forced his knee into the circle. Pain arced through him. His body jerked, head slamming the stones and lips foaming. He let the ghost ride him. Welcomed the agony. Bit down on his lip until he tasted blood, and whispered Trin’s name.

Stores stolen from the guard’s kitchen sustained him through recovery. Dreams came and went, fever hot. Through his good eye, he saw Trin’s ghost, mocking him. She peeled her lips back, snarling. When he reached for her, she crouched, releasing a stream of hot piss. He woke up, struggling to back away from the yellow threading its way to him across the floor. Liana came and smoothed his hair, sang to him. It hurt, yes, but he was doing the right thing.

His thumb and middle finger went easier, and just as hard. Mac screamed. He bled. He wept, still a coward, no matter what he did to atone. Crows flapped rusty wings, chorusing
why,
over and over again. Two ghost voices babbled in his ear, overlapping.

“Help them.”

“I am.” Mac’s voice scraped raw, tasting like iron and salt.

“More,” the voice said.

Mac poured cooking wine and garlic, and plunged finger and thumb into the essence of two more ghosts. Maybe one was Cal.

His body sang. It fizzed. His skin rebelled, and he doubled over, sick. His left thumb and middle finger pinched his cheeks, tugged at his lip, pulled his hair. He slapped them away with his right hand, and gave himself a black eye.

A ragged sound filled the room. Only the ache in his throat told Mac the laughter was his, and not the ghosts’. Tears leaked from his swelling eye.

“More,” a voice exhorted.

His foot, and a key that could have belonged to the prince. These were her dungeons, after all.

Cloves and black pepper. Fresh ginger. Sharp cheese.

Days blurred. Mac’s left eye crusted shut. Ghosts swarmed around him, voices buzzing in his jaw. Numb. He couldn’t tell which parts of his body were his anymore. He shook, fever and chills warring. He curled into a ball of misery, exhausted, and slept. Liana held his hand.

He had no idea how much time passed. Starved thin, chest heaving, body whining with unaccustomed joints and babbling with the voices of ghosts, Mac crawled from the prison.

He wanted to rest. To sleep. But there were other cities, other horizons. Other ghosts. Clanking, rattling, bruised and crusted in blood he staggered to the wall, the clatter of wings following him.

He stepped over the ruins and onto the desert sand. Dust streaked him. He walked, half metal, half haunted. Behind him, a rusted beak parted for a single caw.

“Why?”

Mac didn’t turn; he answered with rust of his own, a single word.

“More.”

Honeycomb Girls

Erin Cashier

Those were the days Geo couldn’t walk through the market without stepping on someone else’s shoe. If money wasn’t tied to waist it was zipped, and anything dropped—paper, panks, crumbs—zipped too. Geo sold junk there: stripped wires, sharp green-squares, transistors like pills. “Someone junk, someone treasure!” Geo call. Men come over to see what Geo had, comb over findings, and Geo with stick, ready to slap at zippers. Stand all day, stand half night, then walk home to hard mat shared on second floor. Kick junk man out, eat food, sleep, till day begin again.

Geo hunt for junk at old places when junk run low. Sometimes old posters hidden from rain. Posters show things that not there. Happy men, metal cages. Men touching screens. Men smiling. Like said, old posters. No smiles now.

And sometimes, girls. Some cut out, but see where shape was left. Cut here, tear there. Reach out and feel where maybe curve had been. Hold nothing in hand. Imagine, if no one watching. Geo knew girls. There, but not there, like the sun. Never touch the sun, and never touch the girls, neither.

Jon yell, “Junk, junk!” Geo with stick, watching men come by. Man comes to table. Leans over. Clothing new. Business man? Tinker man? Jon’s boy watches man’s back. Makes sure no one else steal his money before Geo can.

Geo sees glint in man’s eye. He like something he see. Geo step forward. Geo like what
Geo
see. “You like?”

Man’s head bows. “No, no, nothing.”

Geo knows glint. Geo
knows
lie.

Man scans table, sniffs. “There’s nothing here. None of this is worth anything to me.”

Geo grunts.

“I’m an artist. I can maybe use this.” Man picks up three metal bits.

Geo grunts again, waits. Watches man’s hand reach for first thing he like.
Glint-thing.

“And maybe this too. How much?”

Geo point to first pile. “Four panks.” Geo look at man clothing, hair, naked chin. Points to hand. “That, too expensive for you. Put down.”

“But—”

Geo hold up zip-stick. “Too pricey! Put down!”

Man’s eyes narrow. Geo offend him. He think he can afford all junk here, all table, all tent. But he do what Geo say, sets glint-thing down. Geo pick it up: round, metal, cold. Geo ask for most expensive thing Geo can think of. “Worth one night.”

Man’s eyes widen. Anger blaze. But he cannot steal from Geo here. Whole tent junk men watching. Under table, Jon step on Geo’s shoe.

Man lean over table, snatch ball from hand. “Done.”

Geo blinks.

“Go to the third tower two days from now. I’ll let them know you’re coming.” Holds up metal thing from pocket. Light flashes. Geo is blind.

When sight come back, man gone. Geo works, goes back home, lays on mat. Feels junk man’s fear. Should Geo have bargained harder?

Honeycomb Tower Three in middle of city. Girls inside. Men too. Depend on hive how many. Some hive ten to girl. Others, four, five. More money, less men.

Geo never known hive man before. Or girl. Satisfy self with other men, hand. Now Geo hand makes empty fist. Geo wonder if strange man lie.

Two days pass. Dawn. Geo travel, stand, watch Tower Three door. Men come out, men go in. No junk men.

Geo gets in line. Other men snicker. Geo ignore them, enters small room. Door close. Alone. Expect to be turn away. Another bright flash.

“You’re approved for one night, contractually obligated—” Person behind door has high voice, like dancer in the Genghi zone. Geo hears words. Doesn’t listen. At the end of them, Geo nod.

“Please take the elevator.” Door opens in front of Geo. Geo step in.

Moving! Geo hold onto walls. Door opens again, Geo jumps out, crouches. Carpet here. Hall of doors. New. No smells. No, smell of no smells. Geo creeps down hall, until a door opens. Geo looks inside.

Four men. One familiar from market. Market man seems pleased. Other men not. Geo braces. “Hello there!” Market man say.

“Hello,” Geo say back. Formal greeting. Feels official. Old.

The other men circle, angry. Geo see cats circle rat before. Like this.

“When’s the last time he bathed?” tall one asks.

“Does he even know how?” asks short one.

“He’s a man of the world,” man Geo knows say, and hits Geo’s shoulder. Geo tenses for second blow. “If he doesn’t know how, he’ll learn soon enough, you know our Sukilee.”

Last man with crossed arms, looks Geo up and down. “God, did you even do an STD check on him?”

“Not yet. He’s not up till tomorrow.”

“What?” Crossed arms man whirl. “You’re trading me my day?”

“No. I traded him your day.”

“That’s not—”

“You’re behind on rent.”

“I’ll borrow money! I can pay you back—”

Man Geo knows shakes head. “Too late.”

“But!” Crossed arm man looks at Geo with hate. Then look at tall and short.

Tall shrugs. “This is a bad idea.”

Short shakes head. “You keep smoking quay, and we’ll kick you out, too.”

“As long as my money’s good, no one’s kicking me out,” Tall says.

“As long as you have money,” man Geo knows points out.

Geo wonders if this is fight. So many words. Room is strange, strange no smells, strange mad men. Where is girl?

Crossed arm man leaves room. Maybe go get money. Man Geo knows say, “You’re day four now. They’ll get you your STD screening.” Points to other two. One and Two. Tall and short. “You can sleep in my bed tonight, since I won’t be needing it.” Man—Day Three—points to bed.

“You’ll want to burn it tomorrow, then,” says Day One.

“Maybe so. But tonight I’ll be with Sukilee.” Day Three walks to closed door. Knocks twice. Door slides open, he enters. Door closes, before Geo can peek in.

Geo look at room. So much space. Each man own bed. Little doors on wall. Reach for one.

“Hey! You’re not moving in.” Day One slaps Geo’s hands. Geo makes fist. Day One does not. Geo let go.

“Come over here. We need some blood.” Day Two tap on table. Pick up wire. Geo go over, he grab hand. Spread out fingers. Jabs Geo.

Geo makes fist again. Looks at room. Lets go.

Bed too soft. Day One, Two talk. Ignore Geo.

Night comes. Day Three has turn. Geo crawls over to hear. Thick door. No words. Grunts, groans. Geo’s hand finds self. Thicken, spit-hand-rub, bite-lip, blood-salt. Behind door Day Three yells. Geo gushes, groans.

Day One calls from bed, “You’re a rube.”

Geo crawls back to bed. Wipe hand on sheet. Insult for sure. But why care? Tomorrow Geo’s turn.

Geo up with morning. One, Two, snore. Day Three come out. Door close quick behind.

“Now?”

Day Three shake head. “Soon. Wait.”

Geo waits. Day slow. Others sleep, leave, return. Play game. Stare at screen. Stare at paper.

Endless food from box. So much space. If Geo lived in hive, might never leave. Only too quiet. No junk yells here.

Geo paces. Watches door.

“Remember, she’s a shared investment.” Day Two talks. Geo pretend to listen. “Don’t hurt her. Don’t be rough with her. You hear me?”

“If you break her, we’ll break you.” Day One says. His day after Geo. Understand concern.

Stand outside the door, nod. Look to Day Three. “Just do what she tells you,” he says.

Evening comes. Door slide open. Geo goes in.

Smells sweet. Window to right. Whole wall of room gone. Just air, city, below. Geo stares out. Amazed. Frightened.

“Hello new man.” Face rises from sheets, bed to left. Face oval, pale like moon.

“Hello.”

Covered but her face. Room has tables, chairs. Walk to table. Put down what Geo have brought. Fistful of grass. Hard to find in city. Saw man on old poster, giving to girl. And small jar of lube. Helps with men. Girls? Who know.

Girl rises out of sheets, comes over to table beside Geo. Arms like Geo’s. Legs hidden by clothes. Chest like inverted shallow bowls. Geo breathes, stands. Warned not to break her. Is girl like glass?

Her hand stirs blades of grass. She opens jar, smells, wrinkles nose.

“Who are you?” she asks.

“Day Four.”

Laughing sound. Sweet.

“Go bathe. And then, we’ll see.”

Geo stands, still. Bathe?

“Oh, come now.” She grabs Geo’s wrist. Geo’s other hand makes fist, lets it go.

Outside, rain burn. Bathing standing in filtered rain. Girl rough with Geo, scraping, scrubbing. Like no man Geo with before. Outside, when rain comes, Geo hide, not stand in it.

When done, emerge. Geo naked. Girl in wet clothes. Nipples poke out.

“Dry yourself off.” She throws fabric at Geo. So soft, like petting cat. Geo dries. She appraises. Girl sold things in past, Geo can tell.

“Come here,” girl say, walking to other room. Sinks into massive bed. Geo follows, like kitten. “Don’t you know what this is for?” she says, reaching out. Touches Geo.

“With junk man.”

She shake her head, pulls Geo down.

No edges. Soft. All the posters torn with rough brick behind. Geo never knew.