The floor's splashed with the glow of Izzer's seventy-eight computer screens that flicker between street views of Sector cameras from inside Neon Brights. One of two holographic projectors projects a 3D map of the Tramway system in thin, red lines that hover mid-air. According to the map key, blue dots mark the locations of Chip ports and security hubs.
These, too, are reflected in the floor and the plastic tarp Izzer's thrown down to ensure my blood doesn't stain his precious marble tile. It's amazing how swiftly he managed to change his base of operations into a makeshift operating room, but I imagine we're not his first time outfitting illegals with black market chips.
Being Ten, I'm the last to go. Fingers claw at the wooden armrests and I can feel splinters piercing my flesh. I squirm under Izzer's gloved touch and the way his breath tickles the exposed flesh at the base of my neck. Keran stands next to him, a begrudging assistant, donning a white lab coat over her Codas fatigues, her gun holstered at her hip. She's wearing gloves, and paper slip-on over her boots at Izzer's insistence for sanitary operating conditions. There's a buzzing coming from behind my ear, and the scent of burning hair as the laser scalpel closes the gap between myself and it's white-hot tip.
"You might feel a pinch." Izzer's voice is muffled by the strip of cloth he's wrapped over his nose and mouth in a sort of makeshift doctor's mask.
The buzzing gets louder. I grit my teeth and focus on the glow of muted colors dancing along the floor. It'll all be over before I know—
"Goddammit!"
Immediately, my hand flies up to the back of my neck where I feel I've just been stabbed about a hundred times in the past second. Keran smacks my hand mid-flight. She's got her soldier's reflexes, honed to perfection, and she doesn't shy away from reminding me of the many ways she's my better.
"No touching." She sneers. "Unsanitary hands like yours might cause infection."
She's not wrong, but at the same time, her words aren't meant to carry truth; they're meant to tear me down, the way her bullets would if Della allowed her to kill me. Guess we all can't get what we want. "You said there'd be a pinch, but that hurt like hell."
There's a clamor as the expended laser tip is freed from the scalpel's shaft and disposed of in a metal bowl. It's little more than a thin, coil of metal, without the red laser darting from the end. "How could that have hurt so much? I've had laser scalps used on me before and none of them felt like that."
Izzer chuckles as he tears into a new pack of tips and pulls one out. "Oh, that?" With a pop, it snaps into place on the scalpel shaft. "I've modified these to be more efficient." He leans forward so I can watch him as he fingers the button on the side, commanding the new tip to burst into a deadly line of red. He adjusts the dial for thickness and length before easing back into his chair again and disappearing from my sight. "You might feel another pinch. I'm going to start peeling back the flesh—"
I grit my teeth. That morning's breakfast - our leftovers from the other night of oily noodles and battered chicken - rises alongside bile in my throat. "No need to spill the details," I manage my voice tense.
"I offered you something for the pain," he says.
There's applied pressure at the base of my skull and something like a clamp snaps into place. Keran winces and tries to look everywhere else but at me. Must be grisly to get a reaction out of her.
"And whatever it was you gave Sam had him puking up his guts afterward," I say.
Izzer chuckles, and there's the soft swish of his surgeon's gown. A sliver of blue from his covered shoe slips into view accompanied by a crinkling of plastic. "To clarify, I didn't poison him. Just a little home-brewed concoction for nausea and pain. Besides," the numbing cream seems to have finally taken hold as the pressure on my neck lessens, "He's got Rima watching out for him. That was always the good thing about the twins - they had each other. Pain in the ass if you ever wanted one of them to vote against the other, though." He clicks his tongue and begins to hum. There's more of that acrid smell, probably more of me being burned off, and the faintest tickle running down my neck.
"I'm going to start slicing through muscle tissue--"
"No details," I say. Breakfast and bile slam like a tidal wave against teeth. It takes everything I have not to hurl.
"Okay, no more details." Izzer's humming stops. "But you know, after this, I've got to remove that Liar's tattoo." A cold sensation crawls along the skin of my neck not affected by the numbing cream.
I gulp and steady myself by digging my nails further into the chair's armrests. "I'm aware."
I'm all too aware.
...
The heaviness of the implanted chip wasn't something I'd expected to feel. When I crane neck or move it back and forth, I can feel it slide around in there, but Izzer says it's normal. That the sensation lessens over time, that soon I'll forget it's even there. I hope it's not there long enough for it to become a part of me. The laser removal of the Law mark, however, will permanently scar.
Izzer purposefully did his best ensuring it would look its worst over time - like something made from an improperly healed injury as opposed to something needing to be covered-up. Each of us will carry different scars along with the added weight of our black market chips, but that burden is nothing compared to the weight I feel lifted from my shoulders. With the last of our marks erased, as we stand before Izzer waiting to go over our new identities, we do not belong to the Law any longer. If that's the case, then what are we? What am I?
Lined up in two rows behind Izzer are the pictures he'd taken of us pre-op, and our new identities. Rima frowns as she eyes her new alias. Mason Reddings. Fifteen years of age. Sector Seven, Neon Brights. Parentage: Deceased. Siblings: One. Twin (M) Jace Reddings. Occupation: Full-time student. Studying: Aviary Clean Air Control modules and functionality.
She fumbles for the crumpled fabric of her uniform. "But I'm not good at practical mechanics," she says, "Theoretical maybe, but not--"
Izzer sighs and that's enough to make Rima's jaw snap shut. He rubs his temples. "Any other complaints?"
Sam raises his hand, and while I've witnessed him do this a thousand times before, giving a guard or teacher a middle finger before being removed and locked in the Reflection Room, I've never seen him do it with so much respect...or was it fear?
Izzer's frown worsens.
"Why'd I get stuck shoveling shit?" Sam says.
Izzer reaches into his pocket, removes a few oblong white pills, and downs them sans water. "Of course you'd be the one to ask something so stupid."
Sam gulps. His arm, which is still high overhead, begins to waver.
Izzer looks at those of us who haven't spoken up and sought to ruin his morning's tranquility. Neither Jonathan, Sin or David have any complaints about their new personas: Jonathan's Reiland Fox, a security guard for Silver Holdings LLC; Sin's Jae-beom Hwangpo, special guest lecturer for Sect Seven's Learning Hall; and David doesn't bat an eyelash when he's re-branded Kellam Boggs, student of a five-syllable major I don't dare try and repeat.
I take no issue with what Izzer's given me. Ivy Pense, hostess for a dive V-bar in Sect Seven.
Marava's the only one of us who looks like she's got venom to spit on Izzer's shoes. He must sense it too, because he hones his glare on her, and stomps his foot. "Out with it, already. My time's precious."
Marava snarls. "Karen Perez?" She spits this last part out as though it's as bad tasting as last night's faux-Chinese. "Perez is as common in Puerto Rico as Smith is for you white guys."
Izzer grins. "Si, senorita."
Marava rakes her nails over her shoulder, down her arm. Her eyes blaze with hatred. Jonathan tries to wrap an arm around her, but she shrugs him off. "Listen up you piece of shit," she says, her voice low and tinged in menace. She takes a step forward, her body bent over, a lioness who's found her prey.
Izzer's eyes go wide, but as Marava takes another predatory step forward, he breaks out into laughter. Marava stops cold in her tracks. She looks between Izzer and Jonathan. "What the fuck's wrong with--"
"Councilman," Sam whispers.
I nudge him in the shoulder. "So, you can learn."
He blushes and nods. Izzer's doubled over, both hands on his stomach.
"I didn't say anything that funny," Marava says, twirling a strand of hair around her forefinger. When Jonathan reaches for her this time, she doesn't repel his touch. He kisses the top of her head and gives her a reassuring hug.
Izzer wipes at a tear. "You...are..." he gasps for breath between chuckles, "a spitfire," he says. Marava scowls. "Just like him," Izzer continues. He straightens up, wipes the hair out of his eyes. "Christ, you have no idea how much like us you are."
I raise an eyebrow. "Like who?"
Izzer's gaze falls on me. For a fleeting second, he and I are all that exist. The tile floor falls away, the monitors disappear. The clatter of the others, the low whir of Izzer's mechanical watch, all make hasty retreats. In this space, where he and I are its only occupants, my heart crashes against my chest. The fingers of one hand scratch and pluck at the bandages around the other. I stumble back.
Izzer snorts. "Even you, one-zero?" He runs a hand through his hair. "You're like us, you daft idiot! Like the current Council and the ones before them." He smacks a handheld monitor off the shelf. It shatters, plasma ink oozing from between glass shards. Rima jumps in fright.
Like them? No. No way. A sickening feeling makes an anchor in my stomach as I realize that Izzer's eyes somewhat remind me of where sky and forest meet. Summoning the courage of Marava and the stupidity of Sam, I take a shaky step forward. "What number were you?"
Izzer kicks at a glass shard, dark red splattering the toe of his shoe. His lips peel back into a snarl, every perfect tooth sticking out of his gums like the tombstones of graves he helped dig.
He turns toward David. "Seven," he says.
Seven. I shudder.