The normal lag. Two months gone. Who knew how close it had come to being permanently gone? “Get out,” I muttered. “Get the hell out and leave me alone.”
“Of course, Mr. Langston. There are clothes for you in the closet. I understand you’ve done this before. There will be the usual tests before you can be discharged. In the meantime, I’ll have some food and water sent.” With a slight nod, he turned and strode from the room, leaving me alone with my new body and an old mind full of dozens of jumbled thoughts.
I studied at the mirror, trying to get used to the face staring back at me. The coil was heavier than I was used to, layered with slabs of muscle that felt awkward and ungraceful compared to the body I’d had before. The features were equally thick and heavy, like they’d been carved from rock with a rough chisel and never known the fine finishing hand of a master. The skin tone was a few shades darker than my last body, a fact that in times past might have presented its own set of prejudices and complications. Humanity still had innumerable issues, but at least the process of switching coils had been the death knell of melanin-based discrimination. Thick brow ridges, narrow, deep-set eyes. A chin so square and sharp-edged it looked like it could be used to smash rocks. I suppose it was handsome, in the way that mountains are handsome, but the sheer size would make navigating the tangled wreckage of derelict vessels more difficult.
I scrubbed too-thick hands vigorously over my new face, rubbing away the weariness. The coil was the one I was stuck with, so I might as well get used to it and move on. At least the plumbing was what I, personally, was most comfortable with and the implant seemed to be top-notch. Sarah, I thought, status on the crew of the Persephone?
No members of the Persephone’s crew, apart from yourself, appear to be aboard Prospect station, Langston. I have broadened the search to nearby habitats, but with the transmission lag, I may not have results for a few hours.
I grunted, something my new body seemed well designed for. What about the ship? Any indication what happened to the Persephone?
The last record I have been able to find is from fifty-two days ago. At that time, the Persephone transmitted a salvage claim to the Venusian Consortium, tagging a derelict vessel being pulled into Sol. The Persephone was granted rights to attempt to bring any salvageable materials and any recoveries from the ship. No other records have been found.
The Venusian Consortium was a conglomerate of stations in near-Venus orbit. They’d started with the idea of terraforming—a pipe dream given that the temperature on the second rock from the sun averaged a balmy four hundred and sixty degrees Celsius and widespread terraforming had yet to be successful—but had eventually put so many stations in place that they’d hung a flag and called themselves a nation. They lacked the power of Earth or Mars, or even of the Jovian Alliance, but given how big space was, the fact that they were the closest polity to Sol gave them at least a certain level of legal weight when it came to authorizing salvage in the area. No one else was close enough to bother with policing it. So, we’d been going after something close to the sun. That was dangerous, sure, but fairly routine. What could have gone wrong?
The door to the medical bay opened, and I turned, expecting Dr. Parsons, or one of the medical techs, coming to take me for yet another round of testing. Instead, a slim, athletic man wearing a coil of Asiatic genetic makeup slipped into the room. He wore a neatly pressed suit of deep black silk, black shirt and tie, and a pair of thin black gloves. Something glinted in his right hand, which he held tightly against his leg.
“Who are you?” I asked, stepping into the doorway of the small bathroom to get a better look at him.
His eyes locked onto mine, and something in them made my blood run cold. He didn’t say anything, only regarded me with those black, soulless eyes as he raised his right hand, revealing the four-inch mono-blade.
We stood that way for a frozen moment, sudden heart-pounding fear making it impossible for me to think straight. A slow smile curled his lips, as if he were savoring the moment and he took a long, gliding stride forward.
I stepped back and slammed the bathroom door shut, hitting the magnetic lock plate as I did.
Sarah, alert the doctors, or security or someone.
I’m sorry Langston, but the Net access in the area is being disrupted.
“Wonderful,” I muttered. An impact shook the door, rocking it in its frame. A shoe or shoulder being put to it, no doubt. And it wasn’t exactly going to hold for long. I glanced around the bathroom, looking for anything that could serve as a weapon. Nothing. A different sound came from the door, and I turned my attention back to it just in time to see the point of the mono-knife punch through. The edge, far sharper than any razor, began slicing toward the handle, seeking the circuitry that kept the magnetic lock sealed.
I had scant seconds to make a decision. There was no way out of the bathroom. And, given that the nameless assassin on the other side of the door still hadn’t said a single word, negotiation seemed to be out of the question. I was going to have to fight.
I moved, putting my back against the wall beside the doorframe, the side that had the latch, my eyes locked on the steady progress the knife was making along the door. There was a flicker from the magnetic lock, and the display on it went from green to red, indicating that it had disengaged. I had time to draw half a breath, and then the door exploded inward on the power of another well-placed kick.
The assassin came right behind the kick, rushing in with a speed that would have been overwhelming had I been standing in front of it. The knife came first, and I acted on instinct, smashing down with the edge of my right hand, aiming for the small bones of the wrist, and dropping as much of my body weight into the blow as possible. It was a move I’d had to use before, in my old coil, though in far less dangerous circumstances. I hadn’t counted on the increased weight and strength of my new body, though.
The jarring impact coursed up my hand and arm, numbing and tingling. But I heard the crack of bone from the assailant’s wrist, and the knife flew from it, clattering against the tiled floor and sliding beneath the sink. The man grunted in pain, but never slowed, turning toward me with a short, vicious punch from his uninjured hand.
The blow hit high on my cheek, snapping my head back and making a brief kaleidoscope of light dance before my vision. I reacted on instinct, bringing both my hands up before my face. More pain blossomed on my left forearm as it intercepted an elbow intended for my head. A knee thudded against my ribs as I staggered back the meter or so left to me, ending up in the corner of the bathroom. The assassin surged forward, relentlessly kneeing and elbowing. I couldn’t slip or dodge the onslaught, only cover up as best I could, taking as many of the shots as possible on my arms or legs, protecting my head, ribs, groin, throat, and stomach.
A dozen blows fell in those first few seconds, and I silently thanked whatever chance or fate had put me in a coil protected by thick slabs of muscle and heavy bone. But it couldn’t stand against the onslaught forever, and I knew I had to make something happen. I brought my right leg up behind me, planting my foot against the bathroom wall. With a roar, I surged forward, shoving off the wall like I would in microgravity, bowling full force into the much smaller coil and bearing it to the ground.
Even on the way down, he managed to keep throwing those short, heavy elbows, and I grunted as I felt a rib finally give way from the force. But then I was on top of him, punching down with hands much larger and more powerful than they had once been.