Sensations of Chrome and Flesh
The low thrum of a mag-lev gliding by on its suspension field reverberated through the cheap sheetrock walls of the hab. Rolling over slightly, Glazer cracked one eye to see the dull glow of neon cascading through the shredded polycloth draped over a grimy sheet of plasti-glass that served as the hab’s window.
Empty food containers littered the floor around a foam roll—his makeshift bed—along with crushed stim juice packets. The rancid stench of their congealed contents mixed with the hab’s general odor of mold, thickening the air. Dark bruises stained the walls where cheap, leaking pipes sweated moisture into the sheetrock.
Glazer threw a chrome forearm across his brow and shifted onto his back, savoring a few more minutes of comfort before the waking world intruded. It felt good to let go, to float in the sensations of his body—the tingling pulse of his nervous system reminding him he was still alive. An itch teased the bottom of his foot, and he reveled in it instead of scratching. These simple moments kept him connected to the “bag of meat” he called his body.
The cool, hard chrome against his forehead threatened to break the spell, tugging him toward full awareness. But for now, he drifted on a sea of sensation, floating in the waters of pure experience.
Those liminal moments between sleep and waking had become his favorite—not dreaming, not fully conscious, just drifting like tides against a shore.
Then pounding erupted against the thin wooden door, shattering his tranquility. Jerking upright, he listened intently as an uneasy silence settled in. Slowly, he reached for his gear bag, his polished fingers closing around the grip of his compact machine pistol. He froze, not daring to make a sound. Probably some ganger looking for easy creds, he thought, his grip loosening slightly.
A familiar click sounded from the other side of the door, picked up by the Hensake gear in his head.
Time slowed to a crawl as his ‘Flex Booster kicked in. Chunks of wood splintered as a hail of lead ripped through the door. Glazer could almost see the pellets flying past, thocking into the far wall. He kicked aside the thin sheet serving as a blanket, pushed off backward, and yanked the Ingram free, steadying it with his other hand as he squeezed the trigger.
The muzzle flared white-hot, ejecting rounds toward the remnants of the door. Shells popped frenetically from the ejector like fleas abandoning a drowning rat. He slid backward on his ass, away from the foam pad.
With a crash, a brutish frame collapsed into the room, rending the door like cheap paper. Blood pooled beneath the body.
From the hallway, a gravelly voice rumbled, “Glazer, you fucking squid, I’m here to collect!”
“Aw, fuck.” The words dropped like a stone in his ears.
“Your chips cooked my customers’ brain stems. I want my fucking money back—and I’ll take whatever’s left of your gear as a fee for my trouble.”
Scrambling to his feet, Glazer shouted, “Your ‘customers’ are a bunch of frypans—no shock they scrambled their own eggs, Vlek!” He checked the Ingram’s magazine and cursed. His eyes darted around the room. An overturned plas-crete table lay in the corner, its once-polished surface now chipped and pitted. He wheeled toward it, skidding across the slick floor and nearly falling as he ducked behind the barrier.
Vlek stepped into the doorway, his compact shotgun roaring. Chunks of the foam roll and wooden flooring erupted under the thunderous blast. The barrel swung toward the table, and Vlek’s lips curled into a thin smile as he fired again.
Pellets smacked into the plas-crete, the impact driving the table into Glazer’s shoulder. He ejected the spent magazine as another salvo peppered the tabletop. Enough for a couple of bursts—but not enough to pierce whatever armor Vlek’s hiding under that duster.
Gritting his teeth, Glazer swung his chrome arm over the edge and fired blindly at Vlek’s legs. A pained grunt answered him, followed by a shotgun blast tearing into the ceiling. Seizing the moment, Glazer lunged from behind the table, sprinting opposite the errant shot.
He snapped off the last rounds in Vlek’s direction as he dove through the plasti-glass window toward the street below.
As he fell, his mind raced. If I survive this landing, I’ll need a trauma team to make it through the day. The fall stretched into an eternity, rainbow neon reflecting off his chrome forearm as the concrete rushed up to meet him.
Well, if you gotta go, might as well do it with style.
His feet hit first. The reverberation shuddered through his frame, bones splintering under the force. His pain limiter activated, but he shut it off with a thought—he wanted to feel this fully. For a fleeting moment, he was back in his sleeping roll, savoring the raw sensation of being alive.
The eight-story impact flattened his legs before the force traveled up, crushing his pelvis. Shock and pain overwhelmed his nervous system, tripping his consciousness breaker like an overloaded circuit.