“Dance?” Elpida echoed. “You want me to hit you again?”
Down on the floor, her sun-kissed skin clothed in a silken white party dress, with her ribbon-wrapped calves, her delicate lace elbow-gloves, and a white choker encircling her slender throat, Lykke nodded.
She gazed up at Elpida from behind thickly curled lashes, eyes wet and wide, dyed dark by the scarlet light which glowed from the secret inner walls of Telokopolis. Lykke’s breath came in quivering little hitches; her chest heaved beneath the thin fabric of her dress. Her skin was shiny with sudden sweat. She smelled faintly of fresh grass under hot sunlight, spiced with the iron tang of blood. One hand clutched the hem of her dress, crumpling the fabric in trembling fingers; the other hand fluttered upward to her throat. She brushed the dark purple bruises which began to flower beneath her choker — the imprint of Elpida’s hand.
“Yes!” Lykke hissed. “Oh, yes. Please, little zombie. Let’s dance! As long as you like, any way you like! Do your best!” She tapped her bruised throat. “Do this again, if you need somewhere to start! Do it harder, for longer, until I’m all … all … ”
Lykke trailed off, panting hard, eyes wide and manic.
Elpida almost laughed. She should have expected this. “And you really can get away any time you want?”
Lykke nodded. “Yes! Yes! Don’t even ask that question, don’t concern yourself with it, just pretend I can’t! Pretend you’ve got me at your mercy and—”
Elpida stepped back. She raised her chin and crossed her arms.
Lykke responded exactly as Elpida hoped she would — her face crumpled with confused rejection, sudden desperation burning in her glittering green eyes.
Lykke scrambled to her feet, still panting and quivering with a cocktail of pain and lust. She had to brace herself against the bone-ribbed wall of Telokopolis, as if her knees had gone weak. One lace-gloved hand moved across her own belly, probing the tender flesh where Elpida had gut-punched her. Her pink tongue darted out to wet thin, glistening lips. She hesitated, jaw twitching, unable to form words.
“Go ahead,” said Elpida.
“You don’t— you don’t want to? But— you— please! Please, zombie! I stayed, I stayed, for you—”
Elpida kept her distance. “Howl awoke something in you, with that beat-down, didn’t she?”
Lykke’s face scrunched up, brow furrowed, teeth clenched. “Don’t say her name! Don’t ruin this with talk of that … goblin!”
Elpida raised her eyebrows. She needed to lead Lykke on, but with great care; it seemed that Howl was not the correct pressure point. “But Howl hurt you, didn’t she? She made you feel real pain, possibly for the first time ever.”
Lykke hissed through her teeth. “No! That was you, zombie. Your fists on my flesh. Your face filling my vision. Not her! I could see her, grinning through your muscles, but she was … inconsequential to what we did, you and I, together. She’s not you. I’m not interested in talking about her.”
Elpida considered pushing harder — more talk of Howl might get Lykke to leave. But this opportunity was too good to pass up. Howl had broken something inside Lykke, and now the Necromancer was compromised. Forget intel; if this was not a trick, then Lykke was ripe for plucking.
Elpida cast a different hook: “Alright then. I hurt you. And now you want what — more of that?”
Lykke took a deep breath, straightening her spine and standing upright again, puffing out her chest and cocking her hips beneath her dress, ponytail falling across one naked shoulder. She put one hand around her own throat, fingers mirroring the bruises left by Elpida’s grip. “Pain. That … that experience, I’ve never felt anything like it before. It’s all I’ve thought about since then. I didn’t go back home, I didn’t return, I didn’t even leave the boundary of that storm, because I didn’t want to risk losing sight of you, zombie.”
“Should I be flattered?”
“No other dance, no other sensation I’ve ever felt can compare to it. I … ” She trailed off and swallowed, eyes fluttering shut as if in the prelude to an orgasm. “I can’t believe I’ve been missing out on this, for so, so, so long! And you— you zombies!” Her eyes flew open, cheeks flushed with rosy passion. “You zombies, this is what you feel?! I want more, yes. I want it all. And I want it from you, zombie. You’re the only dance partner I’m interested in now, you’re the best I’ve ever had. It was your hand which made me feel pain, with your face in my eyes. I want more, yes! Yes, little zombie, I want—”
“Say my name.”
Lykke blinked rapidly. “Excuse me—”
“Say. My. Name.”
Elpida gambled. The prize would be worth the risk.
“Zombie?” Lykke giggled. “What does that have to do with—”
“You don’t want Howl,” Elpida said. “So say my name. Call me zombie one more time and I’ll go wake Howl, she can work you over with both fists while I go speak with Telokopolis.”
Elpida made a point of looking away, down the vaulted corridor of giant bones and crimson flesh, to where she had seen that strangely stiff white dress slip beyond sight. A phantom of Telokopolis, gracing her moment of doubt. She longed to follow, but she could not ignore the chance to turn a full-blown Necromancer.
“Elpida!” Lykke blurted out. “Fine, fine! Elpida, Elpida, Elpida! Please, just, let me have this—”
Elpida lashed out with an open palm. She backhanded Lykke across the face.
The slap sent Lykke tottering several steps to one side. She let out a quavering gasp, eyes streaming with fresh tears. Both hands rose to cup her stinging cheek. She held a pose of wordless ecstasy for three full seconds — then coiled back around, breaking into a nasty little smirk, eyes tight, teeth showing.
“Oh, come on, zo— Elpida!” she purred, rubbing her glowing cheek with one hand. “You can do better than that!”
Elpida held her gaze. “What do you mean?”
“Look at you, look at your muscles, your upper body strength! You could slap me halfway down this corridor if you tried. You could knock a girl unconscious with one slap. I want a dance, a real one. Don’t disappoint me now.”
Elpida reconsidered her strategy; perhaps she was being hasty. Elpida knew how to handle partners who needed a little pain — she and Howl had beaten each other black and blue back in life, and half her most intense relationships within the cadre had often involved some kind of physical fighting, mostly on the sparring mats. She was no stranger to the blurred line between a good fight and a hard fuck, though she knew most baseline human beings did not feel that connection quite so strongly, or at all. Every one of her sisters always gave as good as they got, and the shared pain meant something between them.
But Lykke was not a pilot; Lykke was not even human. According to Shilu, Lykke had never been human in the first place — this Necromancer had begun life as a ‘post-human feedback loop’. Was Elpida wading out into waters beyond her depth? Should she turn around and head after the phantom of Telokopolis after all?
Lykke spoke before Elpida could decide. “Do I disgust you?” she said, giggling. “I know this would disgust other Necromancers. This is the most unsanctioned behaviour I’ve ever indulged in! But if this is wrong, I don’t want to be right.”
Elpida pushed, testing the ground. “Who or what sent you after Shilu?”
Lykke sighed and rolled her eyes, shoulders slumping. “Ugh. Don’t talk about her! We’re just getting started, don’t ruin the mood!”
“I hurt you, you give me intel. That’s the deal,” Elpida said. “If you’ve got nothing for me … ” Elpida spread her hands and took another step back.
Lykke followed, trotting forward, eyes thrown wide, hands up as if trying to soothe a difficult animal. “Fine, fine! Um … Shilu, right? Yes! Er, Shilu is … um … very annoying, and … y-yes, I was sent to mop her up. And … and … that’s it!”
“Were you sent by Central? Or by some other faction?”
Lykke shrugged, arms held out, expression desperate. “I don’t know! I don’t care about that! Zom— Elpida! Why do you care?! Why do you care about any of that boring old shit? I’m right here in front of you, I’m here, right now, and—”
Elpida grabbed Lykke’s right wrist in her left hand. The Necromancer had a split-second to gasp, eyes flying wide, lips curling with the anticipation of pleasure — and then Elpida’s right fist crashed into Lykke’s face.
The Necromancer went flying backward, knocked off her feet, suspended from the anchor of Elpida’s hand around her wrist. Blood sprayed from her nose and a burst lip, splattering across the cold floor of the vaulted corridor. She heaved for breath behind the veil of her golden hair, spluttering and moaning through a gush of blood dripping from her face; a few droplets fell just short of Elpida’s naked feet.
“When the storm ends,” Elpida said, “are they going to send more Necromancers after us?”
“ … mm-what?” Lykke moaned.
“Stand up.” Elpida yanked on Lykke’s arm, dragging her back to her feet.
Lykke’s head jerked up and around; she was bleeding from her nose and her upper lip, right cheek blooming with a fresh bruise. Her eyes were full of tears, glazed with trance-like pleasure. She smiled and let out a high, whining moan. “Moooooreeeee—”
“When the storm ends,” Elpida repeated. “Are they going to send more Necromancers after us? Or are you going to attack us again?”
Lykke’s joy curdled; her smile died, her gaze flattened, her wounds no longer seemed to cause her pain.
“You’re so constipated, zombie,” she said. “How do you stand it?”
“I told you to use my name.”
“Perhaps we should do this another way,” Lykke sighed. “Perhaps. You can do so much better, zombie.”
“I hurt you, you share intel. That’s the deal, Necromancer. No intel, no deal.”
Lykke grinned, all white teeth. “Deal? I don’t recall making any deal.”
Elpida let go of Lykke’s wrist. “Then you can go handle yourself—”
Lykke unhinged her jaw.
Her cheeks split open — first to her ears, then further, the sides of Lykke’s throat ripping apart as if her whole neck was a concealed mouth. Her pretty white choker burst in two. Her skull rolled backward, mouth and throat and neck transformed into a giant crimson maw lined with hundreds of razor-sharp teeth, dripping loops of sticky saliva. She reared up, legs suddenly extending, then fell upon Elpida.
Lykke’s giant mouth slammed down over Elpida’s head, plunging her into moist, reeking, humid darkness.
Elpida reacted fast, digging her fingers and thumbs into the pliable flesh of Lykke’s extended neck-mouth. But Lykke was all muscle. Elpida was trapped.
Rows of teeth lanced into Elpida’s neck. She felt flesh part and bone scrape, followed by the unmistakable sensation of her own head parting from her shoulders with a slick wet riiiiiiiip—
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Elpida woke up.
She awoke in her own bed, greeted by the muted colours and soft lights of the dormitory, within the pilot project cadre’s private quarters.
She was wide awake. She remembered everything.
Elpida kicked the covers back, pulled herself from Howl’s embrace, and leapt out of bed. She hit the floor ready to fight, fists raised, empty handed, eyes scanning the cold dormitory for a weapon, for the position of her enemy, for the inevitable surprise attack, for—
Ceiling fans, recycled air, distant vibrations. Nothing moved in the dormitory except herself. Nothing made a sound except Howl’s breathing, deep and soft in uninterrupted sleep. Nothing was hiding beneath the beds. She was back at the start of the ‘dream’, but there was no sign of Lykke.
Elpida forced herself to relax. She swept her hair out of her face. She put one hand to her neck and throat, feeling for a wound. But there was nothing, not even a bruise.
“Howl?” she said, voice pitched hard and urgent. “Howl, we have an intruder. Howl, wake up. Howl!”
Howl grumbled in her sleep. Elpida turned and reached out to shake Howl’s shoulder, loathe to take her eyes off the dormitory, but for some reason she couldn’t reach Howl, couldn’t shake her, couldn’t—
Elpida stopped short and raised the stump of her right arm; the limb was gone from her elbow down, terminating in a long-healed amputation wound.
“Right,” she muttered. “That’s reality.”
Howl grunted. “Elps?”
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Elpida almost repeated her earlier request, but then paused; there was a very good reason for Howl to be asleep. “You can’t wake up, can you?” Elpida said. “Because I’m the one who’s asleep, and you’re busy, you’re looking after the others. How is everything going, out there?”
Howl turned over, rubbing her face against the pillow, eyes still closed. “S’fine. You deal with you, Elps.”
“I’m dealing with a bit more than just myself. Lykke’s in here. She’s playing with me, I think.”
Howl grumbled again. “Then play harder. Play hard ‘till the bitch breaks.”
“ … I’ll try.”
Howl let out a soft snore. Back to sleep.
Elpida considered her options. She could stay here, next to Howl, which would probably keep Lykke away; she could even lie back down in bed and return to sleep — though she wasn’t quite sure what that would represent. She did not wish to return to waking control of her own body; her comrades were likely hunting down the Death’s Heads right then, and she felt they would do better without the burden of her clouded judgement.
And Telokopolis was right here.
Telokopolis had appeared to her, as a network ghost or phantom memory or simple embodiment of everything Elpida believed in. Lykke was nothing compared to the chance to speak with the city. Elpida had to know, she had to ask — was she doing the right thing? Was she on the right path? Did she have the blessing of her true mother?
Elpida grabbed a pair of shorts again, just as she had the first time, dragging them on over her hips. She considered stopping to don one of the pilot suits which lay about the rumpled dormitory beds, but Lykke’s Necromancer tricks would probably not be turned away by a thin shell of polymer weave filled with bio-reactive circuitry and telemetry monitors.
She hurried to the door and hit the palm-pad from the side, in case Lykke was waiting to leap out at her. Then she pressed herself against the wall, to obtain the best view of the corridor before she stepped out of the dormitory. The main hallway of the cadre’s private quarters was empty, just as before. Muted silver and dark cream and soft treelike greens concealed no hidden Necromancer. Elpida made sure to run her eyes carefully along the surfaces, in case Lykke was camouflaged somehow. She checked the ceiling, too — a cheap trick, but she couldn’t afford to be lazy.
Elpida stopped into the corridor.
All the doors were shut. The floor was warm. The recycled air smelled clean and dry. This time there was no buzz of a screen left switched on overnight; the cadre’s quarters were silent, all except for the distant sounds of the body of Telokopolis.
And this time there was no additional corridor; the door to the shower room stood at the end of the hallway, right where it should be. The vaulted corridor of Telokopolan bone and living flesh was gone.
Elpida had missed her chance.
“Fuck,” she hissed. “Lykke.”
Elpida checked the rec room first, hoping to find the dreams of Persephone and Old Lady Nunnus still waiting for her inside. But the rec room was empty, the screen quiet and dark, all the lights switched off. She shut the door and turned back to the corridor; as she did, a low hiss came from the ventilation ducts, trailing off into the faintest whisper of an inhuman giggle.
Elpida held her breath. She stayed as still as she could. She willed her heart rate to slow.
She waited thirty seconds, then a minute. Nothing happened.
Elpida crept down the corridor, moving silently on bare feet, making for the large double-doors which led to the cadre’s private armoury. She considered entering through the gym instead, but she needed more than a sparring staff or a blunt blade; besides, she was not confident using either of those weapons with only one hand.
She reached the big steel doors and hovered her fingertips before the armoury’s palm-pad. Then she stomped her feet twice, a couple of big heavy steps right in front of the door; quickly she hopped to one side and hit the pad. The armoury access light blinked green. The door slid open.
Elpida counted to five, then peered around the door frame, fingers still on the palm-pad.
No sign of Lykke. Elpida stepped inside. The door slid shut behind her.
The pilot project cadre’s private armoury was the equal of any Legion infantry arsenal — just on a smaller scale. A wide room floored in the same matte steel as the rest of their quarters, the armoury was lined with weapons, all plugged into charging ports or cradled in specialised racking or cushioned in soft foam to avoid incidental wear and tear. Handguns, side-arms, personal defence weapons, blades and knives both monoedge and mundane, batons and shock-clubs and big heavy machetes, rifles and carbines and everything in between, shoulder-and-back-mounted autonomic defence rigs, weight-splaying carry-frames for heavy firepower, and all the other infantry-level weapons and systems Elpida had known in life.
The guns were all of familiar Telokopolan manufacture, uniformly matte black or pale silver, made of ultra-lightweight polymers and specialised alloys; most of them were energy, laser, or plasma-projection based, but almost all the solid-shot firearms used either caseless ammunition or shaved their projectiles from miniaturized blocks of nano-manufactured reaction mass. A small table in one corner held Emi and Kit’s passion project — a set of black-powder ‘slug throwers’ in various sizes, all hand made and assembled from raw steel. That little diversion had proven very popular over the years, waxing and waning as different members of the cadre decided to try their hands at tests of mechanical skill, such as building a shotgun which would dislocate the operator’s shoulder when fired.
The cadre did not have much occasion to use this stuff in battle — there was not a lot of point, when one went out into the green inside a combat frame — but Elpida had always made the cadre take personal defence and weapons handling as seriously as they could. Her girls were always the equal of any Legionnaire. They had never been caught out when they had to defend themselves.
Except when Elpida had not allowed them to do so, right at the end.
She quashed that thought. This was no time for it.
In addition to the weapons, the armoury also contained a stock of additional pilot suits, folded up and stowed, along with all the other functional clothing the cadre could need; none of it was particularly interesting, but they never wanted for spares. Rows of greensuits stood along one wall, their flimsy-looking plates hanging loose from the racks. Heavy full-body stands held a set of fifty full hardshell suits, two for each member of the cadre, just in case.
Some of the suits showed evidence of minor repairs here and there; a moment’s glance was enough to bring a dozen memories to the surface of Elpida’s mind, but she did not have time to think about her sisters right then. She bottled that emotion. This place, though not real, was getting to her.
Her own hardshell suit stood at the very end of the row. Could she don it with only one arm? Probably yes, but not quickly. She would be vulnerable.
The armoury had three other exits — one to the gym, one to the firing range, and a big heavy elevator door in the rear. That elevator was large enough for all twenty five of the cadre, all in hardshell suits; it led directly down to the combat frame hangers in the Skirts. That elevator ride would take ten minutes. Elpida wondered if it would work, here in this network ‘dream’.
She hurried over to a rack of side-arms. She needed something she could use one-handed; that ruled out the close-quarters comfort of a monoedge blade, or the stopping power of a rifle.
She grabbed a compact pistol, a lightweight model with as little recoil as possible. She used her left hand to pop the magazine free, then pulled it out with her teeth. Caseless rounds were stacked nearby, and she could load one-handed, but she needed to hurry, before Lykke crawled out of a vent.
But the magazine was already loaded. Sixteen caseless rounds gleamed within.
Elpida almost laughed. Her girls would never have left live ammo in a racked gun. Perhaps the dream was helping her.
She pushed the magazine back into the gun against the side of the racking, shoved the pistol into the waistband of her shorts, and crossed to the PDWs. She lifted a GSD-114 from its charging rack — a ‘Grasshopper’ personal defence weapon, light enough to fire in one hand, tight enough to use in small spaces, forty centimetres of miniaturised magnetic acceleration. She slapped the controls with her chin; the gun’s indicator lights were all green, fully charged and ready to go.
She hefted the weapon in her left hand and struggled to press the stock against her shoulder, then gave up and braced her elbow against her hip. Point shooting would have to suffice.
“Tch!”
The tut echoed off the steel walls of the armoury. Elpida whirled on the spot, finger on the trigger.
“I always assumed you were ambidextrous,” Lykke drawled.
The Necromancer was draped over a hardshell suit — Elpida’s own suit. Her arms lay across the shoulders, chin resting beside the helmet, melting against the grey-green amour like a cat in sunlight. She bore the wounds Elpida had left her with — hand-print bruises on her pale throat, a bloody nose and a split lip, a purple blossom spreading across her cheek — but no sign of the elongated face-maw. Lykke was back to normal.
“I am,” Elpida replied. “That doesn’t mean I can one-hand a gun like this.”
Lykke rose from the hardshell suit, cradling her own bruised stomach. Her fingers fluttered over her flat belly through the fabric of her dress. She winced and flinched, letting out a soft gasp.
“Then why are you waving it around, zombie?” she said.
Elpida didn’t reply. She kept the PDW trained on Lykke. The Necromancer smiled, rolled her eyes, and turned away. She sauntered over to the pilot suits, pulled one out from a bin, and unrolled the soft grey fabric. She held it up to her front, looked down at herself, and did a little twirl. Then she pulled a disgusted face and let the suit fall to the floor.
“You said you couldn’t hurt me here,” said Elpida.
Lykke broke into a smug little smirk and gestured at Elpida with both hands, arms held out wide. “Uh huh! And here you are, untouched!”
“Mm. Neat trick. Felt very real.”
Lykke giggled, biting her bottom lip. “Did you like it? Was it a unique experience, being all the way down my pretty little throat?” She tilted her head back and ran one lace-gloved hand across the bruised flesh of her exposed throat, hooking a finger briefly into her regenerated choker — then she clacked her teeth together three times. “Hahaha!”
“Never had my head bitten off before,” Elpida said.
“Mm!” Lykke purred, hands clasped together, wiggling one leg back and forth. “Your first time! Let’s see how many other firsts we can take from you, shall we?”
Elpida said, “What other lies did you tell?”
Lykke stamped one slippered foot. “Oh, you’re no fun! I was telling the truth, zombie! I can’t actually hurt you. I can’t wipe you! I don’t have that kind of access. No Necromancer does. And this is inside you, dummy. No matter what it feels like in the moment, all I can do is bat you around a bit. Not that I won’t keep going!”
“Why?” Elpida demanded. “I thought you’d discovered a love of pain. Why do you want to fight me?”
Lykke raised both hands in a little shrug. “Because it turns out you are an incredibly boring dance partner when you lack the proper motivation. So! You and I, little zombie, we’re going to play on equal footing.”
Elpida scoffed. She smiled, despite herself. “Equal footing? You’re obviously the one in control of this dream. You can do whatever you want. You just came out of nowhere.”
“Uuuughhhhh,” Lykke moaned. “No, no, no! How many times? This isn’t a dream! Zombie— ugh, don’t give me that look! Elpida, fine. This is not a dream. It’s more like … software!” Lykke lit up. “It has rules, like gravity, inertia, solid objects, muscles. And pain! All the good stuff which makes reality so juicy.”
“And you expect me to believe you can’t break those rules?”
Lykke shrugged. “Out in the real network the rules are more … flexible, for things like me, sure. I won’t lie about that. But here? Mmmm, not really. You’re just a zombie, which means you can’t actually see what’s really going on. I can, and I can fuck around a bit.” Lykke flicked her fingers, as if brushing away a mote of dust. “But I don’t want to! I want to dance! With you.”
Elpida’s stomach tightened, low down, with an excitement she had not expected. She took a deep breath. This was a distraction she could ill afford.
“Equal footing?” she echoed.
“Yes! I’ll stay subject to all the same rules as you. No more teeth, no more claws, I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die!” Lykke ran a fingertip over her chest, over her heart. “Just throw the gun away and come at me. You want this too, zombie. I can tell.”
Elpida didn’t move. “If this is software — my software — why can’t I summon help?”
Lykke sighed. “Obviously because you don’t really want to!” She tutted, then batted her eyelashes and bit her lower lip again. “Zombie, forget about all that. This … this is a first time for me, too. I’ve never done this with a zombie before, inside your own private network, not like this. I feel quite vulnerable, you know? With me it’s always one and done.” She sighed, twirling a lock of hair in her fingers, turned half-aside as if embarrassed. “I’ve never … come back to the same zombie. It’s such a different feeling. You’re the first.” Lykke let out a little moan and shook herself, as if gathering her courage. “And you’re going to have so much fun. I know you will! We’ll both get what we need.”
Elpida felt a tug, deep down in her belly — but she clamped down hard. “And every time you rip my head off, I’m gonna wake up back in my bed?”
Lykke shrugged again. “I don’t know! You can do whatever you want! Why not try to return the favour?”
Elpida shook her head. “I’m not going to let you do that a second time.”
Lykke tutted. “Then why are you still here? You can leave whenever you like! Go back to your little pack of kittens or whatever. But you won’t, will you? Because you’re all twisted up inside. So, as long as you’re here and hiding from responsibility, why not play with me? That’s got to be better than moping about, right?”
Elpida ignored that. “You only got the drop on me because this place is emotionally compromising.”
Lykke tilted her head, blinking innocently. “Oh?”
“ … you really don’t know?”
Lykke wet her lips. “I’ve picked up a little. Something about dead sisters? This is the world you lived in, right? This is the place you lost, and the loss that broke you.” Lykke smirked. “Does talking about it help get you ready? Unconventional, perhaps, but I’m all ears.”
Elpida felt words rising up her throat — yes, yes, this is all I lost, all the echoes and imprints of my sisters are here, and—
And Lykke was a distraction; Lykke was pumping her for info; Lykke had to be dealt with.
Elpida lowered the PDW. “All this is to keep me from speaking with Telokopolis, isn’t it? You took away that corridor. You’re a distraction, keeping me from following, keeping me from finding the certainty I need. That’s your purpose.”
Lykke rolled her eyes, threw up both lace-gloved hands, and let out a strangled scream.
“How self-centred can you be?!” she shrieked. “Can’t you just live in this one moment, zombie?! You can’t even see how bricked up you are, or what I’m offering you! How are you even still going like this?! If I was in your position, I’d be curled up on the floor in a ball!”
Elpida frowned; was she wrong? She’d not really meant the words she’d said, she was testing, but she had not expected this response. Lykke’s answers were difficult to trust, but she asked anyway: “Tell me the truth, Lykke. Did you remove that additional corridor?”
“Does it matter?!”
“Yes,” Elpida said. “Because I need to talk to Telokopolis—”
“How do you even know it’s her, hmm!? Or whatever it is you’re trying to talk to. How do you know?”
“Because it looked like how I … ”
Elpida trailed off. She realised what she had been about to say.
“Ha!” Lykke barked. “How you imagine her, right? Face it, zombie, you’re chasing your own memories. Pay attention to the moment. I’m right here!”
Elpida shook her head. “No. No, she has to be here. I need—”
“What you need, zombie, is a dance you don’t know how to dance!”
Lykke flew at Elpida, hands outstretched, lace-clad fingers hooked like claws. Elpida dropped the PDW to the floor with a clatter; her bait had worked. She drew the pistol from her waistband, aimed one-handed at Lykke’s centre of mass, and pumped the trigger — thock-thock-thock!
Caseless rounds tore through Lykke’s shiny white dress and punched into her ribcage, tearing a trio of bloody holes in her chest. The Necromancer went down in a tangle of limbs, carried forward by the momentum of her headlong charge. She slid to a halt a few feet from Elpida’s toes, twitching and wheezing, blood spreading in a shallow pool on the metal tiles.
Lykke slapped at the floor. She struggled to raise her head.
“Cheater!” she rattled.
Her eyes glazed over. She went limp, then still.
Elpida stepped back and aimed the pistol at Lykke’s head. She pulled the trigger three more times, putting a trio of rounds through Lykke’s skull. Bone and brain matter splattered across the floor. Elpida waited another two full minutes, watching the corpse for signs of motion.
“My network space,” Elpida said. “Which means my rules. I don’t believe that for a second. Get up, Lykke.”
The Necromancer didn’t move.
“Get. Up.”
Nothing. Elpida felt a terrible disappointment — but why? Did she really want to fight Lykke hand-to-hand? She would gain nothing from the experience.
She had to go after that phantom vision of Telokopolis. She had to know. Perhaps the corridor would be there once more, now that Lykke was ‘dead’.
Elpida backed toward the armoury door, not once taking her eyes off Lykke’s body. She touched the palm-pad with her elbow.
Beep!
The access light stayed red. That was not supposed to happen. Back in life, that never happened.
She had to stoop to press the palm-pad with her stump.
Beep. Red light.
She leaned against the wall and awkwardly bumped the pad with one foot.
Beep. Red light.
She stared at the corpse. She waited another sixty seconds. Lykke didn’t move.
“Get up, Lykke,” Elpida said.
Nothing.
As carefully as she could, Elpida moved her left hand toward the palm-pad, still holding the gun. She had to turn the barrel away from Lykke, for just a moment. Her knuckles brushed the pad.
Beep. Red light.
Lykke jerked upright, a whirling vortex of blood-soaked white dress and golden blonde hair.
She scuttled toward Elpida on all fours, bleeding and screeching and cackling from a mouth full of sharp teeth. Elpida flicked the gun around and pulled the trigger, but the rounds cut through Lykke like stones through water, and then Lykke knocked the weapon out of Elpida’s hand. Lykke was on top of her, reeking of blood, a fanged maw pressed into Elpida’s face. She knocked Elpida to the floor. Elpida got a foot into Lykke’s belly, but the Necromancer flowed around the kick like her body was made of liquid.
“That one doesn’t count, zombie!” Lykke screeched. “Equal footing means equal footing! You cheat, I cheat! Next time, use your fists!”
Lykke’s teeth closed around Elpida’s throat. Elpida felt razorblades tear her windpipe open, cold air rushing in to freeze her gullet, blood gushing down her front and—
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Elpida woke up.
She awoke in her own bed, greeted by the muted colours and soft lights of the dormitory, within the pilot project cadre’s private quarters.
She was wide awake. She remembered everything.
“Fuck.”