“Do it! I’m shutting down all the auxiliary systems,” Pingu declared through the radio. “Hold on!” There was a jolt and the lights went out. The continuous purring of the filtration device had stopped. Only the medical module and the microcomputers were still operating.

  “We should dissociate the two,” I explained. “We’re facing an implant that alters brain activity and electromagnetic fields governing semi-human neurons!” Ali frowned. “Alright—I just made that up!” I admitted. With the rear legs anchored on the chair, I struggled to break through the pirate implant’s data-core barriers. Unfortunately, with the ongoing battle between Sassie and Nash, no nerve signals remained stable. “I just know that Sassie has to stay lucid—or I’m incapable of interfering with Nash!”

  The data-microcore resisted, its defenses thrashing like a cornered animal, but it wouldn’t last long. The zealot hissed under his breath, cursing his misfortune. It was his ultimate affront—he could feel the presence of the worm slithering, burrowing deeper into its brain with the relentless persistence of a parasite. But my virus crawled too, like a silent invader threading through the intricate web of circuits, seeking the weak points. And then, with a sudden, sharp jolt, my program dug in, its digital tendrils embedding themselves into the tadpole wired-brain.

  Instantly, all the virtual barriers crumbled away, unable to withstand the invasive force. The tadpole and its brain chip almost fried from the overload, the energy surge threatening to burn out the entire system. Sparks of data and fragments of code scattered in chaotic flashes, but the data-microcore was ours. Nash, momentarily stunned, was knocked out of the race, his focus shattered. Victory again, but so much damage was done. My attack hadn’t just breached the defenses—it had fused the implant to the brain. The tadpole melded with the neural pathways, creating an irreversible alteration. Sassie would never be the same again.

  “1776-1789-1821-1848!” she listed between her fangs. It was a code.

  “Did you hear that, Mel?” I asked on the talkie.

  The grumpy rabbit confirmed the proper consideration of what was presumably the encrypted key. The Buzz Aldrin could deviate from her murderous course.

  The Freak was crying all the tears in her body. She struggled so hard that her forearms and ankles were bleeding. But already, her wounds on the wrists were healing around the metal that held her. “Help me now… I beg you!”

  Alas, Nash had finally regained control. He laughed. After a spit aimed at Ali’s face, he repeated his constant threats: “We—well done. But it’s too—too late. I will ki—kill this bitch slowly. Your ma—machine and your grasshopper can’t do anyth—What?” My partner had drawn her caliber and placed it on Belle’s forehead. “You—you are insane!” Nash reacted.

  My human ignored it: “Lee? Can she recover? Shall we do it?”

  I sighed. Salamanders were once famous for their regenerative abilities. They could regrow entire limbs, tails, parts of their hearts, eyes, and even sections of their spinal cord. “This is either a bold idea or a really idiotic one.”

  Ali cocked her gun. “Boldiotic is our motto, hairball… Belle? You’re gonna act like a strong salamander.” Mute, syringes of morphine in the mouth, gave the green light for this crazy poker shot.

  “Freedom or death!” cried Nash.

  As if a stupid program could know one or the other.

  The next morning, Pingu had set up the Ark for the return flight and Braun came to tell us about the response of the Marine HQ concerning the implant: “Stolen from a stock of Deimos laboratories two months ago. Reconfigured by the rebels for such attacks. Things are now being taken care of by the highest instances and—”

  “Fuck your instances and whatever that means!” My partner was furious and for a good reason. Belle’s involvement could be costly to the Freaks.

  “Stop focusing on the big picture,” Braun resumed. “Technocracy… Freedom League… Intra-stellar wars and revolutions will always be there, no matter how much air you and I toss around. But one thing has changed today!”

  “—the life of this young woman,” the marshal who had joined us went on. A cigarette continually at the corner of the muzzle, he sadly glanced at Sassie Salamanca who was slowly healing from a wound much more profound than chains or bullets in the brain. “Our dear Mute will craft her a new FID. Amalthea will take care of her.”

  Braun smiled. “For my part, Salamanca died on the Buzz Aldrin.”

  Marshal Bunny offered me a cigarette before he escorted us to our ship with the Marine. Returning to Amalthea Bay wasn’t our plan as I wished to take advantage of the planet’s gravitational pull to continue our journey across the Outer Worlds. On the way, Braun promised to pay us the bounty, but Ali refused. The entire sum was to be given to Sassie.

  “Captain, your girlfriend’s competent,” said Mel when Ali left the hatch. “Competent, but insane.”

  “Competent suits me perfectly,” the Soviet concluded by closing the airlock of the Kitty for us.

  We were back in space alone. I sat hunched over the glowing screen of the main computer, one paw lazily tapping at the keyboard while the other held a half-burned cigarette, the smoke curling around my furry face reflecting on the screen. I spent the night studying the chip. With a half-hearted swipe of my paw, he zoomed in on the final analysis. I paused, then let out a low, tired meow.

  My partner showed up, munching. “Our friend the tadpole is giving you headaches, uh? Braun said it was military. Their codes are hard to break, Z told me.”

  “That tadpole never set foot on Deimos,” I breathed.

  Ali coughed. “Tadpoles have feet?”

  “The TMC layer is just a decoy. Or an elaborate con. I don’t know.”

  “Then what do you know?”

  I knew the tadpole was a dangerous biochip. A once patented Monsutā model for sure. I puffed on my cigarette, squinting at the screen. I flicked the ash from my cigarette onto the desk, my tail twitching with irritation.

  “First the mutants and their factory, then this,” Ali said. “I don’t like this. Should we ping Z?”

  Yes.

  Back to boldiotic business…

  大胆で愚かな仕事に戻るぞ...

  #13 THE SCARLETT CITADEL

  第13話 紅の城塞

  Thorandell had traversed the wild expanse of the Churult Forest for many days, the verdant canopy above him thick with ancient mist. His golden hair, matted with the grime of days on the road, fluttered faintly in the breeze as he pressed on. The stench of Samurgolde’s foul outskirts was already a distant memory, a place abandoned nearly a fortnight ago. His supplies were dwindling, his body weary, but his spirit burned with the fire of purpose. He knew his goal was near. His chest, ever faithful, thrummed with the pull of the silver medallion—an heirloom gifted by the wise sage Tira Threskaal. The faintest tremor in its heart told him the time had come.

  A presence—ancient and terrible—watched him from beyond the veil of fog, unseen but ever close. And then, as he stumbled into the shadow of a gnarled willow draped with moss, it took shape before him. His breath caught in his throat. “Elisabelle?” he whispered, her name a mournful prayer on his lips. But no, it was not her. It was a vile illusion, a conjuration of foul sorcery, a cruel trick born of the dark powers that sought to undo him. The visage of his lost love flickered and faded into the gray, like a phantom that could not endure the light of his resolve.

  Anger, cold as the northern wind, seized his heart. His hand tightened around the hilt of his blade, but even as he steeled himself for the next trial, he felt it—another presence. In the depths of the forest, among twisted and black bushes, a strange creature lurked. It was like a boar, but its gray fur was thin and patchy, ravaged by some fell curse. The creature writhed in agony as blood-red bubbles swelled from its ribs, popping with a sickening sound, revealing eyes—eyes—gazing out in every direction.

  Thorandell’s lips curled into a snarl. “By the skull of Wulghor! Enough of this madness!” he roared, his voice an unshakable call to battle. With a mighty cry, he surged forward, his broadsword flashing through the air.

  The beast was no match for him. His blade cleaved through its cursed hide, and with a final, pitiful scream, the creature fell. Yet as its blood spilled upon the earth, a strange thing occurred. The soil beneath him began to glow with an unnatural light, and a narrow passage—a dark and fetid gorge—opened in the ground, its stench rising like the breath of some long-dead leviathan.

  For a moment, Thorandell hesitated, his heart gripped by a cold dread, but only for a moment. His will was iron. With a deep breath, he cast aside his fears and plunged into the mire, crawling into the belly of the earth itself, as he had once done when he faced the wyrms of the Darkfrost Peaks. He feared no darkness. The Emerald Flame burning within him would guide his way.

  And so it was that at the end of this vile passage, Thorandell stood before the Citadel of Eyes. The air here was thick with the stench of blood and rot, and the very walls of the citadel seemed to pulse with a grotesque, unnatural rhythm. It was a structure of living flesh, warped and twisted, its surface crawling with eyes—thousands upon thousands of them, all blinking, unblinking, watching. The sight was enough to make even the stoutest heart falter.

  “Who dares approach?” a voice croaked, ancient and perverted by madness. From beneath the shadows, a wretched figure emerged—a hunchbacked, blind, though its head grew grotesquely from the center of its twisted torso. It lurched towards him, a mockery of life.

  “I am Thorandell, son of no king, warrior of the forsaken path. And I have come to face Balmorya, the Goddess of Eyes.”

  The creature’s laughter was a sickening sound, as if it was mocking the very idea of a mortal challenging its mistress. “Shall the Glorious Eye answer your feeble cry,” it muttered, before its laugh ended in a horrible, gurgling rasp. In a flash, the creature crumpled into a pile of dust, consumed by some unseen force.

  Above, in the highest tower of the bastide, a thunderous crack split the air, and the eyes of the citadel turned to Thorandell. Their crimson pupils burned with malice, their gazes heavy with centuries of cruelty and despair. His head swam with dizziness as their oppressive stare threatened to overwhelm him. Yet his resolve remained unbroken. He had come too far. This battle, this nightmare, would end here.

  “Come forth, servant of darkness!” he bellowed, his voice shaking the very earth beneath him. “Know the end of your reign!”

  But as he raised his sword in defiance, it began to vanish, the steel melting into the air like fog. His hands, too, began to fade, as if the very fabric of reality was unweaving itself before his eyes. “Illusion!” he cried, but his voice echoed at him in a hollow, mocking tone.

  When his vision cleared, he saw the medallion of Tira Threskaal—broken, shattered upon the earth. Despair rose in his chest, but his grip remained firm upon the runed sword of his forefathers, the blade that had guided him through countless trials.

  Then she appeared. Balmorya, the Goddess of Eyes, a sickening blend of beauty and decay. Silver hair floated about her face like a cloud of living mist, her skin as pale as death itself. Upon her brow sat a crown wrought of eyes, each a faceless, sightless orb, and from them all, an unholy light shone, as if the very cosmos itself had turned its gaze upon him. Her voice, when it came, was a serpentine hiss, each word dripping with venomous magic. “You dare challenge me, foolish worm? Do you not know that the Emerald Flame has led you here only to die?”

  With grim resolve, Thorandell recited a protective charm, wrapping his body in the ancient wards of his people. He invoked the power of his blade, the steel infused with an elven enchantment from Elisabelle, the woman he had failed to save.

  With a cry of defiance, he struck.

  But Balmorya, swift and terrible, turned aside his blows with ease, her claws swiping through the air as though they were mere wisps of wind. With a single motion, she cast him down, and his enchanted blade was wreathed in unholy fire, its magic shattered like glass.

  Thorandell’s breath caught in his throat as a searing pain lanced through his chest. He felt Balmorya’s cruel will piercing his heart, her power coiling around him like a serpent, choking the life from his very soul. His arms bled, and from the gaping wounds, eyes—horrible unblinking eyes—sprang forth, gazing at him with baleful malice.

  “You cling to the past, mortal. You are nothing but a festering gash, a scar that refuses to heal. Your suffering is your own,” the Goddess of Eyes crooned, her lips brushing against his ear as she bound him tighter in her spell.

  Her will guided his hand, forcing him to grasp his sword with trembling fingers. He could feel her cold, malevolent touch upon him, urging him to raise the blade to his throat. His body obeyed her commands, though his mind screamed in rebellion. The blade—his blade—slowly pressed against his neck, the steel digging into his flesh, blood staining the air around them.

  “I failed,” Thorandell whispered, his voice hollow with defeat.

  The last thing he saw before the light of his consciousness flickered out was the countless eyes that stared back at him—those wretched, unblinking eyes. And then, darkness.

  Thorandell had lost. The Goddess of Eyes won.

  “Oh, man! This game’s fuckin’ lame!” Ali shouted. She threw her virtual reality helmet against the monitor so violently that one of the lenses sprang onto the nearby arcade cabinet.

  “Indeed,” I conceded, my eyes on the irritating ‘Game Over’ screen. “Your concubine the elf has left you quite an ineffective enchantment to begin with. Even the medallion caught fire.”

  Frenetically pressing random buttons, my partner cursed. “Fuck! Do I need a cheat code or what?”

  Ali was fulminating. She had been wasting our corpo-tokens for days trying to beat the most powerful hidden boss from Forgotten Quest, the Monsters & Mazes videogame. It was her new fad since she broke Benàn’s VR set on Dragon’s Lair.

  The arcade had become our second home. Ali spent so much time haunting the place that her usual pink jacket and jumpsuit were long forgotten, replaced by her stretched-out Fred Flintstone pajama top. But eventually, we had to move on. A teenager and his girlfriend had claimed the machine with a quarter propped against the coin box—a ritual as old as the arcade itself.

  “Fuckin’ elves!” my Homo erectus cursed again on our way out.

  “Language.”

  “Eat my shorts!”

  “You don’t wear any.”

  Videogames always made her cantankerous. But it never lasted too long. Ali quickly smirked and gave me a friendly pat on the head. Her stomach rumbled at the same time as mine. A knowing look validated our next activity.

  With its towering cylindrical spires, the Syd Mead cityscape of Thebe blanketed Jupiter’s fourth moon in a frenetic glow, crafting one of the most electrifying metropolises in the system. A living organism of concrete, steel, and neon, Thebe pulsed with restless energy, its expansion unstoppable. When its high-rises grazed the limits of the artificial atmosphere—just as they had on Deimos—human ingenuity turned inward, drilling deep into the moon’s rocky core. From these endeavors emerged a labyrinth of subterranean chasms, earning Thebe its nickname: the City of Wells. Here, the most radioactive nightlife in any orbit thrived.

  Under the eternal glow of its synthetic night, Thebe was a hedonistic kaleidoscope. Psychedelic drugs and questionable liaisons were paired with greasy, indulgent street food and over-the-top entertainment. The air was thick with the scents of sizzling oleaginous delights, and the avenues blazed with the fluorescence of titanic neon signs. Casinos and arcades hummed with electric energy, while cabarets, theaters, and open-air discos showcased android singers and electro-swing bands that had the Outer Worlds in thrall.

  Host and Hostess Cake clubs rubbed elbows with brothels, Holosex booths, and sex shops, promoting new frontiers of freedom and indulgence. Between these dens of pleasure, shady liquor stores and strip-club shooting ranges whispered of danger and delight. The rotary walls of Thebe’s mines bustled with chaotic life, their hive-like structures alive with roaring taxicabs, nutrigel delivery drones, and flying limousines crammed with intoxicated bikini-bimbos, dazed mercs, and Jovian princes. It was a sovereign world that thrived on turmoil, excess, and the unmistakable hum of humanity on the edge.

  “Do you remember a good place for a quick snack?” I asked as I jumped onto the highest pedestrian walkway under the windy void.

  It was always dark in Thebe’s shafts, but the blazing signs and giant provocative holograms provided enough light to see clearly. Despite the hustle and bustle, silence reigned on most footbridges as the chasm absorbed the noise. But the smells of grindage weren’t lost in the void! A soft warm breeze brought me the Mexican flavors of a nearby Naugles restaurant.

  “Wait a sec’! It’s like a critical process!” Ali replied, plugging her implant into a public terminal. “This city’s freaky tubular!”

  “Tubular? What does ‘tubular’ even mean?” I meowed. “You should take a break from MTV, girl.”

  Her eyes again glued to a screen, she wasn’t listening to me. Sometimes, it was worse than her necessary sugar addiction.

  I seized the opportunity to borrow a cigarette from a sweat-soaked lady stumbling from a Holosex booth on all four. A minty smoke in my mouth, I sat on one of the benches outside a skater shop before an android offered me some fire coming from his left thumb. “Appreciated, my good fellow,” I whispered, bending my head.

  But the white flame within reach, I was interrupted by several shots. Burstings echoed from the platform just below us. Through the wired mesh flooring, I saw a group of men in black suits with implants covered faces chasing someone: a barefoot young woman wearing a cheap silvery dress and a plastic charm necklace.

  “The TV says you’re poisonin’ yourself with that garbage,” Ali scolded me, a portion of Salsa Shark in hand.