“The cable,” Yukiko called. “The one in your thigh. Throw it up to us.”
Kin fumbled at the compartment on his leg, flipping it open and spooling out lengths of fine metal wire. There was a hook at one end, and Kin swung it in a circular motion at his side before flinging it up toward them. Yukiko lunged but the wire fell short, tumbling back down into the pit. There was another burst of blue sparks from Kin’s shoulder, reflections dancing across grubby, bloodstained bronze.
“Try again,” she cried over the thunder.
The wire sailed from his hand and plunked into the earthen wall two feet below Yukiko’s outstretched fingers. Another arc of orphaned current tumbled down the armored shell, and with a dull whumph, the leaking chi ignited in a burst of blue heat. The boy screamed in terror.
“Throw it,” Yukiko yelled. “Throw it!”
Sailing skyward, the length of cable fell short of Yukiko’s grasp again. She wailed in frustration. Gray, scaled talons stretched out and seized hold of the hook; a clumsy fist, still smeared with trout blood. Buruu growled and snapped the wire up into his beak, heaving with all his strength. Kin was screaming and slapping the flames spreading across his body as two tons of muscle hauled him out of the trap. The thunder roared disapproval. Buruu spread his wings for balance and backed away, cable and claws cutting into moist earth as the boy emerged flaming at the lip of the pit. Yukiko beat the fire with soaking branches, and between the rain and bursts of strange white foam from valves at the suit’s collar, the flames soon died.
Kin gasped, his throat and face charred. Yukiko clubbed at the jammed emergency release with the hilt of her tantō until she heard a dull, metallic snap. Clockwork seals grudgingly unwound, the atmos-suit peeled open, heated metal steaming in the rain. Beneath the shell, Kin’s body was clad in pale skin-tight webbing from feet to throat. The strange covering was melted around his shoulder and chest, the skin beneath red and blistered. To Yukiko’s horror, she saw black lengths of rubber piping inside the suit, plugged directly into Kin’s flesh. Bayonet fixtures made of dark metal were studded along his ribs, the inside of his arms, one embedded just below his collarbone.
“Lord Izanagi save us,” she breathed.
Buruu snorted, shook his head.
THEY DESPOIL EVERYTHING. EVEN THEIR OWN BODIES. MADNESS.
Kin blinked up at her, wincing with pain, licking blistered lips.
“It is bad?”
“You’re burned.” She swallowed. “It’s not good. You need medicine.”
“Aid kit,” he rasped. “Left thigh. Opiates. Antibiotics.”
“I have to get you out of this suit. These pipes in you . . . how do I release them?”
“Push in . . . counter-clockwise turn.” His face twisted, teeth stark white against charred lips. “Gods, it hurts.”
Yukiko fumbled with the compartment on Kin’s left thigh, wrenching it open and spilling the contents onto the leaves. The boy began muttering, a repeated mantra, over and over, whispered under his breath: “Skin is strong, flesh is weak. Skin is strong, flesh is weak.” Sorting through the jumble of instruments, Yukiko found several hypodermics marked with the kanji for “painless.” She stabbed one into Kin’s neck, auto-plunger depressing with a faint hiss. The boy sighed and swallowed, closing his eyes, head drifting back into her lap.
LEAVE HIM. HE IS DOOMED.
We can’t just abandon him, Buruu.
Yukiko took hold of the cable above Kin’s heart, felt it squirm under his skin. The rubber was warm beneath her fingertips, corrugated and vaguely oily. She grimaced, fighting back a wave of sudden nausea. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and pushed, twisting the fixture in until she felt a faint click. With a small popping sound, the cable came loose from the metal stud in Kin’s flesh. Broken motors whirred, the cable retracting partway back into the suit’s lining. Gulping down great lungfuls of air, she repeated the pro cess until Kin was unplugged, flesh pocked with a dozen of the round bayonet collars, sealed tight against the rain.
She drew her tantō, started to cut away Kin’s undersuit. The flames had fused the pale webbing onto his flesh, and she was forced to tear it away, peeling off layers of skin with it. Her lips felt dry despite the rain, her mouth tasting of bile.
Emptying a hypo of antibiotics into his arm, she wrapped his burns in pressure bandages from the aid kit, tiny rolls unwinding into improbably long strips. She poked around the suit’s compartments, salvaging medicine and a tube of gray slush that stank like boiled cabbage. Hoping the muck was Kin’s “nutrients,” she stuffed the items into a netting bag spooled in his belt. An impatient growl rumbled in Buruu’s throat.
POINTLESS. BLOOD SICKNESS WILL KILL HIM. LET US GO.
I told you, I’m not leaving him.
THEN WHAT DO YOU PROPOSE? YOU CANNOT CARRY HIM.
We could put him on your back?