the kill-kit would appear. Ox never threatened him or shirked his chores, but the potential violence made gentler jobs seem demented. Sometimes Runt thought of the hidden kill-kit and his laughter teetered on the edge of hysteria, but he stopped minding, mostly.
At some point, though he couldn’t say when, Runt forgot that Ox couldn’t talk. They certainly had entire conversations without Ox speaking a word. And Runt found that he talked less, even to himself. There was no need. They grew to be like mismatched brothers and worked together in a kind of seamless symbiosis, until Runt couldn’t remember living solo or wanting to.
As the weeks became a month, the two went from cofarmers to bosom friends. Ox’s HardCell ID indicated they were nearly the same age, with Ox a few years older, but oddly enough, the larger man proved more reckless and playful. For once in Runt’s stupid life he needed to be the grown-up, dressing Ox’s hourly wounds and forcing the bigger man to eat and rest.
Then again, Ox tackled so much of the grunt work and put up with Runt’s addiction to trashy advertainment. He sat through any formulaic crap so long as Runt scratched Ox’s head like an overgrown cat while some lame holo-vid ran.
Eventually, Runt knew Ox better than he’d ever known another living person, better than his parents or his platoon or the other runaways at the spaceport even, yet knew next to nothing about Ox’s past. Mostly Runt didn’t notice, but sometimes the curiosity grew into a maddening itch. Ox hadn’t offered, and Runt knew better than to nose around. No telling what he’d find and no part of it his business.
One afternoon, Runt did find Ox’s HardCell contract in their data terminal, mostly by accident. He almost wished he hadn’t, but he couldn’t stop himself swiping a look-see.
He hadn’t intended to snoop, but the terms were right there, and as usual, his curiosity clobbered his scruples and he took a peek. They were partners after all; his nosiness was purely friendly. It wasn’t like Ox chatted about his past. Not like he really could, right?
“Gods!” Runt leaned forward, knowing he shouldn’t be looking at all.
According to the HardCell agreement, the Terraformation division had recruited Ox actively, offering him a double stock option as bait and a bonus for signing!
In light of his superior genetics, probably. That made sense, and if Runt felt a little jealous, that made sense too. Only fair. He finishes four times the work I can. If anything, Runt rode Ox’s oversized coattails. They’d both be voting shareholders one day, so it hardly mattered.
So who is he?
A mutant question mark, it seemed. The rushed agreement contained more holes than data. Apparently, his cofarmer had met and signed with HardCell on the spot and shipped from New Baghdad, which explained the surprise arrival.
He left in a fucking hurry.
Ox would be back any second.
Again Runt combed through the contract from the beginning. Apparently, Ox had DNA-signed and verified his identity with three tissue samples: blood, hair, bone. A legal employee at least. Hrmm. Not a clone or vat-grown, but obviously more than natural. So . . . the genetic augmentation predated the HardCell contract.
C’mon, c’mon.
Hitting it a line at a time, Runt dug through the legal-speak for any kernels of info. Former occupation: unknown . Training: unknown. Associates: unknown. Vitals: anomalous. Duh. His physiognomy every bit as superhuman as it seemed, yet no cause or clarification given. No diseases. No parasites. No allergies.
No assets.
But the receipts were attached. As soon as he’d signed, Ox had spent half that fat bonus up front, buying the overstuffed container of bleeding-edge biodesign.
A peace offering? A bribe? Bait?
No details on the erotic pheromone splice. No mention of the damaged voice. No explanation of his wealth. No note about the bleeding-edge assassin gear stashed in the hive wall.
Runt flicked his eyes
At some point, though he couldn’t say when, Runt forgot that Ox couldn’t talk. They certainly had entire conversations without Ox speaking a word. And Runt found that he talked less, even to himself. There was no need. They grew to be like mismatched brothers and worked together in a kind of seamless symbiosis, until Runt couldn’t remember living solo or wanting to.
As the weeks became a month, the two went from cofarmers to bosom friends. Ox’s HardCell ID indicated they were nearly the same age, with Ox a few years older, but oddly enough, the larger man proved more reckless and playful. For once in Runt’s stupid life he needed to be the grown-up, dressing Ox’s hourly wounds and forcing the bigger man to eat and rest.
Then again, Ox tackled so much of the grunt work and put up with Runt’s addiction to trashy advertainment. He sat through any formulaic crap so long as Runt scratched Ox’s head like an overgrown cat while some lame holo-vid ran.
Eventually, Runt knew Ox better than he’d ever known another living person, better than his parents or his platoon or the other runaways at the spaceport even, yet knew next to nothing about Ox’s past. Mostly Runt didn’t notice, but sometimes the curiosity grew into a maddening itch. Ox hadn’t offered, and Runt knew better than to nose around. No telling what he’d find and no part of it his business.
One afternoon, Runt did find Ox’s HardCell contract in their data terminal, mostly by accident. He almost wished he hadn’t, but he couldn’t stop himself swiping a look-see.
He hadn’t intended to snoop, but the terms were right there, and as usual, his curiosity clobbered his scruples and he took a peek. They were partners after all; his nosiness was purely friendly. It wasn’t like Ox chatted about his past. Not like he really could, right?
“Gods!” Runt leaned forward, knowing he shouldn’t be looking at all.
According to the HardCell agreement, the Terraformation division had recruited Ox actively, offering him a double stock option as bait and a bonus for signing!
In light of his superior genetics, probably. That made sense, and if Runt felt a little jealous, that made sense too. Only fair. He finishes four times the work I can. If anything, Runt rode Ox’s oversized coattails. They’d both be voting shareholders one day, so it hardly mattered.
So who is he?
A mutant question mark, it seemed. The rushed agreement contained more holes than data. Apparently, his cofarmer had met and signed with HardCell on the spot and shipped from New Baghdad, which explained the surprise arrival.
He left in a fucking hurry.
Ox would be back any second.
Again Runt combed through the contract from the beginning. Apparently, Ox had DNA-signed and verified his identity with three tissue samples: blood, hair, bone. A legal employee at least. Hrmm. Not a clone or vat-grown, but obviously more than natural. So . . . the genetic augmentation predated the HardCell contract.
C’mon, c’mon.
Hitting it a line at a time, Runt dug through the legal-speak for any kernels of info. Former occupation: unknown . Training: unknown. Associates: unknown. Vitals: anomalous. Duh. His physiognomy every bit as superhuman as it seemed, yet no cause or clarification given. No diseases. No parasites. No allergies.
No assets.
But the receipts were attached. As soon as he’d signed, Ox had spent half that fat bonus up front, buying the overstuffed container of bleeding-edge biodesign.
A peace offering? A bribe? Bait?
No details on the erotic pheromone splice. No mention of the damaged voice. No explanation of his wealth. No note about the bleeding-edge assassin gear stashed in the hive wall.
Runt flicked his eyes
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