Glasshouse - Charles Stross [3]
But the postexcision rages aren’t my only irritant. In addition to memory edits, I opted to have my age reset. Being postadolescent again brings its own dynamic of hormonal torment. It makes me pace my apartment restlessly, drives me to stand in the white cube of the hygiene suite and draw blades down the insides of my arms, curious to see the bright rosy blood welling up. Sex has acquired an obsessive importance I’d almost forgotten. The urges to sex and violence are curiously hard to fight off when you awaken drained and empty and unable to remember who you used to be, but they’re a lot less fun, the second or third time through the cycle of rejuvenation.
“Listen, don’t look round, but you probably ought to know that someone is about to—”
Before I can finish the sentence, Blondie leans over Kay’s shoulder and spits in my face. “I demand satisfaction.” She has a voice like a diamond drill.
“Why?” I ask stonily, heart thumping with tension as I wipe my cheek. I can feel the rage building, but I force myself to keep it under control.
“You exist.”
There’s a certain type of look some postrehab cases get while they’re in the psychopathic dissociative stage, still reknitting the raveled threads of their personality and memories into a new identity. The insensate anger at the world, the existential hate—often directed at their previously whole self for putting them into this world, naked and stripped of memories—generates its own dynamic. Wild black-eyed hatred and the perfect musculature of the optimized phenotype combine to lend Blondie an intimidating, almost primal presence. Nevertheless, she’s got enough self-control to issue a challenge before she attacks.
Kay, shy and much further advanced in recovery than either of us, cowers in her seat as Blondie glares at me. That annoys me—Blondie’s got no call to intimidate bystanders. And maybe I’m not as out of control as I feel.
“In that case”—I slowly stand up, not breaking eye contact for a moment—“how about we take this to the remilitarized zone? First death rules?”
“Yes,” she hisses.
I glance at Kay. “Nice talking to you. Order me another drink? I’ll be right back.” I can feel her eyes on my back as I follow Blondie to the gate to the RMZ. Which is right beside the bar.
Blondie pauses on the threshold. “After you,” she says.
“Au contraire. Challenger goes first.”
She glares at me one more time, clearly furious, then strides into the T-gate and blinks out. I wipe my right palm on my leather kilt, grip the hilt of my sword, draw, and leap through the point-to-point wormhole.
Dueling etiquette calls for the challenger to clear the gate by a good ten paces, but Blondie isn’t in a good mood, and it’s a very good thing that I’m on the defensive and ready to parry as I go through because she’s waiting, ready to shove her sword through my abdomen on the spot.
She’s fast and vicious and utterly uninterested in playing by the rules, which is fine by me because my own existential rage now has an outlet and a face. The anger that has been eating me up since my surgery, the hatred of the war criminals who forced me into this, of the person I used to be who surrendered to the large-scale erasure of their memories—I can’t even remember what sex I was, or how tall—has a focus, and on the other end of her circling blade, Blondie’s face is a glow of concentration and fury to mirror my own.
This part of the remilitarized zone is modeled on a ruined city of old Urth, shattered postnuclear concrete wastelands and strange creeping vegetation shrouding the statues of conquerors and the burned-out wreckage of wheeled cars. We could be alone here, marooned on a planet uninhabited by other sapients. Alone to work