Quoted By:
“I’ve got some spares back in Hampton,” he continues, rubbing his chin, “Problem is they’re sized for me, and unless you’ve got a sudden growth spurt in you, they’ll swallow you whole. But…” He grins. “I can call in a favor or two. Get something closer to your fit…whatever it is. I ain’t nearly shameless enough to ask for your measurements.
Your lips twitch before you even realize it. Something dangerously close to a smile.
“Think of it,” he adds, “As payment for letting me hitch my rowboat to your fancy underwater blacksite escape pod. Fair trade, yeah?”
You find yourself tilting your head, words slipping out before you’ve fully thought them through. “Hopefully something in-season. If I end up looking ridiculous, I’m charging a berthing fee.”
The moment hangs.
Then, you realize it was a joke.
Your own joke.
Harper grins wide. “Hah. Sassing me already. But don’t worry – the hottest fashion keywords this year are ‘tactical’ and ‘survivability’, and we’ve got plenty of surplus to go around.”
>>Will my modem be enough to get myself killed in a geomagnetic storm zone? Do you or the regiment have data on where the storms are likely to shift to?
His eyes don’t miss the way your hand lingers at the back of your neck, thumb brushing the place where the modem hums under your skin. Outside, the clouds boil and roil, lightning flashing in colors that split the sky like broken glass.
“The storms don’t like cyborgs,” Harper says, voice even but careful. “Even the ones with just a couple of chips rattling around. The more implants you’ve got inside you, the more likely it cooks you…or worse, shoves you closer to cyberpsychosis. That’s why I get to go wherever I please. No implants, no static in my skull.”
He gestures vaguely your way. “If that modem’s the only thing you’re running, you should be fine. Headache at the worst. You’re not a hotrod – chrome-chasers trading out working parts just to brag they had the slickest new thing on the market. Those folks? When the Cataclysm hit, if they didn’t fry instantly, they went psycho. Turned on anything with a pulse.”
Gooseflesh prickles sharpest where the modem rests. The memory of the facility flickers unbidden, the staff turned to gore and charnel under a rampant AI.
He lets out a long breath, eyes tracking the violent horizon. “Truth is, we don’t have a surefire way to predict where a storm lands. Best we manage is watching the skies, and keeping close to cover. Underground’s the safest, but failing that, you throw together the best Faraday cage you can, and pray you have enough tinfoil.”
You grimace. “…you mentioned spacers and vaulters not being welcome. What about cyborgs?”
(cont.)
