Chapter 11 · Dirty Trade

"Stop shaking or I'm going to put a bolt through your neck," Sloane snapped, though her own hand was trembling as she shoved me into the rusted dental chair.

I didn't answer. I couldn't. My vision was strobing—white, black, neon violet—and every nerve in my legs felt like it was being scrubbed with steel wool. The gene-rot was winning. I could feel it eating the edges of my consciousness, a cold, numb void creeping up from my fingertips.

"Sloane," I gasped, my voice sounding like I'd swallowed a handful of glass. "The sync... it's not holding."

She leaned in, her face inches from mine. I could smell the ozone and cheap coffee clinging to her tactical gear. She didn't look sympathetic; she looked pissed. "I know it's not holding. That's why we're here. Now shut up and let the Doc do his job before you dissolve into a puddle of genetic sludge on my boots."

Doc was a twitchy man with four cybernetic eyes and a habit of chewing on synthetic nicotine tabs. He didn't look at us. He looked at the monitors, his fingers dancing over a holographic interface that flickered with the sickly green of a dying system.