Carnival

“Miss Kusanagi-Jones.” She heaved herself against him. Every movement jostling her neck felt as if somebody had run electrified wires under her skin. “Miss Kusanagi-Jones!”

His breath caught and a light moan fluttered at the back of his throat, but he didn’t wake. She lowered her head and shoved, smacking her head into his neck. “Dammit, Michelangelo.”

He vanished.

A second later, air cooling against her chest, she realized she hadfelt him move. One moment, Kusanagi-Jones was a yielding obstacle rocking in time to her efforts. The next, she was alone in the dark, and something thumped—a meat-on-bare-earth sound—followed by silence.

And then a voice, barely a breath. “Miss Pretoria?”

She sighed, trying not to dwell on the strength it would have taken to flip himself to his feet while bound wrist and ankle. “Very impressive. So how are you at square knots?”

Michelangelo’s wardrobe wasn’t functioning, information delivered quite unceremoniously by the weight of imitation cloth on his shoulders. He couldn’t tell if it had failed due to power drain or because of exposure to an electromagnetic pulse weapon of some sort.

The wardrobe was shielded, but shielded was not invulnerable. His low-light add-ons, his watch, and his other sense enhancements weren’t functioning either, which told him it was a power problem and not just the wardrobe. But in the case of failure, the fog assumed a default configuration. In Kusanagi-Jones’s case, his gi—and that was what hung around him now with a strangely materialweight.

A quick triage would not rank a malfunctioning wardrobe as the greatest of his problems. The foglets would have made short work of his restraints, but he was trained to operate without them. No, the immediate problem was one of where he was being held, and how to get out of there.

“Keep talking,” he said. “I don’t want to step on you.”

“What would you like to talk about?”

The voice located her. He sat in a different direction, with as slight a thump as he could manage. The rammed earth didn’t give. He rolled onto his back, lifting his legs, forcing his arms down against cords that cut at his wrists.

“Talk about anything,” he said, keeping his voice as level and soft as he could. She didn’t need to know about his pain.

“I heard someone snoring before you woke. I think our guard is napping against the wall.”

“Who do you think is holding us?”

“Right Hand,” she answered immediately.

Discomfort escaped him on a hiss as he stretched to work his arms around his hips, dragging his shoulders down. “Why?”

“Well,” she said, “we know it’s not Parity. And whoever it is has dragged us off to a hut in the jungle, where you might expect bandits and runaways.”

His hands were free suddenly, with a scraping pop. Or, not exactly free, but bound behind his knees rather than behind his back. Awkward, but easily remedied, and once he got them around his feet, he had teeth. A bloody good thing they hadn’t had shackles. “You weren’t kidding about pirates.”

“No,” she said. “Damn Robert to a man’s hell anyway.”

Kusanagi-Jones brought his legs up, hooked his hands under his heels, and stretched and wriggled until blood broke through his scabbed wrists and trickled across the skin. If he had Vincent’s loose-limbed build, this would be easy, but long flexible arms were another of the advantages that hadn’t made it into Kusanagi-Jones’s heritage.

He made it happen anyway, and then sprawled on his back, panting as quietly as he could manage while blood dripped off his thumbs and spattered his chest. It wouldn’t soak into the gi the way it would real cloth, but it could seep between the minuscule handclasped robots that made up the utility fog, and there was no way he was getting it out of there—short of wading into the ocean—until he found a power source.

“Ow,” he said. “Ever noticed this doesn’t get easier?”

“Indeed,” she said. “I have.”

A good smearing of blood and sweat hadn’t made the thin cords binding his wrists any simpler to manage. They were tight enough that they’d be more accessible if he gnawed his thumbs off first. Also tight enough that he wouldn’t even feel it much.

Which would defeat the purpose of getting his hands free. Instead, he dug at the cords with his teeth, scraping at the fibers and working as much mayhem on his own flesh as on the bindings. But eventually he heard a pop and felt a cord part, and the constriction loosened.

The next thing he felt, unfortunately, was his fingers. Which made him wish for one long, brutal instant that he’d just been a good well-behaved secret agent and lain there peaceably waiting for the firing squad.

The pain filled his sinuses, flooded his nostrils, floated his eyes in their orbits. It was physically blinding—he couldn’t see the darkness for the flashes in his vision. Beyond pain, and into a white static he couldn’t see or move or breathe through. Michelangelo gritted his teeth, pressed his forehead to thumbs while tears and snot streaked his face, and held on.