Page 6 of Tyton: The Spider and the Dragonfly (Tyton #1)

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allie stepped outside and activated her Thermabulle. Arctic winds whipped snowflakes and Vendr wrappers around, but Callie didn’t feel it. Coats were anachronistic and you only had them as a fashion statement. Or to prove that you could afford one.

Plastic surgery was the new marker of good taste. DocPods had changed it almost overnight. In mere hours, you could rebuild your entire body, within reason and the limits of your bank account, of course.

Whatever you wanted, as long as the instructions could be coded into human genetics, you could have.

More melanin? They could amp it up. Want less?

They could do that too. Almost any shape of face was possible, as were eyes, colour, hair, hell, even your body odour.

If you wanted it, they could give you back the tail you had in your mother’s womb.

Cat ears and longer tails for folx into that sort of thing were possible, though only from DocPods coded to ignore safety protocols on the black-market.

And they often failed. You only found them in the same places that did gang tattoos and heavy body mods.

You’d also be awake for the entire procedure.

And predictably, it didn’t erase insecurities.

It only made your skin and features something you changed to fit in with this year’s fashion trends.

Rather than targeting out-groups to look like in-groups, they could target everyone and change it up whenever market conditions foretold it would reap the greatest profits.

Besides, humans seemed perfectly capable of making up those groups by themselves.

Of course, when it all started, white was the most expensive melanin option.

And then every other colour became a fashionable counterculture.

Within the span of a decade, attacking someone’s race didn’t even make sense.

They had solved racism in the most racist way possible – by making it a consumer product.

About the only thing that you couldn’t alter was your biosig, at least not with a standard DocPod.

Not even black-market pods could do that.

Those pods were back-alley custom programmed, jealously guarded and not for sale.

Even then, you had to consider the pain and recovery time.

You didn’t do it unless you were prepared to lay low for a while and you were in enough trouble.

Callie wondered how many of the Adlets had undergone that procedure.

Halfway through The Cars, she spotted three of them beating the shit out of some poor bastard.

She stole as much of a glance as she dared and confirmed that it wasn’t Mike.

Callie turned away and kept walking. She knew that she probably would have ignored it, even if it was Mike.

A fighter, she was not. Nor was she stupid enough to get on the wrong side of a gang.

On the other side of the Cars stood the proper buildings.

Towers made entirely of Hexaline – a true miracle of technology.

Pearlescent grey bricks printed in a honeycomb structure and full of Auratomic wire.

They connected seamlessly with your PalmInter and effectively turned every surface into an interactive screen.

And yet, with the widespread adoption of Optis, the vast majority of Hexaline was used as a lightbulb, a video projected window or ad space.

Giant illuminated designs reflected against the oatmeal-coloured snow.

Porn of every preference splashed over multiple buildings.

EosTech, Scrip Dominion, NovAITech – the classiness of the business didn’t matter.

All of it had someone’s neon arse on the wall. Some of them with tails.

Callie sincerely wished Sparx’s beta ad blockers worked on this shit.

The lineup at Binge already stretched to several blocks.

Callie found a spot next to a skip that had vomited up its contents and threatened to take over the street.

She really should have listened to Sparx and left earlier because she hadn’t accounted for the NYE crowd.

She knew she should have gone out more often instead of holing up at home reading trash novels.

Sparx didn’t bother to respond. Instead, a heavyset, muscular woman with short-cropped silver hair and more piercings than a studded tyre, yanked her out of line and pulled her into the club. She left Callie to pay with a wink and a grin. Of course, Sparx would know people.

The last time she had been here would have been with Brin.

Rope was their thing. Their friends could appreciate it, but weren’t really into it.

Rope took a lot more practice and patience than most people were willing to invest. It was also a lot more dangerous than it looked, and things could easily go sideways.

But Callie loved the feeling of being tied.

She loved being able to let go of the job.

The bills. The constant struggle to survive.

Callie loved someone else taking that control, even if only for a little while.

She hated Brin for causing her to abandon something she loved, but she was still grateful that she had learned those things about herself.

Some people went their whole lives unable to put what they really needed into words.

Brin had shown her, and Callie would always hold some measure of gratitude at least. She just wished Brin could have been able to accept help herself when she had needed it.

Callie noticed the décor had changed since she had last been here forever ago. Dark Hexcel beam and faux paper panelling lined the walls. Callie guessed it was an attempt to mimic a Japanese temple, or at least what people remembered Japan had looked like.

“Is this for the show tonight or has it been here a while?” Callie asked the doorman.

“No idea. Just hired for the night.” He waved her in.

Rhythms and counter-rhythms thrummed from behind the padded door, some of which required the right audio tuner soft to properly process – another gift from Sparx.

Callie pushed the door open, and the unfiltered music hurt her ears before her aural processor compensated.

She could still feel the pressure changes reverberate through her bones.

Sparx sat more elegantly than should be possible. Long, lithe legs crossed with candy apple red stilettos and a dress that looked like someone had poured liquid latex over her. With the money Sparx made, Callie wasn’t entirely certain that wasn’t what had happened.

Callie’s Opti flashed Sparx’s current pronouns, though it wasn’t necessary. She had seen her this afternoon. Sparx would change genders every few years but still loved the binary. She claimed it was because she liked the retro feel of it. Even Sparx had an old school sci-fi quality to it.

“Took you long enough.” Sparx winked and stirred her drink. She tilted her head so her long raven black hair spilled seductively across her shoulders. The audio tuners focused on Sparx, filtering out the rest of the noise around them.

“Is winking back in style? I swear, that butch you paid to bring me in also winked at me.”

Sparx shook her head, her hair following in waves. “Nah. She just likes you. Bert loves baby butches.”

Callie raised an eyebrow. “Her name is Bert? Is that short for something?”

“Yeah, but she’d kill me if I told you. Get her number and find out yourself.” Sparx sipped her gaudy red concoction – likely a third each of ethanol, red dye and sugar. Callie waved it off.

“Bert’s not your type? That’s okay, we’ll find you someone.

“Not a…” Callie started, but Sparx interrupted.

“I know, I know, no polys” Sparx raised her hands defensively.

“I didn’t say that I just said I need to know first.”

Sparx opened her mouth to protest, but Callie continued.

“I don’t need to know everything either, but some details are more important than others. No penises. Or you’ll be picking me up at 2 am.”

“I do recall you saying something similar on the ride home last time.” Sparx tipped her drink toward Callie. “There were a lot more expletives too. I’m glad you’ve calmed down about it.” She wore a very large shit-eating grin.

“Fuck off, Sparx.”

“I know, I was wrong. I apologise profusely.” Sparx waved her hands around like she was batting away invisible flies. “I’ll never try to tempt you with the manlier delights again.”

Callie made a disgusted face.

“Seriously, Cal, I won’t. I was a dick.” Sparx reached out to take Callie’s hand.

“I left my favourite sports bra there, too.” Callie muttered.

“They’re all the same. How can you tell which one’s your favourite?”

“The same way you tell twins apart. They’re like my children. I’ve even named them all.”

Sparx played at being shocked. “Of course you have,” she rolled her eyes. “You’re still not off the hook though. We’re finding you someone tonight.”

“Someone sapphic,” Callie emphasised. “And single. Or at least, no surprise boyfriends.”

“What about he/him lesbians?”

“Yes, fine, you know what I mean.” Callie slapped Sparx’s arm.

“You know some lesbians have penises.”

“I’m aware. Not yucking anyone’s yum, just not my thing.”

“You’re no fun.”

“That’s why I’m here with you.”

“Excellent, then let’s start with her.” Sparx tilted her head toward the mixer who wore an easy grin like a freshly loosened tie. Bright blue buzz cut and skin black as charcoal – clearly a DocPod job, but she was cute. The mixer noticed Sparx eyeing her and came over.

“You want me to hit on the mixer? How cliché.” Callie side-eyed Sparx.

But she didn’t respond.

“Sparx, how did you get back in?” The mixer had a friendly booming laugh and Callie had to admit, it did sound delightful.

“You know I have connections,” Sparx flashed a smile. “This is Callie.”

“She new?” the mixer asked, eyes raking over Callie salaciously. It made her blush.

“No, just out of the scene for a while. Last one put her through the ringer. You know how it is.”

“Yeah, we’re not going to talk about that, Sparx,” the mixer grouched.

“Touchy.” Sparx raised her hands in surrender.