Rochester Inn

[Rudo]

At the back wall of this dark hole, surrounded by a table of affluent Junkers discussing cargo runs and diplomatic liasons, and with a pair of armed guards his sides, sat a monstrosity. A nightmarish melding of machine and man; a grimy walking metal exoskeleton topped with a swarthy human head and a shock of white hair. His body glittered with power indicator LEDs, some dim due to failing circuitry. He had no ears; rather, he had cybernetic modules on the sides of his head that acted as ears and as specialized input ports. He moved with an inhuman detachment from his body, servos and rotors taking the place of muscles and tendons.

He appeared to be largely ignoring the commotion about him, yet he heard and compiled every bit of data in the place. The computer in his head sifted through the different sources of speech, algorithms seeking out key words and phrases that were of interest to his organization. He and one of the other Junkers nearby were also busy with some minor mechanical work.

This was Hannibal Bishop, Chief Arbiter of the Junker Congress. A failed cybernetics project that had found its way into the hands of the Junkers, and now served as the ideal head of an organization that required an inhuman grasp of economics, and an inhuman detachment from the value of human life.

The technical work today was plainly obvious. One of his arms was detached above the elbow and resting on the table before him. He and another Junker had disabled the locking mechanisms, and now pulled the hand from below the wrist out of its sheathing. Hannibal blithely looked on as the Junker remarked on what he saw.

"Yeah, looks like we didn't machine the diameters quite right. Sorry, boss."

Bishop gave the technician a cold look; a look he gave often and freely. "You have the plans, don't you?"

The technician gave Bishop a slightly desperate, exasperated look. "The tolerances are within two ten thousandths of a millimeter! Even the machine is having trouble getting it right!"

Reassuringly, Bishop placed a hand on the tech's shoulder. He spoke calmly, and gave a squeeze. "Get it right this time. When the tolerances are off, I can't tell how much pressure I'm applying when I grip an object. I need my feedback indicators working, or I'm likely to break something." By this point, Bishop's cold alloyed gauntlet had squeezed tight enough to cause bruising. The tech was in a deep grimace, teeth bared in his pain.

Bishop released him. "Now." He continued, "I need my arm and I need it soon. Get those made, please. I'm paying you to build me a whole new body. But get the old one right first."

The tech got up, grabbing the arm and the malfunctioning parts, and left. The cyborg sighed and picked up his tube of SynthPaste, squeezing it ungently into his mouth and swallowing with a mechanical efficiency. Through the remote camera feed he picked up the new face. His head swivelled and locked on to the girl who had just plopped nervously at the table across the room. Cycling back through the feeds, he traced her from the 'Heavy Metal Queen'.

That liner was of some reknown, this girl was a slaver. Puzzled, he thought; Why does she look so guilty?

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