“Is it cool to park here?” came the voice over the Flab-Quarv-7 of a slick little death-pod.
I’d been set up before. My outpost is so remote my tormentors think I think I can get away with anything. It was probably another teenage twink ‘courier’.
“Please exit the pod.”
The hatch opened, coolant billowing steam into my grav-bay.
“Remove the helmet.”
The eighth lock disengaged. The spherical bronze receded from a woman’s downcast face. This was no frame-job. She was my exact double, with one glaring distinction.
“I’ve come to warn you not to get the operation you’ve been planning.”