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The Boys
Charles Stross
The boys scuttled over the concrete slab like cockroaches, exoskeletons a dull
bronze in the orange glare that passed for daylight. A dense mist concealed rocks and ankles
and a corpse. The roar of a police carrier echoed through the trees, a pulsing racket of
authority: the boys didnt care. By the time the patrol arrived the corpse was brain dead,
stripped of eyes and kidneys and viscera as well as bionics. The boys had left their
incestuous joke with the corpse; a noose.
Darkness descended on the area, a protective screen for the armoured hovercraft as
it swept through the gap in the forest, cruising slowly between fungus-streaked biomass
modules. Among the video surfaces that lined the cabin the Hunter sat bolt upright; her
screens scintillated as she focussed on the partially-dismembered cadaver.
Boys; Hes been dead for half an hour. The constables flinched and whined; she
noticed them and moderated her voice. They were sensitive units, too valuable to waste.
Nothing here, she told the autopilot. Get the skull, then take us home.
The small noises of relief were drowned out by the roar of the fans. Some of the
cyborged dogs muttered and scratched their implants as the carrier turned and rumbled back
towards the castle. In the wake of the hovercraft the cobblestones were darker than before,
by an increment of congealing blood.
The castle, a cube with edges a kilometer long, shone with an ominous red glow that
filtered through the grime of centuries. The degenerate bioforms of the landscape twisted
away from the laser-veined monolith of lunar basalt; nerve-trees bubbled into fatty shapes
and acanthopods bristled as they crept past. The clouds above it reflected a red glow,
megawatts of energy expended in a display of power. The ceiling of the world, a continuation
of the floor, hung thirty kilome
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