Giblin was not in a talking mood, so I studied his scar, which ran from the corner of his right eye straight down to the edge of his mouth. A remnant of last July’s botched job in Savatown. In the dim light of the waystation’s taproom, the disfigurement glistened and shimmied as if it wanted to tell stories.

 

“Why don't you get that removed?” I asked. Giblin shrugged and looked away.

 

Having a partner who didn’t talk much was annoying as fuck.

 

The ceiling fan overhead creaked to a steady beat. Only about a dozen other patrons were in the joint, all full humans. I signalled to the barkeep with my left arm, feeling a twinge from the submachine gun embedded into the shaft below my palm. The synthskin covering it was wearing thin. “Set us up, Arnie.”

 

He brought us two shots of top-shelf bourbon. “Giblin and Carville, my two favorite tippers.”

 

"None other."

 

I’d been stuck with Giblin for two years and still barely knew him. On the rare occasion he did speak, it was usually a threat to quit. It quickly got tiresome.

 

On the bright side, he was the most efficient killer posted in this sector, if not the entire Neptunic sphere – a near-flawless record. Longevity is a hell of a lot more important than snappy conversation.

 

“How much time?” I asked, hoping a straightforward question would prompt more than a shrug in response.

 

“To reach him? Two hours at most.”

 

We had to take out some deputy revenue minister named Boggs in the government district. Probably had gotten himself into some convoluted money laundering. That was an educated guess: genemutes were never told the reasons behind any assignments.

 

I downed the rest of my drink. “Did you hear about the two assassins who walked into a bar?”

 

Giblin scowled. “Not funny.”

 

“You haven’t heard the punchline.”

 

“I don’t want to. There’s nothing funny about any of this.”

 

“Any of what?”

 

“This! Us! Hundreds of people medically altered by the agency against their will. All to become assassins. What could be funny about that?”

 

“At least we have jobs. Would you rather be down on Neptune, Mars, or even Earth, starving and homeless like so many billions? Is that your preference?”

 

Giblin lifted his glass. “I’m done. I’m out. This is no way to live.”

 

I clenched my teeth. It was probably his twelfth such threat in the past three weeks. “Do me a favor. Submit your resignation now, so I can get a partner who isn’t fucking miserable all the time.”

 

Giblin grinned. That was another annoying trait of his: he enjoyed pissing me off.

 

“Fuck off!”

 

The shout came not from my partner but from the far end of the bar, where a patron had decided to choke Arnie. Before I could jump off the stool, Giblin extended the rifle embedded in his left arm and fired three piercing shots, his aim true as ever. The guy collapsed to the ground.

 

The ceiling fan seemed to pause. Then it resumed, along with the smattering of conversation among the few other patrons. Arnie signalled his thanks.

 

Giblin retracted the rifle into the folds of his wrist, then sealed the skin.

 

“Nice shot,” I told him. As if on cue, the transponder in my left shoulder vibrated. It was time. “We have to go. Finish your drink.”

 

“I just need to know. Is this all there is? Just drinking and killing?”

 

“Always the philosopher, aren’t you?”

 

“It's not wrong to want more.”

 

“You know damn well we can’t quit."

 

"Give me three good reasons."

 

"Easy. One, we were bred for this purpose and nothing more. Two, we can’t ever live with non-altered humans because they wouldn’t accept us. And you know reason three.”

 

Giblin nodded. His teeth were yellowed in the dim pub light, like parchment, and creases lined the corners of his deep-set eyes. His arms seemed brittle, easy to snap, despite the weapons deployed within them. “Reason three," he said, "is that if we attempt to leave their employ, the agency will track us down and silence us. For good.”

 

“Bingo! We exist for a single reason, and absent that role we’re not even worth the cost to ship planetside. Now, let’s go.”

 

“Nope. I said I’m done.”

 

Sweet Jesus. I jumped down from the stool and raised my right hand – my real one – into a fist. “Then just fucking quit already!”

 

Giblin squinted at my clenched hand. “Works for me, my friend. File your report. They can come get me.”

 

I lowered my arm and exhaled. He knew I wouldn’t report him. “Do it yourself.”

 

* * *

 

I pushed the front door forward and peered out at the darkened street, stomach clenched. The sim-rain had stopped. Puddles dotted the road.

 

My shoulder vibrated again: one hour to target. The submachine gun in my left arm began to warm. I knew that if I handled Boggs myself, Giblin’s absence would be noticed. He’d be cooked.

 

I stepped onto the sidewalk. I'd wait ten minutes, no more.

 

Finally, I heard a thunk: Giblin hitting the floor as he hopped off the barstool, unmistakable even outside the taproom. No way to be graceful with such nasty appendages.

 

The door swung open. There my partner stood, thick metallic poles in place of legs, gleaming in the reflection of a flickering streetlight. Twin sets of wheels in place of feet.

 

Poor guy. They’d made him a fucking human roller-skate.

 

It hit me then why he’d never had that scar removed: it gave people something to focus on other than his horrid synth-limbs.

 

He rolled forward, wheels whirring to a stop at my side. “Another crappy night.”

 

I tried thinking of a witty line. Nothing came. So I wrapped an arm around Giblin’s shoulder and inched closer until our sides touched. “That it is, my friend. That it is.”

 

Then, together, we moved onto the dank street for an appointment with the soon-to-be unfortunate Mr. Boggs.